The air was humid and warm. It filled the sanctuary and narrow lanes outside, where children played, the Rhine nearby. A thousand years later children in yellow rubber boots run through brown and red leaves on holy sands in the valley of the rabbis. They know people died but nobody tells them about the worlds that were lost.
Say it when the priests go eat the sacrifice. Say it when the stars appear. Say it until midnight. Say it before dawn. Say it in the morning light. Say it when you rise, when you lie down, in the desert, in walled cities, in your house and on the road.
Teach it to your children. teach it to your children, that they may say it, say it when they wake, when no stars are in the sky, when time has no season say it when the trains pull in, say it at the ramp, say it in the barracks.
Listen to the words of the Sh'ma, put one ear onto the tracks and listen, you can hear it through...Read More
I found them in the middle of the day in France and Algiers, in my friend’s eyes, in Portugal, at a street corner in el Once, Buenos Aires, in a Tango parlor in Berlin, at Ben Gurion Airport Immigration, in talk shows on German television, in cracks of dawn over the Rhineland, in a night train to Chicago, in the parks and squares of Brooklyn.
Names I only knew from silent lists, carved in stone, displayed in museums, took shape, began to breathe, to teach, to walk, to talk, to laugh, to sing, became neighbors, lovers, friends, opened their arms and danced with me.Nu, what took you...Read More
I was born in Germany and didn’t grow up Jewish, but neither do I look particularly Teutonic or fall into any of the categories that might (wrongly) be labeled as “not-Jewish.” I don’t look “typically Jewish” either, but I pass. I don’t stand out… until I open my mouth.
“I hear an accent. Where are you from?”
“I live in Brooklyn.”
“No, where are you really from?”
“I grew up in Germany.”
“Oh, so then you weren’t born Jewish?”
Sometimes I wish I could just make small talk over Kiddush when I visit a new community. Around the time of my...Read More
The night after Be’er Sheba brings no dreams. Morning birds sail through the canyon. In the still air, their choreography lingers; small sounds of peace. From somewhere, a sheep bleats.
Rapidly, the sun rises higher, warms the stones. The same smell emanated from the wall in the city, that tangible smell of two thousand years and more of pleading and screaming; absorbed by the desert. Forgive me for cursing in your presence.
Parched is the skin of my feet making their way through a dry wadi. Piety becomes a natural state as I go further south, seeking wisdom in a barren...Read More
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