December 22, 2014 by Makom
Apologies to non-Hebrew readers, but my fifth candle has to be for the unbelievable online project, 929. This just started yesterday, and I’m buzzed.
The thinking is to invite everyone to read a chapter of the Tanach every day. On the site are videos, illustrations, and short articles by all sorts of fascinating and diverse people, responding to said text. It’s simple, beautifully designed (to my eye), and absolutely inspiring.
To read Genesis verse one: “In the Beginning, God created the heavens and the earth”, and then look over to the comments space and see Etgar Keret’s oh-so-Keretian question: What happened in verse zero? An absolute delight.
Backed by the Ministry of Education and various charities. Totally free. Provided for all citizens of the world who read Hebrew.
My fifth miracle candle.
December 21, 2014 by Robbie Gringras
One day an entire curriculum of the History of the Jewish People will be built around the new comedy sketch show, The Jews are Coming. They hit it all – Bible, Talmud, Inquisition, Dreyfus, Ben Gurion, Eichmann, and even Yigal Amir. Although they do have a little difficulty finding ways to end the sketches, they normally hit winners throughout.
This sketch plays on the Purim story, and translates the Hebrew “zonah” in a very gentle fashion. “Whore” would be a more accurate rendition. As well as offering humorous, feminist critique of the ancient text, it also makes a lovely sideways reference to the way in which girls’ Purim costumes get more and more sexual every year…
The jokes do not only fly at surface level. There is even a recurring game show involving Rashi and Cassuto, two quarrelsome Bible scholars, shooting barbs at each other in the studio as they did, some thousand years apart, in the biblical literature.
My fourth candle is dedicated to the light of Israeli comedy, drenched in history and Jewish text.
December 21, 2014 by Shlomit Naim-Naor
Yona Wollach is a mad woman, the cursed prophet of Hebrew poetry. The woman who wove her madness into a tapestry of words that presaged a great change in the Israeli public. This can be seen in the next poem – Yonatan.
The final line “Forgive us, we didn’t know you were like that” is directed at the older generation, with its hierarchy and expectations of what is masculine and feminine behavior.
This final line that ends the poem, raises many questions regarding what we do expect from someone who is “like that”. That they should behave differently when being beheaded? Wollach plays freely with the Biblical Jonathan, reminds us of the love of David and Jonathan, not only the story of the honey forest. Is this the reason for the beheading? The blood lust? And what is the gladiola doing there? Is it a guillotine? Or an aesthetic flower that beautifies the horrific crime that is taking place?
I dedicate the fourth candle to those women who were before their time.
I run on the bridge
and the children after me
Jonathan they call
a little blood
just a little blood to top off the honey
I agree to the pierce of a tack
but the children want
and they are children
and I am Jonathan
They lop off my head with a gladiola
stalk and gather my head
with two gladiola stalks and wrap
my head in rustling paper
Jonathan they say
forgive us really
we didn’t imagine you were like that
|© Translation: Linda Zisquit
From: Wild light
Publisher: Sheep Meadow Press, New York, 1997, 1-878818-54-6
|© 1966, Yona WallachFrom: Dvarim (Things)
December 19, 2014 by Shlomit Naim-Naor
In honor of Friday – in honor of Shabbat eve, I choose the poetess Zelda to add some light for us.
Zelda (Shneurson-Mishkowsky) was a Chassidic poet, and accepted in the secular world. Her poems were first published by the United Kibbutz Publishers, in the days when they mainly published poets from kibbutzim connected to the working settlements.
The poem I have chosen distils the difficulty I feel every Friday. What does the sacred feel like? How can one usher in the Sabbath, the rest, the sacred, into a heart still full of quotidian concerns?
Light a candle,
Softly the Sabbath has plucked
the sinking sun.
Slowly the Sabbath descends,
the rose of heaven in her hand.
How can the Sabbath
plant a huge and shining flower
in a blind and narrow heart?
How can the Sabbath
plant the bud of angels
in a heart of raving flesh?
Can the rose of immortality grow
in a generation enslaved
a generation enslaved
Light a candle!
Slowly the Sabbath descends
and in her hand the flower,
and in her hand
the sinking sun.
