Day 79: Sunday

Two of my readers last week asked me to drop them from the list of recipients, because “What started out as an interesting blog posting highlights of Michael’s experiences in a new country has now become political …. the news is distressing enough without adding to it.” I’m not sure that ‘political’ is the word that I would choose for what these posts have largely been over the last couple of months, but that is nit-picking. I accept the charge by-and-large, and it has set me musing about this whole blogging business, not for the first time.

The fact is, of course, that Penamacorrespondent has not been an accurate title for a very long time now, and the blurb on the Background page of the blog, proclaiming that ‘This blog is the story of our retirement adventure’ is only intermittently accurate. The simple truth is that this blog is a distillation of whatever swims most powerfully into my head in the twenty minutes after I sit down at the laptop on a Sunday or Monday every week. There have been weeks when I knew what I wanted to write about well in advance. Some of those have been recent weeks, and others have been weeks when we actually were in Portugal. However, more often than not, I start writing and hope that a theme will emerge. This is, as you may have suspected, starting to feel like one of those weeks. It’s not that the war is any less real or immediate, but rather that I do not feel that this is a week where there were dramatic developments on any front. I don’t feel I have anything new to add to the debate.

For us personally, it’s been a funny old week. Bernice has been opening more and more doors of her own personal Advent calendar. I’d better explain that quickly.

Micha’el, Tslil, Tao and Ollie should be arriving on our doorstep, God willing, around 4:00AM Monday morning, for a three-week stay. (Don’t worry – I’ll update you at the end of this post.) So, we have been excitedly counting down to December 25. For Bernice, rather than the calm before the storm, this has meant a co-ordinated campaign, mapped out meticulously in a series of to-do lists strategically deposited around the kitchen; a campaign of borrowing mattresses, bimbas (which are ride-on toys – we have to have at least two, and preferably three – to avoid tensions when Raphael joins us), high-chairs and so on; buying the one or two items of toddler and child equipment we haven’t yet acquired; organizing the children’s books; finding increasingly fiendish hiding places for the presents; cleaning bedrooms, washing windows, making up beds; leafing through menus; stocking up on nappies, favoured snacks and suchlike.

I cunningly managed to avoid almost all of this heavy lifting, by scheduling to give a talk in shul on Shabbat eight days ago and a talk to the local English-speaking seniors group last Tuesday. This meant that I was locked in the office researching, creating a PowerPoint presentation and polishing my notes until Tuesday. I conveniently came down with a cold then, which has actually become quite chesty, so I have been severely restricted. I did manage, on Wednesday and Thursday, to lay down supplies of my baking that would, in other circumstances, see Bernice and myself through the winter. If I’m lucky, they may last the expanded family a week: granola, rye bread with caraway seeds, platzels and beigels, seeded spelt-flour crackers.

This Shabbat I made it to shul on Friday evening, and we actually had two couples as guests for dinner. The attraction of a winter Shabbat Friday night is that you can chat for a while before dinner, eat a very leisurely meal, shmooze for hours afterwards, and then discover, when your guests leave, that it’s still only 9:30. I felt very congested through Friday night, and slept on some four-and-a-half hours later than usual on Shabbat morning. It’s fair to say that Bernice and I both spent Shabbat recharging our batteries. Today, not wanting to risk infecting Raphael, who has his own catalogue of childhood ailments without my help, thank you very much, I have stayed at home, leaving Bernice to spend the day in Zichron and explain to a devastated Raphael why Grandpa is not there. At least, we anticipated he might be devastated. Since it is now three hours after Bernice collected him from gan and he still hasn’t asked to video call me, I’m guessing maybe he’s putting on a brave face.

In Bernice’s absence, I spent the morning adding to our digital photoframe all of the pictures from the last 14 months, having been talking for the last few weeks about how under-represented Ollie is on the display, and how he is sure to be really upset by that. With any luck, he won’t read this post, and will never know how last-minute the redressing of the balance was.

And so, without even a feeble attempt at any kind of segue, to today’s trivia question. Who wrote the classic horror story The Monkey’s Paw? If you answered ‘Edgar Allan Poe’, you can give yourself a bonus point…but only because you fell into my trap and gave the wrong answer. The correct answer is ‘W W Jacobs’. (If it’s not Poe, it’s always Jacobs.) The real question is: Why do so many of us mistakenly attribute it to Poe? I know that I did, and at least two friends who I regard as men with impeccable educational and cultural credentials did as well, so what is going on here?

