They called us half-breeds.
The mingling of races and the blending of bloodlines was considered a capital offense. Over four hundred years ago, a ragtag bunch of survivors did what they could to stay alive. The Assyrians had conquered our land and exiled our brothers. So we intermarried, adopted their customs, and survived. In doing so, we became outcasts forever.
I am a Samaritan. But to them, I’m the lowest of the low and Samaritan is the dirtiest of words. Then again, my kinsmen never greet an Israelite with anything less than disdain.
We’ve been trained to hate one another. And we’re hella good at it.
I had just finished a long two weeks of trading in Jerusalem. Two of the least lucrative and most hate-filled weeks I’d experienced. One man in particular went out of his way to show cruelty to me. He spat on me, insulted me, and called me names I refuse to repeat. At one point, he “accidentally” knocked over my table filled with wares then proceeded to mock me as I cleaned up shattered pottery and spilled oil. It took all my self-control to not punch him then and there. But I knew if I did, I would unleash the devil and all his cohorts. I was outnumbered and in their territory. And I desperately wanted to make it home alive.
Yes, we knew how to hate.
As I began the long trek home, I stewed in my revulsion of this man. I imagined circumstance after circumstance in which I could humiliate him the way he’d humiliated me. Hatred had been bred into us for generations, but my mother always had a different perspective. “They’re people too,” she’d say to me, “filled with hopes and dreams and hurt. You’re not that different. We cannot spend our whole lives hating or the whole world will be filled with hate. And I refuse to live in that kind of world when I can do something about it.”
The longer I trudged on, the more my anger simmered. She couldn’t possibly be right. Or could she? It’s true, hatred only breeds more hate. But did she see how he treated me? How could I not want desperately to punch back? I sighed, wearily. She was right about one thing: the cycle needed to end. But how?
I knew I couldn’t stay in my reverie long. This road was dangerous and notorious for bandits. I had to stay alert. I was about to round a bend when I stopped, suddenly. I heard a a weak moaning sound. As I came around the corner, I noticed a man, bloodied and battered on the side of the road. Fear gripped my chest. Could the bandits still be here?
I grabbed the knife I kept in my belt and carefully approached. When I was certain the coast was clear, I knelt to take a look at the bloody mess in front of me. The man was in bad shape; he’d taken a serious beating. I carefully turned him over to look at his face and started in shock.
This was the man who’d been so cruel to me. The man who’d spat at me. Called me names. Humiliated me! This man had made the last two weeks for me a living torment. I could walk away right now and let him die on the side of the road. Serve him right. I rose up to leave. No way in hell I was helping him.
As I turned away, my mother’s voice rose up in the back of my head, “We cannot spend our whole lives hating or the whole world will be filled with hate.” I tried to push it away, ignore it, tell myself I didn’t have to do anything this time. But her voice would not be silenced: “I refuse to live in that kind of world when I can do something about it.” Cursing inwardly, I turned back. No one deserves to be treated this way, not even him. I went to my cart. Perhaps it’s favorable my trip was less successful than planned, now I can help the devil himself. Sarcasm probably wasn’t my greatest ally at a moment like this, but I couldn’t help it. I tore up a garment, washed and bandaged his wounds as best I could. What I could, I sterilized with alcohol then rubbed on oil. It would have to do for now. I then gingerly hoisted him onto my cart and set back out for Jerusalem.
Upon arriving, I went back to the inn where I’d been staying. It was an inn for Samaritans, but what could I do? No one would acknowledge me if I went elsewhere. Secretly, I hoped he’d wake up and drink in the horror of being surrounded by Samaritans, since he hated us so much us. Maybe someone else will finish the job the bandits started once they realize who he is. I stopped myself, mid-thought. No. I don’t mean that. After re-cleaning and bandaging his wounds, I went outside to eat and to think.
My journey had already taken longer than planned. My family would be worried. But more than that, I felt anger, hurt, frustration, and fear. I still could not believe I’d helped someone as cruel and unjust as that Samaritan-hater. What was I thinking? No one would believe me if I told them. In fact, they’d probably just mock me if I did, calling me, “weak,” “going against your kind,” and “Jew-lover.” I’m not sure which was worse. The derision from my enemies or derision from my own people.
I couldn’t afford to help him, either. My meager profits already meant I was taking home barely enough and now I had to pay for two rooms at the inn, let alone however long it would take him to recover. And what thanks would I receive? More cursing and spittle in my face? I should’ve left him to die! Leave a man for dead in the road? How cruel can you be?
My thoughts kept me up late into the night. Two juxtaposing visions fought for space in my head: the man’s snide scowl as he spat on me and his bloodied face as he lay on the roadside. Internally, my mother’s words replayed over and over and over.
When I awoke, the internal war continued on. What did I do now? I couldn’t just leave him here. But I needed to get home. Soon. I decided to set out and let him fend for himself. I’d done my part. If the inn kicked him out because he had no money, well so be it. Not my problem.
I went to check on him once before I left. I’m not sure if my motivation was pity or pride or some combination of the two. As I stood above him, his eyes fluttered open. When he saw me, they filled with terror. So he recognized me, did he? Serves him right. Let him be afraid. But I can’t bear to see an animal afraid, let alone a grown man.
“It’s gonna be alright.” I said, gently. “The innkeeper will take care of you until you’re strong enough to go home. I’ll be back in a few weeks to make sure you’ve been taken care of.”
The man stared wide-eyed. I clenched my teeth and turned to leave. Idiot, you can’t afford that! Hoarsely, he tried to speak. I stared at him as he finally mustered out a few words, “what’s your name?”
Surprised, I responded, “Asher.” The man could barely speak let alone move, but he extended a trembling hand, “Reuben.” I shook it. As I gripped his hand, I realized we were both named after sons of Jacob, the forefather of both our peoples. They were half-brothers.
As I once again set out on the road home, I couldn’t stop a lump from forming in my throat. My mother was right. My actions may do very little in the grand scheme of things, however, they do do something. I may not be able to change generations of prejudice, but I can cease my own prejudices today. I will no longer live in hatred and fear of those who are different than me.
We cannot spend our whole lives hating or the whole world will be filled with hate. And I refuse to live in that kind of world when I can do something about it.
And you know what?
I can.
Katelyn Alexander 