December 19, 2014 by Robbie Gringras
My third candle was for Shemi Zarchin. He is a screenwriter, film director and novelist who creates beautiful rich and complex women characters in particular, and in particular hits on the Mizrachi experience in Israel. I still think that Aviva My Love was one of Israel’s best films – exploring creativity and exploitation, as well as the working-class Mizrachi world of Tiberias. The two sisters with their “we don’t talk about that” catch-phrases of intimacy and love are a delight, and Asi Cohen puts in one of the great performances of Israeli film.
Zarchin’s novel, “Some Day”, came out recently in English translation. I don’t know how it translates, but I imagine that the magical realist plot and characters will storm past any awkwardness of language. It is a story of overflowing passion, extreme both morally and emotionally, and one of the best books I’ve read.
So the candle I lit last night, the third of this festival, was lit for the words, the people, and the life that Shemi Zarchin brings to Israel’s cultural and political discourse.
December 18, 2014 by Robbie Gringras
This second candle is particularly challenging. When I first read the poems of Leah Goldberg, I feared I would never be able to write poetry again. I was twelve or thirteen years old, I scarcely understood what was being said, but the power of the words struck me. I’m not a fan of Holocaust literature, I struggle to cope with the atrocities. In Leah Goldberg’s creation the horrors of the thirties and the Holocaust years are gently drawn. That date. 1935. And the location Tel Aviv.
I dedicate the second candle to all the men and women who left one homeland for another.
Memories of memories
Then the aerials on the city’s roofs were
like the masts of Columbus’ ships
and every raven that perched on their tips
announced a new continent.
And the kit-bags of travelers walked the streets
and the language of a foreign land
cut through the heat of the day
like the blade of a cold knife.
How could the air of the small city
bear so many
childhood memories, wilted loves,
rooms which were emptied somewhere?
Like pictures blackening in a camera,
the clear cold nights reversed
rainy summer nights across the sea
and shadowy mornings of great cities.
And the sound of footsteps behind your back
drum the marching songs of foreign troops
and it seems – if you but turn your head
there is your hometown church floating on the sea.
In “Tel Aviv 1935” (page 134) –
the first section of a long poem called “The Shortest Journey,” trans: Rachel Zvia Back
הַמַּסָּע הַקָּצָר בְּיוֹתֵר / לאה גולדברג
מספרה “עם הלילה הזה”, 1964
א. תֵּל-אָבִיב 1935
הַתְּרָנִים עַל גַּגּוֹת הַבָּתִּים הָיוּ אָז
כְּתָרְנֵי סְפִינָתוֹ שֶׁל קוֹלוּמְבּוּס
וְכָל עוֹרֵב שֶׁעָמַד עַל חֻדָּם
בִּשֵּׂר יַבֶּשֶׁת אַחֶרֶת.
וְהָלְכוּ בָּרְחוֹב צִקְלוֹנֵי הַנּוֹסְעִים
וְשָׂפָה שֶׁל אֶרֶץ זָרָה
הָיְתָה נִנְעֶצֶת בְּיוֹם הַחַמְסִין
כְּלַהַב סַכִּין קָרָה.
אֵיךְ יָכוֹל הָאֲוִיר שֶׁל הָעִיר הַקְּטַנָּה
לָשֵׂאת כָּל כָּךְ הַרְבֵּה
זִכְרוֹנוֹת יַלְדוּת, אֲהָבוֹת שֶׁנָּשְׁרוּ,
חֲדָרִים שֶׁרוֹקְנוּ אֵי-בָּזֶה?
כִּתְמוּנוֹת מַשְׁחִירוֹת בְּתוֹךְ מַצְלֵמָה
הִתְהַפְּכוּ לֵילוֹת חֹרֶף זַכִּים,
לֵילוֹת קַיִץ גְּשׁוּמִים שֶׁמֵּעֵבֶר לַיָּם
וּבְקָרִים אֲפֵלִים שֶׁל בִּירוֹת.
וְקוֹל צַעַד תּוֹפֵף אַחֲרֵי גַּבְּךָ
שִׁירֵי לֶכֶת שֶׁל צְבָא נֵכָר,
וְנִדְמֶה – אַךְ תַּחְזִיר אֶת רֹאשְׁךָ וּבַיָּם
שָׁטָה כְּנֵסִיַּת עִירְךָ.
December 18, 2014 by Robbie Gringras
You get to sit up front – to sit behind is to imply a class distinction, which would be frowned upon – and you are expected to converse. Unlike others I know, I really enjoy this – especially if the driver is insistent on lecturing me on his opinions that are very different from my own.