I spent a little time sniffing around online and discovered the following. First, Barnes & Noble, who, one would have hoped, know something about literature, have an excellent page advertising for sale an eBook of a radio script of the story, in which the text is headed ‘The Monkey’s Paw, by Edgar Allan Poe, Dennis Rhodus (created by)’ which doesn’t seem to me to be very coherent, but actually means that Rhodus ‘created’ the radio script. This text stands opposite a facsimile of the book cover, which proudly proclaims: ‘The Monkey’s Paw by W W Jacobs’.

Next, Amazon offers a Modern Library edition of an anthology entitled: ‘The Raven and The Monkey’s Paw: Classics of Horror and Suspense.’ The first author listed is Poe, which might lead to confusion.

It is ironic that this story, which is far and away Jacobs’ best-known work, should be misattributed by, I suspect, so many, to Poe, whose prolific work is so well-known that he would scarcely notice one story more or less. It hardly seems fair.

Jacobs’ other claim to fame is that he was a jury member in the mock trial of John Jasper for the murder of Edwin Drood, the character in Dickens’ last and unfinished novel The Mystery of Edwin Drood. This was something of a celebrity mock trial, organized by the Dickens Fellowship and held in the Covent Garden Assize Court in London in 1914, with G K Chesterton presiding as the judge, and George Bernard Shaw acting as foreman of the jury. As I was tumbling down the Google rabbit-hole of this story, I noticed, incidentally, that the charge sheet states: “John Jasper, feloniously, wilfully, and of his malice aforethought did kill and murder one EDWIN DROOD on the 24^th day of December in the year…one thousand eight hundred and sixty.”

I cannot help observing that I am writing these words exactly 163 years after this murder took place, to the very day! I find that coincidence no less remarkable for the fact that the murder didn’t actually take place, since the victim, and, indeed, the defendant, are both fictitious characters, and, as if that were not enough, the ‘facts’ of the murder are not even stated in the fiction in which they appear, so that the murder is only speculatively fictional. It may not even not have really happened.

Forgive me for these ramblings. I shall put them down to nasal and bronchial congestion and stop here to make another of my excellent hot toddies. Come to think of it, these ramblings may have something to do with the toddies. Perhaps this time I’ll step up the lemon juice and honey and ease off on the brandy….and perhaps not.

Promised update: As you can see below, Raphael stoically accepted my absence yesterday. (I can’t reasonably expect to be able to compete with a banana.) Tao and Ollie arrived with their parents, on time, and were sufficiently recovered by lunchtime today (Monday) to test drive the trike and the bimba.

Day 73: Monday

Last week, I started by noting:

Tuesday 8:40AM: What’s missing from this week’s post is a reaction to Netanyahu’s statement last night in a Foreign and Security Committee debate that “the Oslo Accord [sic]  is a disaster that resulted in the same number of victims as October 7”. I would like to respond to that now, but I didn’t hear of it until half an hour ago, and there isn’t time before the deadline, so I will just have to let it simmer on a low light for another week., and pray that nothing even more egregious and outrageous emerges before then.

So, let’s start by getting that out of the way.

I’ve just googled ‘What is the difference between a statesman and a politician?’ The first twenty hits all contained the same message, best summed up by the aphorism: ‘A politician thinks about the next election, while a statesman thinks about the next generation.’ Looking back at politicians and statesmen of the past, I’m tempted to suggest another difference, which possibly covers different scenarios from the first. ‘A statesman acts morally, while a politician acts expediently.’

Either way, two things seem clear to me in the cloudy world that is political reality.. First., a general observation: If we illustrated this on a Venn diagram, there wouldn’t be a lot of overlap between statesmen and politicians, not in Israel, anyway!

Second, a specific observation. The days of Netanyahu even appearing to be a statesman are, regrettably, in the past. In the last week or two, he has demonstrated on at least three occasions that he is motivated in his public statements principally by the need to ensure his personal political future. He strives to do this both in the short term. by nurturing the right wing of his coalition, and in the longer term, by appealing to those sectors of the voting public that are to his political right.

