Monday, September 19, 2011
Always the courage and the despairs of human hearts push my own writing agendas off my pages. Today amidst the spurts of rain in golden sunlight, making Cello's hair studded with shining crytals, I wanted to tell you of La Professoressa's sojourn in Delhi and show you images of her planting, caring for our growing things, as she always does before she leaves on a long trip, the understanding being that Cello and I will care for these new lives in her absence, guard against loss, slow or sudden endings of her new beginnings, but Lepa sends me this and I must share it with you because it is the persistent resistance to hate that keeps our lives green.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Soon there will be a vote in the United Nations to give Palestine statehood, a move that some Jewish public thinkers have said is a good idea, most recently Thomas Friedman in his New York Times column and the gay pioneer and political columnist Dennis Altman in the Age here in Melbourne. Yes, Yes, Yes. I think again of the double standard that can only prevail when a form of distorted cultural valuing reigns supreme: The Israeli leaders rail at Palestine acting unilaterally while the Israeli government and its armed forces act as supreme rulers day and night over the occupied territories, always unilaterally, never consulting with other nations or the people it is abusing whether the check point guard has the power to destroy lives on a daily basis, whether this family will be thrown out of its home so a settler family can move in, whether water will be allowed to flow into an ancient well. The Palestinians are making their case to the world, asking because they do not have the power to do otherwise. Israel and America are looking into the face of a new Middle East, of a new Turkey and a new Egypt where old deals do not hold sway. It is in the best interests of Israel, of the world, for Palestine to become a free recognized nation; even more, it is the right thing. Enough with never ending displacement, with refugee camps that never end, with stagnation of hope and dreams, with the rule of military power over children. This is not the Jewish way, this must no longer be the Israeli way.
I want to write about the other images Paula has found, I want to tell you of my struggles with my body, I want to be lyrical and touch with my aging hand the faces of so many that I love, I want to tell you of my wonder at reading Isaac Babel's "Odessa Stories" and his 1920 diary, of my finding my thief mother and lost brother in those tales of Benya Kirk, the petty ruler of the Odessa shetyl and the rag clad Second Jewish Cemetery almsfolk who knew what they were doing, but as Babel wrote, "I must not send my tale down side streets even if on those side streets chestnuts are ripening and acacias are in bloom." Now I write as he did in a time of harsh sunsets and the smell of bodies hanging in the air, in a time of madness where looking backwards has replaced possibilities, where histories have become so distorted even with love and longing that only one people is allowed to survive, where only one kind of child can tell the world of her sufferings, where only one kind of heart is allowed to beat in a Jewish breast. Recently, I was sent a "warning" message, a forwarded video made to alert all Jews to what is happening at the UN, at the Durbin meetings, a well made video with words carefully spelling out all our old fears and our newer hatreds. I saw that the person who had forwarded me this Jewish alert to action was the husband of my oldest friend, a friend since I was 10, but not often seen in these past decades, and thinking I had to answer, not let the assumption pass that all Jews have the same position on these issues or would welcome such propaganda, I pushed the reply all button and wrote my reply. The next morning as I always do I opened my messages to see what New York wanted to say to me on this day, and there was his anger, his despair that I had so embarrassed him, his shame at my words, that his friends had to see such words, a Jew who said something different. Madness--not him, or his friends or the world they move in--but the madness of manipulation, of toxic fear. Friends not really. A different future, not really. Hope, not really. Unless the pictures, those small windows into a human heart, are seen again, unless Palestine is drawn in clear lines on the map of the world, unless we start to speak a different language drawn in the form of human respect.