I see every taxi drive as an opportunity to learn, and to see outside of my bubble. Friends, work colleagues, family, facebook – all of these connections serve to reinforce my separation from those who do not think like I do. Taxi rides force me to come to peace with the nature of a democratic diverse society. There are real people out there who have crazy ideas, and they have a right to be heard, even if I know they’re wrong…
Last night Asaf (I always ask for names) regretfully turned down my offer of some cashew nuts because he’d undergone some dental work. He shared with me that he’d spent years as a combat soldier, had caught three bullets and been stabbed twice. “I don’t know what fear is,” he said quite simply, “But man, when that dentist comes up to me… I’d prefer Gaza!”
As we got chatting it turns out that he has interesting opinions on micro versus macro economics, and that our military strategy is all wrong. We are, apparently “defending ourselves to death”, and the Iron Dome system is going to cripple us financially. We should be investing in better ways to attack them, not defend ourselves. Destroy not just their homes but also their entire families’ homes. “But hey,” as he said, noticing my ever-raising eyebrows, “this is a conversation for a long-distance trip to Tel Aviv, not just up the hill from Carmiel to Tuval…”
As he dropped me off, I realized I was smiling. Although I hugely disagree with him, he’s a lovely guy. A full human being. He gets a vote too, and he gets a say.
Candle #2 for people who teach me the world is broader than my opinions.
December 17, 2014 by Shlomit Naim-Naor
At this Hanukkah festival I choose to light a small candle for women’s Hebrew poetry. Without detailed historiography or complicated biographies. Every day I’ll bring a short poem, translated into English, and explain why it’s significant for me. I do hope this small candle will light a great light and develop within us the taste, memory, and longing for words once spoken in a whisper and today as a cry.
The first poetess is Esther Raav. She was born in 1894 in Petach Tikvah, and saw herself as a native-born poet. Her poems are full of sensuous descriptions of landscapes, and excel at their details of flora and fauna. She sang songs of praise to the Land, songs of longing for a lover taken from her, and many of her poems deal with women and femininity.
For our first Hanukkah candle I chose the poem “Who Made Me A Woman”, that in its gentle way argues with the Dawn Blessing “Blessed be He who has not made me a woman.” Esther Raav reflectively suggests some more positive language with which to address God.
Every morning I bless “Who made me a woman”. You (f) are invited to join me.
Blessed is he who made me a woman –
that I am earth and Adam,
a tender rib;
Blessed is he who made me
circles upon circles –
like the orbits of planets
and spheres of fruit –
who gave me living flesh
and made me like a plant of the field –
that bears fruit;
so your cloud tatters,
slide like silk
over my face and thighs;
and I am grown
and want to be a girl,
weeping from sorrow,
and laughing, and singing aloud,
thinner than thin –
like the smallest cricket
in the sublime chorus
of your cherubs –
smallest of the small –
at your feet –
© Translation: 2002, Institute for the Translation of Hebrew Literature
From: Thistles: Selected Poems of Esther Raab. Translated by Harold Schimmel
Publisher: Ibis, Jerusalem, 2002, 965-90124-8-9
שירַת אִשָּׁה/ אסתר ראב
בָּרוּךְ שֶׁעָשַׂנִי אִשָּׁה –
שֶׁאֲנִי אֲדָמָה וְאָדָם,
עִגּוּלִים עִגּוּלִים –
וּכְעִגּוּלֵי פֵּרוֹת –
שֶׁנָּתַתָּ לִי בָּשָׂר חַי
וַעֲשִׂיתַנִי כְּצֶמַח הַשָּׂדֶה –
עַל פָּנַי וִירֵכַי;
וּמְבַקֶּשֶׁת לִהְיוֹת יַלְדָּה,
וְצוֹחֶקֶת וְשָׁרָה בְּקוֹל,
דַּק מִן הַדַּק –
קְטַנָּה שֶׁבִּקְטַנּוֹת –
© 1988, Zmora Bitan Publishers
From: Collected Poems
Publisher: Zmora Bitan, Tel Aviv, 1988
December 17, 2014 by Makom
I was at a performance of the newly-reunited Teapack band last night. It being a gig in Jerusalem, on the first night of Hanukkah, with Kobi Oz as band-leader, the show was put on hold to light a Hanukkiah candle on stage, together with all the blessings. (One band-member wore a “Kippat Barzel”- “Iron Dome/Kippah” on his head)
It was a lovely moment. What with the warfare in the summer, the oil spill in the Arava, and the pending elections, I’ve been kind of miserable. The Teapacks evening forced me to remember the light in the darkness.