First we had his appalling playing of a macabre numbers game, as quoted at the head of this post. It is a fact that between the signing of the Oslo Accords in September 1993 and October 6 2023, at least 1,334 Israel civilians were murdered in Palestinian terror attacks. It seems, at the time of writing, that the October 7 death toll was at least 1200 Israelis. (That we cannot be confident of a final figure after Israel has undertaken 10 weeks of the most intense, painstaking and painful forensic investigation is, itself, an eloquent comment on the scale of horror of the atrocities.)

The pogrom of October 7 resulted from a series of intelligence failures and operational misjudgements, and claimed 1200 lives in less than two days. Attributing responsibility for the failure of the Oslo Accords is a more nuanced subject. However, let us assume, for the sake of argument, that it was, similarly, a set of Israeli intelligence failures and operational misjudgements that led to the loss of life since the signing. Let us go even further, and assume that all of the murders of Israelis by terrorists between September 1993 and October 6 this year are attributable to the signing of the Oslo accords. Even assuming all this, to make a bald statement about numerical equivalence, while ignoring the difference between 2 days and 11,000 days, is ridiculous.

Netanyahu followed this up with an astonishing response to a question in a press conference on December 2, when asked about the horrible shooting in error of Yuval Castleman, who was killed at the scene of the terror shooting at a Jerusalem bus stop, when Staff Sgt. (res.) Aviad Frija, one of two off-duty troops who responded to the attack, shot at the two terrorists. He also opened fire at Castleman, an armed civilian who had stopped his car across the street and himself shot at the terrorists. Footage from the scene showed that Frija shot Castleman after the latter had put his gun down and was holding his hands in the air.

Asked about this, Netanyahu acknowledged that more guns in the hands of the public can produce more such tragic incidents. But more civilians with guns can save the day in times like this, he said, defending his government’s policy on encouraging more eligible Israelis to carry weapons. He then continued: “Therefore, I think that in the current situation we need to continue with this policy — I definitely support it. We may pay a price, but such is life [my emphasis].” For as experienced a politician as Netanyahu to fail to weigh his words so egregiously seems inconceivable. Either he regarded the whole matter as not worthy of his attention, or he was speaking specifically to Ben-Gvir’s constituency, knowing how central a plank of Ben-Gvir’s policy arming civilians is.

Finally, in the last couple of days, Netanyahu has been reiterating his rejection of the two-state solution and of the Palestinian Authority playing a role in Gaza after the war. While taking this position, which undoubtedly represents the Israeli mainstream at the moment, Netanyahu claims that he prevented the establishment of a Palestinian state and takes credit for “putting the brakes” on the Oslo peace process. In what has become his signature style, Netanyahu refuses to address the contradictions in his actions over the years. In 2005, he originally voted in favour of disengagement from Gaza. In his Bar-Ilan speech of 2009, he stated that he was willing to accept the two-state solution. In 2011, he triumphantly welcomed Gilad Schalit home, while releasing Yahya Sinwar and another 1,026 security prisoners.

Politicians are certainly allowed to change their mind. Situations may change. Politicians may reassess and reevaluate. Netanyahu, however, pretends that he has always been right and never changed his mind. I have long believed that this reflected his desire not to undermine his followers’ belief in his infallibility. I am now feeling that he has bought into his own rhetoric and believes himself infallible.

Let me finally offer another definition of the difference between a statesman and a politician. A statesman is elected in order to do what needs to be done. A politician does what needs to be done in order to be elected. For Netanyahu, re-election has changed from being the means to being the end. The fear is that if he succeeds, it may well be so.

Tis the season for grandsons to catch anything that’s going, apparently. Ollie seems his usual cheerful self, despite being under the weather; Raphael is enjoying being out in the weather; but poor Tao has been feeling proper poorly, as we say in South Wales. May they all, and you all, and we all, have a better week this week!

Day 66, Monday.

This week’s post is aimed more at my friends and family in Chutz La’aretz than at my Israeli readers, who will be very familiar with most of what I have to say.

