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III. The Uncertainties of Residing Here
AMONG THE RED GOLDEN HILLS
1) Among the Red Golden Hills
A world I step away from coming to this hill—the rocks underfoot rise to the size of boulders moving the landscape
back to where it ascends the sky. Near to the sounds on this raw, rocky hill— where no one before has dwelt, a cluster
of dwellings, all flat-roofed, stand scorched by day in the sun, cooled by night. Amidst the coarse dried brush, rock-gardens,
newly tended olive, fig, and almond trees, grow before the eyes of children running with friends by the gravel road.
Steady with words, composed to decide this hill will be their home, its young couples welcome happily, visitors for a stay.
Everyone knows the costs, the uncertainties of residing here. Across the valley, the inhabitants are neighbors driving past. In the local super, their eyes
avert, their faces express a dark, inhospitable look. Well before sunrise in the stillness of night, while their children shift in their beds, a voice
pierces the hour, a high-pitched wailing over a speaker, calling their men to prayer. Back across the valley— the few close miles
apart, the muezzin startles the hilltop visitors out of sleep, unused to such disturbing of the peace at the onset of each dawn.
On this hill where we step, by early daylight, the children stir waking up singing Modeh ani lefonekha . .
2) Improv in a Box
Any cardboard scrap will do making one dimension into more than two Unpacked on a table a box of four-cups (for coffee or tea) a see-through top in the eyes of Gitty (nearly six and a half) changes in an instant to a stage, a theater for puppets cut out from paper she loves to color to fashion a play for her younger brothers seating them all in a row to entertain in flashlight dark
3) Happy for the Errand
Nachi not four goes proudly stepping take-charge steps looking ahead protecting one raw egg in the palm of each hand to return across the hill’s stoney road a bumpy walk to the neighbor’s door who doesn’t answer lets himself in to wander the rooms (where can she be) happy to leave the eggs on the bed beside her napping smiling now to take the eggs from him
4) They call him Melech
(like a king) for a name challenging the tongue how his siblings say Elimelech three and a half giggles at his fingers fiddling to close the buttons on his shirt— oh that smile that says I know— to start at the bottom button to the top also washing up hurrying to the sink climbs on the tub ready to show any new thing he’s glad to help himself shoes on jacket swinging overhead leaving with Nachi Gitty too down the rough steep hill stepping not to trip on the high steps bus off to school
5) Construction in a Tiny Corner
Not a statistic one might read in a Guinness Book even so it’s a wonder how it shows Srulik at two settles with comfort tight for his bulk in a corner a chair at the back bookshelves in front a ledge that’s clear enough to lay blocks on squatting carefully picking out each one to set down exactly as his eye demands the building stand humming as he goes saying words to himself lightly waves a hand to topple happily from the top to start over again no one’s counting the number of times only the length he takes a Guinness exaggeration two hours no interruption
6) To Say how to Say ‘Adah’
Here’s a look that could send a thousand sails across the sea of any heart the way the seeking gaze in Benzion’s face (nine months in the world) holds onto the way you are looking at him holding a word on his tongue ‘adah’ then hearing it back a new look jumps out with bright baby laughter fingers as if plucking a harp made of air to say ‘how do you know how to say so adah’ too
7) Laughing with Srulik
Among the hundred some of children on this hill of flat-roofed houses here toddles another dear child. Gazing on the older ones leaving for school Srulik watches content with the company of his baby brother on a rug. Over nothing, one brings the other to the laughter of a heart-belly laugh. They don’t know the drama unfolding around them beyond this ground their home—the red golden hills stretching to Jerusalem. They don’t know that yet some judge may order without certain cause to destroy their happy place. They don’t yet know how much history, recent to its past, counts to have brought them to dwell on this hill. Yet the mothers, the fathers know the gains of raising their children free to run, to play over this rocky ground, growing to find their place, to hold onto their joy all through these uncertain rooting days. —Reizel Polak
The slow sounds of a summer fast
Doves cooing. Water trickling into a neighbour’s makeshift swimming pool. Cats shrieking. Birds chattering. A neighbour’s trampoline springs squeaking in sync with a jumping child’s noisy wheezing. Her summons piecing the air, directing her toddler to return home from the park. Toddler’s raucous protests.
