58th Thread: Letter from the Holy Land

If you click on the drawing, you will see the art work that inspired it!

Let me read it to you:

‘My respected mother,

‘I could not describe it to you, for it would take me all the hours of the day, and still you would not believe me. Our palace is so large that I get lost as I flee my husband and my children’s constant demands. An army of servants and slaves surround us. We resort to heated baths and a music room and hanging gardens when the hot air of the night will not let us sleep, for we adorn ourselves with the rarest perfumes and jewels, which my husband, your venerated cousin, uses extravagantly, and I do not forget to be grateful for the marriage you arranged on my behalf. He also wears the feminine clothes of the infidels, eats their food, speaks their language, plays at their futile games. But we go to church faithfully, do not fear, for I will not condone a lack of zeal. The majestic basilica where we take communion is endowed with statues and treasures which would put to shame our tender chapel, just as we are blessed to tread daily the holy land so far from our country which yet brings us closer to God according to you and our priest. Our fifth child is well, like the others, in spite of the bizarre customs of the pagan nurses. Let us hope their syrupy milk does not corrupt our children’s faith, but it certainly fortifies their health according to the other believers in the city who I only see rarely, as well as the mildness of the winters and the holiness of the soil. You have done well to send me here, in your wisdom, even if I suffered harsh loneliness once cast off here, you will not have missed me. We intend to send our eldest daughter to you. She is the reason for this missive and the expense of a messenger. You are sure to make her a lady worthy of our rank. We have a husband in view, who, though pusillanimous and rigid, will meet your approval, since this marriage will bolster the position of our family.

I salute you with humbleness,

Your devoted daughter’

My mother, poor woman, was not blessed with the gift of writing. Her mother raised me in her lugubrious castle, without tenderness or malice. She knew neither, as she was quite bereft of intelligence. Charged with turning me into a suitable spouse, she taught me to behave like her. One should lower the eyes, not to see, not to be seen. One should epilate the forehead to make the face loftier. One should never ever go in the sun, never go out in the open air. When I was a child in the holy land, the servants looking after us paid little attention. They let us leave the house at will. When we knew the water in the water was high, we ran down to the river shouting with joy and jumping and running. Our clothes stripped and strewn, we jumped in and splashed each other. We enjoyed this daily treat and our bodies became strong and as brown as candied dates. Boys and girls, children of slaves and of lords, we all looked alike, except that our groin pointed either in or out.

This is the 66th of 100 women who talk to their daughters over 2500 years. It all starts here: first thread, and the last stories will take place in … present day America.