Tuesday 8:40AM: What’s missing from this week’s post is a reaction to Netanyahu’s statement last night in a Foreign and Security Committee debate that “the Oslo Accord [sic] is a disaster that resulted in the same number of victims as October 7″. I would like to respond to that now, but I didn’t hear of it until half an hour ago, and there isn’t time before the deadline, so I will just have to let it simmer on a low light for another week., and pray that nothing even more egregious and outrageous emerges before then.

Day 66 and counting

Those who have not lived their lives in Israel cannot really understand what that statistic sounds like to Israelis. The Suez Crisis in 1956 lasted ten days. The war in 1967 lasted six days. The Yom Kippur War in 1973 lasted 20 days. Combat during the First Lebanon War in 1982 lasted 20 days. The second Lebanon War in 2006 lasted 34 days. Operation Cast Lead in 2009 lasted 26 days. Operation Protective Edge in 2014 lasted, sporadically, for 50 days.

In other words, Israelis expect a war to be over in about a month. In addition, since Israel’s wars are fought just beyond the state’s formal borders, Israelis expect that their soldier children and spouses will be home for a 24-hour leave every week or two.

None of this has been the case in the current war. Many of those who have been fighting in Gaza presented themselves for service on 7 or 8 October and did not get home again until the ‘pause’ on 24 November – and some not even then. On radio stations, when field officers are being interviewed, parents phone in to ask the interviewers to question the officers as to when their children will be getting leave.

I well remember what happened during my own military service (three-and-a-half weeks of basic training in 1990, since you ask – and 15 years of annual reserve duty after that). The entire intake I served with were immigrants in our thirties or forties. When some were begging the officers to allow them home for Shabbat, one of the Russians I befriended, a veteran of the Soviet–Afghan war, recalled how, immediately following his 18^th birthday, he had been taken 4000 kilometres away from home to the mountains of Northern Afghanistan, where he spent the next three-and-a-half years, having no contact with his family.

As with so much in life, our ability to accept circumstances depends as much on our expectations as on objective realities. The anxieties of parents and spouses are no less intense for being different in scale from those of my Russian comrade-in-arms’ family. And, as every day of those 66 days brings another list of “Approved for publication…” announcements of the names of one, or two, or three, or more, soldiers who fell in the previous day’s fighting, or who succumbed to injuries they suffered earlier, so the days weigh ever more heavily.

Everyone is Someone’s Child

One of the soldiers who fell last week was the brother of a close friend of our niece. Just before Shabbat, we learnt of the son of a close friend whose tank suffered a direct hit; he, thankfully, suffered what are described in these circumstances as very light injuries, but his fellow tank-crew members were not so fortunate. Then, as I was in the middle of writing these paragraphs, a death notice came up on our shul WhatsApp group: the son of a family who used to daven in our shul.

I have, in recent weeks, been davening in the mornings in the shul they moved to, and often pause for a few moments’ conversation with the now bereaved father. We are far from being close friends – we are more acquaintances than friends – but when you have joked and prayed with a family, and when you remember their son as a young boy, even if only vaguely, life is suddenly breathed into the bald statement of a death…and then, of course, you remember, that, for every such death, there are circles of immediate family, less close family, friends, and acquaintances, who all feel the death because they all knew the life.

Instructions to Parents

I offer you a pair of bookends: two sons communicating to their parents what is important to them. I offer this without comment.

The first, which you may well have heard at the time, is a phone conversation between one of the Hamas terrorists and his parents, while he was committing atrocities on October 7. You can hear the recording here.

The second was a ‘will’ left by Reservist Sergeant Major Ben Zussman, who fell a week ago, which he passed on to a friend, to be delivered to his parents in the event of… Here is the complete text:

“I am writing this message to you on the way to the base. If you are reading this, something must have happened to me. As you know me, probably no one is happier than me right now. It was not for nothing that I was on the verge of fulfilling my dream soon. I am happy and grateful for the privilege I will have to defend our beautiful land and the people of Israel.

Even if something happens to me, I don’t allow you to sink into sadness. I had the privilege of fulfilling my dream and vocation and you can be sure that I am looking down on you and smiling hugely. I will probably be sitting next to grandpa and we will catching up; each of us will talk about his experiences and the way things were different in the different wars. Maybe we’ll also talk a little politics, ask him what he thinks.

