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History

by Hamutal Bar-Yosef, translated by Esther Cameron (Jerusalem, Israel)

In the year 1939 my mother,

who lived on a socialist kibbutz,

got a letter from her bourgeois mother

asking whether, in her opinion,

it would be worthwhile to move to Palestine.

Not worthwhile, my mother wrote back with roughened fingers.

Here you would not have servants.

Even jewelry, which you love so much,

even your wedding ring, would be frowned on here.

In the year 1949 my mother,

recently bereaved of her only son,

volunteered to help in a transit camp for immigrants.

What kind of help do you need? my mother asked

the woman from Iraq.

Can you polish my nails? asked the woman

and held out to my mother

long, delicate fingers adorned with rings.

Hamutal Bar-Yosef was born in 1940 on Kibbutz Tel Yosef. She studied comparative literature, philosophy and Hebrew literature at Hebrew University in Jerusalem. She is professor emerita at Ben-Gurion University. Bar-Yosef has published 17 collections of poetry, besides books of literary scholarship, essays, fiction, and translations from Russian, French, English and Yiddish. She has received numerous prizes, including the Israel President’s Prize for Poetry and the Prime Minister’s Prize for Poetry.  Her poems have been translated into 16 languages. 

Esther Cameron is an American-born poet, essayist, editor and translator living in Jerusalem.  She translated Bar-Yosef’s previous collection, The Ladder, and novel, The Wealthy.  Her own poems have appeared in various periodicals in Israel and America; a monograph, Western Art and Jewish Presence in the Work of Paul Celan, appeared with Lexington Books in 2014.  Her Collected Works are available on Amazon. She is founding editor of The Deronda Review.  

Editor’s Note: The poems are from Bar-Yosef’s and Cameron’s book The Miraculous Mistake, forthcoming from Sheep Meadow Press.

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Ibex, Sheep, and SWAT Gear

by Saraya Ziv (Jerusalem, Israel)

The son of my lawyer, Dina, is getting married tonight and she has just about obligated me by contract to show my face for the ceremony. The wedding is across the street from Jerusalem’s large central market where a pigua, a terrorist attack, hit this morning. In my evening bag I carry pepper spray which I do not know how to use and which looks as menacing as a canister of breath freshener. I have two sharp pencils. I have the dull pin of an old brooch. I have no chance if a pigua hits tonight.

One route to this wedding is through the town of Beitar. The bus winds past a stretch of trees which reminds me of a parkway on Long Island. When we travel through concrete tunnels erected to postpone bullets blowing off my skull, I remember I’m not headed towards my brother’s Oyster Bay colonial. At a checkpoint, a civilian has another in a bear hug; they’re both giggling. Our driver opens his window and says something that sobers them. On a thin meridian, shoulder to shoulder, soldiers stand guard.

We pass between razor wire fences into Beitar. A life size diorama of ibex, sheep, and deer graze at a giant welcome sign. One large billboard encourages – enjoy Shabbat, from the minute it comes to the minute it leaves. Another warns – you’re bad talking others?  I don’t want to hear it! The only one to jump when two figures in SWAT gear and masks board our bus at the front door and exit at the back is me.

I reverse the trip in the dark. My bus is stuck behind a truck that says FedEx International. I imagine the truck plowing the Atlantic, crossing Europe, and landing in front of us, all on a single tank of gas. The driver is tuned in to a radio station he selected in New Jersey. His radio reports that the Garden State Parkway is backed up for miles, the new Miss America can drive a tractor, and nothing about pigua in the soft Judaean Hills.

On the hill to my village we halt at a roadblock. Two soldiers, one a woman with a French braid and a sub-machine gun, examine the trunk of a car. A loud crack terrifies me. It’s the limb of a tree, victim of a recent conflagration.

Saraya Ziv attended SUNY Buffalo, worked as a Business Analyst on Wall Street, and left the United States one April morning in 2015 on a one way ticket to Tel Aviv. She was born and lived in New York City all her life, but now lives a short drive to Jerusalem. You can find more of her work at her website, Mask for Winter (http://www.maskforwinter.com/) where this piece first appeared.

Note: This story appeared under a different title, “Beitar,” on the Mask for Winter in 2017, and is reprinted here with the author’s permission. 

 

 

 

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