In the sweltering noontime sun, I trudged towards Jacob’s well, my feet stirring the dusty trails of Sychar. A veil of perpetual shame cloaked me, for I was the Samaritan woman with a muddied reputation, venturing out to draw water while the rest of the village still slumbered in their midday rest.
My people, the Samaritans, lived in the shadow of old enmities and scathing judgment from our neighbors, the Jews. Our ancient, embittered history, full of conquest, forced assimilation, and cultural clashes, marred any hope of reconciliation. We were seen as contaminated, our faith a compromised version of the pure Jewish religion. The deep-seated hatred reciprocated by my people towards the Jews was as unyielding and enduring as the wellsprings of our divided lands.