If God forbid you’re sitting shiva, make it a week of friends, family and fun. Let there be food, meat of course, beers, soft drinks, seeds, tea and, of course, of course, mum’s biscuits. Crack jokes, listen to stories, meet all my other friends you haven’t seen yet. Wow! I envy you. I would like to sit there and see them all.

Another very, very important point. If, God forbid, I fall into captivity, alive or dead. I am not ready for one soldier or citizen to be harmed because of some deal for my release. I don’t allow you to conduct a campaign or struggle or anything like that. I’m not prepared for terrorists to be released for me. in no way, shape or deal. Don’t go against my word, please.

I’ll say it again, I left the house without even being called to the reserves. I am full of pride and a sense of mission and I have always said that if I have to die, may it be in defence of others and the country. “Jerusalem, I have placed guards,” May it be that the day will come when I will be one of them.” [Ed Note: This is a reference to Isaiah 62 v 6. Ben follows here the interpretation that the guards are angels watching over Jerusalem until such time as the Temple is rebuilt.]

The heart-wrenching decisions

One of the conditions of the ‘pause’ was that Israel would suspend its aerial observation of Gaza. Agreeing to that condition contributed to the safe release of the children and women that were released.

Agreeing to that condition also enabled Hamas to make preparations for when the fighting would be renewed. Today the deaths were announced of seven soldiers, including five who were killed in the explosion from a device concealed near a school, and probably detonated remotely on a signal received by a concealed spotter watching from a nearby building. It seems likely that this device was placed during the observation blackout imposed throughout the ‘pause’.

Nobody could envy the Israeli authorities the decision-making this inhuman enemy confronts them with.

Conflicting Voices

A large number of the families of the abductees have, since October 6, been working together to ensure that their voice is heard. Their message has been that the safe return of all the abductees must be the authorities’ first priority, and that they must do all they can to bring it about. They are also demanding that the Government bring them home now.

It is, of course, impossible to criticise these families. What they are suffering is unimaginable, and their fears for the well-being of the abductees are completely realistic. They are reacting in ways that are totally understandable. It is, indeed, hard to imagine any parent, or child, or spouse, or sibling, reacting differently.

And yet… I fail to see what response they want to their demand that the Government bring back the abductees. What, in practical terms, do the families want the Government to do that it is not doing?

It seemed for a long time that this message was one that all the families wished to convey. However, it has become increasingly clear that there are at least some families who feel differently, and who felt until recently that their voice was not being heard sufficiently. We are now hearing more from families who accept the Government’s statement that the safety of the abductees is top priority at face value, and who are expressing their trust in the authorities to make the right decisions to maximise the chance of achieving the outcome we all want.

It occurs to me that the more the families confront the authorities, and the more they demonstrate against what they perceive as the Government’s inaction, the more they strengthen Hamas’ resolve not to release abductees. This is a cruel thing to say, but it seems to me that, if the families were publicly expressing faith in the authorities, this would lead Hamas to question whether releasing more abductees might be a tactically more sound move.

And this is the point at which I begin to suspect that I am overthinking everything, and, not for the first time, I come up against the realization that bargaining with the devil is not easy, and may not even be possible.

In a simpler, and more innocent, universe, our grandsons are at peace: both the one we will be seeing, God willing, tomorrow, and the ones we will be seeing. God willing, in just under two weeks (!)

The more observant among you will notice that I have not started this week with a reminder that today (Monday) is Day 59. (Of course, cunningly, I have now, which we call having your cake and eating it.)

On a related note, Bernice didn’t need me to point out that I did not, today, as soon as I was free, go upstairs to write my blog, as I usually do on a Monday, but, rather, I was doing what I have always known as pitzelling around downstairs: reading the paper, shelling peanuts, making a cup of tea, alphabetising the CDs. When I eventually faced up to it, I explained to her that I had decided in advance that I was not going to write about ‘the situation’ this week. However, between my making that decision last Thursday, and today, there have been so many developments that it seemed in some way perverse to talk about anything else. So, I really could not make up my mind how to proceed.