The swoosh of a distant car. Washing flapping faintly in the gentle, summer breeze. Footfalls muted by dust as fasting men walk wearily to Mincha. Foliage rustling as birds forage for their supper. Cutlery clanking against porcelain plates, in preparation for the evening “break-fast” meal. Her calls growing more insistent. Toddler’s objections escalate.
Crickets chirping incessantly. The muted flutter of a hummingbird’s wings. The whir of an air conditioning motor. A bicycle stand’s rusty grinding. A child’s toy push-along toy rumbling up the unpaved Eshkol. Her pleas of love intensifying. Toddler’s cries diminish
Into soft whimpers of submission. Whimpers for Klal Yisrael, For their long, obstinate battle against Coming home.
Shhhhhhhh. Shhhhhhhh. Shhhhhhhh Ah. The soft silence resonates with reassurance, forgiveness, embrace. —Chaiya D.
Life’s Good
My daughter’s getting married another just had twins my son’s serving in Hebron and a terrorist killed my teacher’s son life’s good.
My youngest has a birthday and is doing well in school the price of living is outrageous and war is raging in Iraq life’s good.
See these giant olives and the sweetest pomegranates missiles fly across from Gaza and calls of annihilation from Iran life’s good.
See the desert flowering and the bounty the earth gifts us we’re in our home, our family’s close one day we’ll live in peace life’s good. —Ruth Fogelman
IN MEMORIAM MICHAEL MARK HY”D
TO CARVE IN BLACK ONLY THE WHITE
I am trying to carve, to write in black only the white for over the years only a few words passed between us over the years the steady column of light that shone from between your eyes I recognized in general and now in one and one one and seven standing in tears before the black hollow that is left all the glances that passed between us in a blocked light come back, living and open, like new, to the heart the steady quiet light in you rises, inscribes itself, opens within me and the path to it is given just to close my eyes and think: Miki —Netanel Cohen from the Hebrew: E. Cameron
in memory of my father
Father reach toward me those days too lazy to be killed let the hug be as long as grief teddy-bears in suitcases come back from the journey on which I am setting out gaze toward me that radiance that oftentimes disappeared between me and you. —Shira Mark Harif
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A white angel in a black coat knocked on my door. He looked at me gently, but his eyes were covered. He took a flower from my garden and went away. And whispered praise (Hallel) and song and forgiveness to me But I did not hear the praise (Hallel) And I did not hear the song And I did not hear the forgiveness I only saw the flowerbed in my garden with the black hole gaping —Maayan Ora Batt from the Hebrew: E. Cameron
METATRON
You built a house of study and of prayer That seems about to rise into the air Over the Hebron mountains on white wings. Surely you learned a skill from Metatron Whose secrets you had meditated on To make the outward show the inward things.
Mystic, businessman—earth-to-heaven stair! Snatched from us by a judgment so severe It lent a murderous hand some dastard skill. Now angel-tall, with shining sword in hand Stand guard above this house, above this land, That shine even for those who wish us ill.
And if from your high vantage you behold What more we are expected here to build, Devise some means to send the blueprints down (Your smile would tunnel then through the black hole, Restoring light Creation’s haters stole), And reconnect the Kingdom and the Crown! —Esther Cameron
As our children are crushed Beneath bloody wheels And our paintings turn to ash By similar hand I listen for sirens And the muezzin’s call to kill
For what do they pray? To fill a quota for Death? To empty the Earth of beauty And re-fill with boundless rot
—Mindy Aber Barad
TWO VOICES “A Psalm of Asaph. O God, [hostile] nations have entered Your land, they have defiled Your holy Temple, they have made Jerusalem piles of ruins.” (Psalm 79:1)
“Death to the Jews,” the enemy armies roar, Ready to strip the wood from Israel’s tree, Ready to battle waves of Israel’s sea, Ready to fight the sand on Israel’s shore. “Death to the Jews,” our enemy’s fathers swore, Unwilling to hear Israel’s melody, Unwilling to read Israel’s library, Unwilling to find gold in Israel’s ore.
But even now, far different words are heard In many languages and tongues; they sing A song in a still small voice that does not cease: “Blessed be Israel; blessed be the Word Of God from Zion; blessed be their King, Our King, Who blesses us, and them, with peace.”
—Yakov Azriel
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