So this week I’m going to write up my eight candles in the Israel darkness: Eight events, cultural phenomena, or just eight thoughts that make me feel optimistic about life in Israel. Bearing in mind the doomsday predictions on all sides, they may well be my eight Hanukkah miracles.
Teapacks are my first candle. The gig was sold out, people of all ages were singing along and realizing once again how prophetic were the lyrics of the young Kobi Oz. Back in the early 90s when he sung of how “people are rolled up in newspaper”, he was referring to a neglected underclass few mainstream Israelis knew. Now in 2014, the song was for all of us.
Back then when he sang in clear-eyed longing for the messy multi-cultural community of the Old Bus Station, he was referring to a shared experience of a specific place. Now, singing to an audience 50% of which only knows the New Station, the Old Bus Station became a state of mind to be yearned.
The band themselves have grown up. Whereas they used to sing songs that mocked their parents’ worries for their children: “Listen to your parents – why aren’t you more careful?” they themselves are now parents, sporting grey hairs and hints of bellies. They have families, we in the audience now have families, and – reinforced by the candle-lighting – we all that night felt like one family.
To feel like a Jewish family together in a public space, only a few weeks before potentially polarizing elections, that qualifies as my first Hanukkah miracle of the festival.
December 4, 2014 by Avi Staiman
I enjoy my trips to the supermarket in the small industrial zone tucked away on one of the slopping hills of the northeastern suburb of Jerusalem, Maale Adumim. Aside from the thrilling search for the latest sales, the occasional who-was-in-line-first shouting match at the deli counter, or the short prayer that they stocked my daughter’s diaper size, there is an encounter I look forward to every time I walk through the doors. And it has nothing to do with shopping.
In this suburban “West Bank” city, the largest shopping market, Rami Levi (Jewish owned), employs a large number of Palestinian Arabs in positions ranging from bag boys to directing managers. The staff comes from the neighboring towns of Issawyia, Azzariah, Jahalin and other smaller villages in the vicinity.
My bi-monthly trip is one of the rare opportunities I have to interact with the men and women who live one town over (across the street in some cases). The encounter is brief and light, but it’s also real, ordinary and spontaneous. And while asking where the tomato sauce has been moved to, can hardly be considered peace talks, it is a real interaction that leaves me wanting more.
As I step into line at my favorite checkout counter and approach the Arab cashier, my mind starts to spit out unfiltered questions: What does he think of me? What do I think of him? Am I justified in being cautious and wary in his company? Does he fear me for something that has happened to him or someone he knows? Is he thinking about the same questions that I’m thinking about?
However, as time passes I realize that I am asking myself the wrong questions. The question I should be asking myself is not what we are thinking, but rather how can we can go about changing how we think and the impressions that we make.
So with my best ahlan (Arabic for hello), a warm smile and a little extra chit chat than my norm, I pass through the queue hoping that I have somehow left an impression. While I wouldn’t go as far as calling my supermarket a model for co-existence, it is the most real, natural and consistent chance I have for real interaction with the so-called “other side”.
Last night, I drove to my supermarket for a different reason. A close friend of mine had been caught hours earlier with his two year old daughter at the store in the thick of a stabbing attack, where a terrorist went on a stabbing rampage and two individuals were hospitalized with upper body wounds. My friend hurriedly fled the scene, jumping into a car with a stranger to flee the mayhem.
Upon bringing him to the supermarket to pick up his car that he left behind, he showed me how he managed to run out the back exit, and maneuver himself and his daughter over an eight-foot-high steel fence to protect them both and bring them to safety.
Having rehashed the scenario to me and wanting to be home with his family, my friend hopped into his car and drove away. Once there, I figured I may as well pick up a few items we needed at home. Walking through the doors into the store, which had been freshly mopped from the blood on the floors, there was a palpable tension in the air. Shoppers and staff alike seemed on edge, calculating their actions and weighing their words.
So I did the only thing I could: I picked up my groceries, stood in line, smiled and chatted with my cashier, and drove home.
My friends to the right will tell me that last night’s incident proves that my desire for interaction is naive and dangerous, while my friends to the left will say that I have no business being there in the first place. However, I still believe that my supermarket is exactly where I am supposed to be.