What I decided to do eventually was to outsource this week’s heavy lifting. I recommend to you a lengthy and dispassionate essay by a blogger called Richard Hanania. (Many thanks to my good friend and fellow-blogger Ron for drawing my attention to the article.) I find it very difficult to disagree with Hanania. Even if you find yourself reluctant to accept his conclusions, he will, I think, challenge you to marshal your counter-arguments. And again, even if you do disagree with him, you will, I hope, agree with me that he sets a standard for reasoned and calm discussion that we would all do well to emulate.

This outsourcing leaves me now free to write about anything, to act just as if life goes on, which, of course, it does; indeed, it must. Bernice and I have heard the good news of births and engagements in the last few weeks. We are due to be joining wedding celebrations in the next few weeks. Micha’el and family should be arriving in three weeks’ time for three weeks. We have to keep believing and recognising that much as what has happened here sometimes looks and feels like the end of the world, it is not.

Mamaloschen

So, let’s start by dealing with ‘pitzelling’ from two paragraphs ago. While I had no idea how to spell it, I vividly remembered it, from my childhood, as meaning: ‘to fail to get down to doing something properly’. I always assumed it was Yiddish.

However, on researching today, I can discover it only as a German word for ‘penis’, and not as a Yiddish word at all. This led me to doubt my memory. However, both Bernice and my brother Martin remember it in similar contexts from childhood, so I am reassured that I have not made it up. Why, then, is it not mentioned online? This may, of course, simply be because all self-respecting Yiddish dictionaries and word-lists, having identified the first twenty or thirty Yiddish words for ‘penis’, lost interest. I must also say that the path from ‘penis’ to ‘being slapdash or wasting time’ seems a little tortuous.

If any of my readers can shed light on the etymology of ‘pitzel’, I will be very grateful.

Mama(Mia)Loschen

I was put in mind this week of a piece of graffiti that I saw on the wall of a cowshed on kibbutz 50 years ago. (I was tempted to write: ‘I was put in mind of a graffito’, so that I could be accused of pedantry, but even I feel that ‘graffito’ is best avoided, in the same way as I would never write: ‘I try to eat spaghetti with a twirling fork, but there’s always one spaghetto that refuses to twirl.’)

Anyway, as I say, I was reminded of a piece of graffiti this week. I have been harvesting produce one day in each of the last couple of weeks, as part of a group of volunteers going to help Israel’s farmers who are suddenly without foreign workers. Last Thursday I spent five and a half hours on my knees picking tomatoes. Interestingly, the next day my knees were fine, but my gluteus maximus muscles ached like anything. In other words, I not only was, as usual, a pain in the arse, but I also had one– or, more accurately, two – one in each buttock. It was at this point that I recalled the piece of graffiti from an earlier period when I worked on kibbutz. This requires a little background.

Among the strands of Zionism that co-existed as a rich tapestry in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries was one championed by Aharon David Gordon, who argued that the national redemption of the Jewish people could be brought about only by fostering, through physical labour, the organic relationship of the People with the Land. His philosophy, and his personal example, inspired the entire Labour Zionist movement. Physical labour, working the land, became a cornerstone of the Zionist dream become reality.

His philosophy also inspired a later volunteer on kibbutz to paint on the cowshed wall the dedication: “A. D. GORDON DIED HERE”. I now find myself able to point to, but not to view directly, exactly where A. D. Gordon died for me personally.

Marketing Patriotism

In the immediate aftermath of October 7, the major radio network stopped broadcasting commercial advertising. This seemed a very natural decision. The brash blaring of adverts would have seemed very jarring. At some point in the last couple of weeks, however, the decision was made to resume advertising, and it has been interesting to observe how advertisers have….How to complete that sentence? I am torn between:
…how advertisers have demonstrated their patriotism…
and
…how advertisers have cynically exploited the country’s existential crisis…

I think maybe I will sit on the fence.

It has been interesting to observe how advertisers have adapted to the new reality, and incorporated it into their message. So, for example, we have the advertisement for the energy food supplement in which a senior citizen explains that “In these difficult times, it is particularly important for me to keep my strength up, and so…”. We have many banks offering, to businesses affected by the war, loans that are interest-free for an initial period or that have an extended period before repayments begin. We have many products that have introduced patriotic packaging, like these tissues, proclaiming that “Together we shall win”.

