Lots of people get very upset about the killing of Gazan children. I’m worried about something more basic. First, I don’t believe the numbers of children killed. The bodies keep repearing themselves. That relieves me. The thought of children being killed is horrifying. But what is worse is that these children have been brought up to war. Sleeping with stored bombs, taught Hebrew for “take down your pants” and “shut up”, dreaming murder, what kind of life are these children being offered? Children have to be kept alive and provided with a future. If I believed in prayer I would pray for them.
How to celebrate in such a dangerous world? Ezi can do it. For the first time ever he agreed to a party – not just one party, but two. All the stops are being pulled out – new underwear and all.
While we’re working on the video for his party we’re seeing the whole history of Israel – the building, guarding, protecting, worrying, rejoicing. Everyone his age had something to do with the building of this country, and the stories of everyone today are a part of the continued survival. If I go through the people I know, I think I can cover almost all of what’s happening.
Even my old Arabic teacher is an example of the complexities of the country. (We studied with her for over a year, but I wasn’t picking it up because my head wasn’t on right – I didn’t have the basic grammar that every native Hebrew speaker has. I’m only now beginning to understand it). But she, Sabreen Msarwi, was recently accused of siding with the enemy because she liked a facebook post long ago. I stick with her.
This afternoon at a panel on Whitman, the chair asked a question about poetry and war. And we all answered properly, about Whitman and Neruda and more. But I kept thinking about the unthinkable. I was thinking about the fact that soldiers in our army have other professions and hobbies and there could very well be poets like Owen or Sassoon who write and die in war. And when I got home the news came that the poet Amiram Cooper died in captivity.
I saw it last night but it didn’t hit me. An 85 year old poet from Nir Oz.
I can’t bring myself to call my exiled friends whose homes are burning now. It will have to wait until morning. Who knows – maybe those houses have been saved. I know their hearts have burned up, though.
it’s beginning to look a lot like an agreement, a chance for both sides to lick wounds. The possibility of captives being returned, homeless able to rebuild their homes, and maybe work out an agreement to help create a palestinian state – should make me feel wonderful. But I don’t trust anyone or anything right now. I’d be happy to see some people out of the government, but I fear they have tasted power and have built up their own alternative militia.
If it is possible that Hamas accepts this deal, if it could possibly happen, we could all be in a different world.
When President Biden said these sentences, I started to cry. I don’t believe it will happen, but at least there’s a chance…
“I want to level with you today as to where we are and what might be possible, but I need your help: Everyone who wants peace now must raise their voices.”
“Let the leaders know they should take this deal, work to make it real, make it lasting, and forge a better future out of the tragic terror attack and war.”
“It’s time to begin this new stage, for the hostages to come home, for Israel to be secure, for the suffering to stop.”
“It’s time for this war to end, and for the day after to begin.”