Living Under Fire
Seems to be a constant theme. First under verbal abuse. Then under missile attack. Then under rock attack. Theme.
Was thinking about Nasrallah today. I never did anything to him. Never uttered a word against or for anything. Never took a stand this way or that. Politics just never occurred to me. Like a missing gene. If anything I stayed away from it. Sickened me. And here I was in Tzfat - the city of mystics 2006 under a barrage attack with 600 katyusha missiles zipping over and by me, whizzing and shrieking and blasting away every shred of my consciousness that still remained intact.
I huddled in a room about 10x10 meters. Filth and dust, remnants of it being a warehouse, now a suitable dwelling place, cleaned and emptied by my son who wanted me to have a taste of Woodstock in Israel. And for 4 months I writhed and kvetched to God Almighty why of all places I had to wind up there where it seemed the pain was more fervent and acute than in any other place on earth during that phase of earth's history. Or mine.
I'm still reeling.
And 2 years later, I am being bombarded by rocks. The walls of the house I rent are. For being who I am. A shut in. A refugee. A survivor. Whatever. It goes against their grain as they go against mine. And it is a match made in hell once more. And I wonder, still, when this rectification/abuse/punishment will end.
Last week I read about King David and the one who threw stones at him as he fled Jerusalem making his way to Hebron, I think - and he did not (as was written in Samuel) respond or retaliate. But how many Psalms were written as a result, one wonders. At his pain, at the humiliation and at the bottom of the rung, as he was pelted. And on his return from Hebron, to reclaim the throne, Yoav, I think asked him how to punish this rock thrower, and David said - it is from God. It is from God. No punishment if it is deemed that I be punished with rocks. And so it was. But how many Psalms were again written as a result.
And so - in Succot, 2008, Achuzam. Named no doubt for a demon somewhere in hell, here I am. Subjected and stymied. Counting the days till my freedom.
Was thinking about Nasrallah today. I never did anything to him. Never uttered a word against or for anything. Never took a stand this way or that. Politics just never occurred to me. Like a missing gene. If anything I stayed away from it. Sickened me. And here I was in Tzfat - the city of mystics 2006 under a barrage attack with 600 katyusha missiles zipping over and by me, whizzing and shrieking and blasting away every shred of my consciousness that still remained intact.
I huddled in a room about 10x10 meters. Filth and dust, remnants of it being a warehouse, now a suitable dwelling place, cleaned and emptied by my son who wanted me to have a taste of Woodstock in Israel. And for 4 months I writhed and kvetched to God Almighty why of all places I had to wind up there where it seemed the pain was more fervent and acute than in any other place on earth during that phase of earth's history. Or mine.
I'm still reeling.
And 2 years later, I am being bombarded by rocks. The walls of the house I rent are. For being who I am. A shut in. A refugee. A survivor. Whatever. It goes against their grain as they go against mine. And it is a match made in hell once more. And I wonder, still, when this rectification/abuse/punishment will end.
Last week I read about King David and the one who threw stones at him as he fled Jerusalem making his way to Hebron, I think - and he did not (as was written in Samuel) respond or retaliate. But how many Psalms were written as a result, one wonders. At his pain, at the humiliation and at the bottom of the rung, as he was pelted. And on his return from Hebron, to reclaim the throne, Yoav, I think asked him how to punish this rock thrower, and David said - it is from God. It is from God. No punishment if it is deemed that I be punished with rocks. And so it was. But how many Psalms were again written as a result.
And so - in Succot, 2008, Achuzam. Named no doubt for a demon somewhere in hell, here I am. Subjected and stymied. Counting the days till my freedom.
Comments