I am sitting on the fence because I genuinely cannot decide whether I find this cynical or moving. All I can say is that when, a week or so ago, there was only one radio advert that did not reference, directly or indirectly, our existential crisis, I found it offensive and insensitive. This was an advertisement from a major retail chain selling domestic electrical appliances, which relentlessly advertised its November sale as if we were not in the middle of a war.

I was, subsequently, made to feel very bad, when I read that this chain, in partnership with another major chain, had installed washing machines and dryers in the public areas of shopping malls throughout the country, for the use, free-of-charge, of soldiers.

Like Light at the Hem of the Cloud

That heading is a quote from a poem by Leah Goldberg: a poem which looks forward, longingly, to a future time of “forgiveness and grace”. It seems to me an important image for these times. Here is a translation of the poem that doesn’t really do it justice:

Will there yet come days of forgiveness and grace,
When you walk in the field as the innocent wayfarer walks,
And the bare, bare soles of your feet will caress the clover leaves
Or trample the oat stubble and sweeten its prickling?

Or rain will overtake you, its thronging drops tapping
On your shoulder, your chest, your throat, your head, refreshing.
And you will walk in the wet field, the quiet in you expanding
Like light at the hem of the cloud?

And you will breathe in the odour of the furrow, breathing and quiet,
And you will see the sun mirrored in the gold puddle,
And simple will these things be, will life be, and touching will be allowed there,
And loving will be allowed, will be allowed.

You will walk in the field, alone, unscorched by the flame
Of conflagrations on roads that bristled with horror and blood.
You will once again be peaceful in heart, humble and bending
Like one of the grasses, like one of humanity.

I was led to this poem by a programme of meetings held under the auspices of, and in the breathtaking new building of, the National Library (which I am in danger of boring you with, I suspect). Each meeting is a conversation between Yuval Avivi, who presents a book programme on television, and a particular author, who is invited to present readings from their own and others’ work to offer some comfort, in these troubled times. The programme is called ‘Like Light at the Hem of the Cloud’, and I was curious about the origin of the phrase.

In one of the meetings, Eshkol Nevo read an extract from his novel ‘A Man Walks into an Orchard’. This is not a book that I know. Nevo is not even an author that I have read. However, I find the short extract he chose, even without a context, to be very haunting and very empowering. Unfortunately, I cannot find a translation, and I haven’t the talent to attempt a translation myself that would come anywhere near doing justice to this passage. So, with apologies, I offer this as a bonus for my Hebrew readers only. The rest of you can jump straight to the photographs below.”אם לשנות אז את העולם. אם לחטוא אז בלי רגשות אשם. אם גל אז ירוק. אם לנסוע אז רחוק. אם נעליים אז קלות. אם לחצות אז גבולות. אם לעשות אז שלום. אם שלום אז עכשיו. אם נותרנו, נאהב. אם נותרנו, נאהב. אם יש זמן הוא הולך ואוזל. אם לרקוד אז להשתולל. אם עבר אז לשכוח. אם אסיר אז לברוח. אם גדר אז חיה. אם להקים אז שערורייה. אם גבר אז אישה. אם אישה אז בבקשה. אם לחשוב אז לעשות. אם לעשות אז לטעות. אם לטעות אז עכשיו. אם נותרנו נאהב. אם נותרנו נאהב. אם נותרנו, נאהב

אם לשנות אז את העולם. אם לחטוא אז בלי רגשות אשם. אם גל אז ירוק. אם לנסוע אז רחוק. אם נעליים אז קלות. אם לחצות אז גבולות. אם לעשות אז שלום. אם שלום אז עכשיו. אם נותרנו, נאהב. אם נותרנו, נאהב. אם יש זמן הוא הולך ואוזל. אם לרקוד אז להשתולל. אם עבר אז לשכוח. אם אסיר אז לברוח. אם גדר אז חיה. אם להקים אז שערורייה. אם גבר אז אישה. אם אישה אז בבקשה. אם לחשוב אז לעשות. אם לעשות אז לטעות. אם לטעות אז עכשיו. אם נותרנו נאהב. אם נותרנו נאהב. אם נותרנו, נאהב

“.

In keeping with this week’s theme, let’s end with a couple of images of family life in all its glorious going-on-ness. There’s something to celebrate in just pitzelling around.