Remember
By Avery Weinman
In a beginning there were endless golden days in a land flowing with milk and honey
We basked in the presence of prophets and kings
Worshiped at great Temples built by the majesty of God
Walked hand in hand with myth
But our glory was cut down, cast out to Babylon
With Ezra we returned, a hopeful pursuit towards the end of the Exodus
What was meant to be the closing chapter of our book was crushed by the Empire of Rome
The walls of Jerusalem were torn from us, reduced to rubble
Land of fruit and wonder now shriveled with salt
The dust of our nation blown across the world
We were made like Cain, doomed to wander in eternal exile
We traveled everywhere with only our books to remind us of who we were
Century after century drifting in and out of consciousness
As castle walls rose we sat outcast in the forests
We the God killers, unable to scrub Christ’s blood out from under our fingernails
How conveniently they forgot that Peter called him Rabbi
We the wearers of blood libel
Tell me – does matzah taste better when made with the blood of Christian children?
Or did it just make our blood easier to bear
Culmination of ancient vendetta
Justification for our alienation
Our victimhood in their Crusade
For a time we sought solace in Spain
In the presence of the Moors we tasted long lost dignity
Cordoba was a new home, not the home, but perhaps one that could last
In Al-Andalus we were human
We made art, we wrote poems, painted, sang
We remembered what it was like to live, not just to survive
Though we may have dreamed we were, we were never Spanish
They did not hesitate to remind us of that
A Spanish Jew is a Jew first, still worthy of dying in the streets, still a victim of the Inquisition
Love for Spain cannot undo what has been made by Jewish blood
In 1492 Ferdinand and Isabella legitimized the full extent of our unwelcome, exiles again
We were tolerated in other places throughout Europe
So long as we gripped the bars of the ghettos that walled us in
In Venice, in Amsterdam, Prague or Rome we could eke out lives for ourselves
We could worship in our synagogues if we would just smile when they spit on us
They let us lend money, not as a favor but as a slight
Traders and financiers – money changers in the Temple
Sardonic jobs reserved for those not deserving of stability
Our fortunes were the result of luck
Steeped in the blood of others like us who were not so lucky
How were we to know our survival would become a libelous accusation against us
Remember Shylock is not the hero of The Merchant of Venice
Some of us made a humble life in the shtetls across Eastern Europe
We were poor, but we were together
Memorizing one hundred pages of Talmud
Waiting to hear from Yente the Matchmaker
Listening to papa kvetch about selling the horse for five rubles instead of seven
To know the life of the shtetl is to know a grandparent’s consoling hug
We may have barely been making it, but there was still so much to be joyful for
But life here was dissolving both inside and out
As we lost our own culture, others made sure they reminded us we were not welcome to theirs
Pogroms across the countryside, killings without mercy and without need for explanation
Even isolated our presence was intolerable to them
At first we entered Berlin through the Rosenthaler Gate – reserved only for Jews and livestock
But it was the Enlightenment, a time of unparalleled intellectual exploration
For the first time we were seen first as individuals, recipients of unalienable rights
As thinkers we could be could be unmatched, second to none
Revered for our minds not criticized for our culture
We made Germany what is was, we gave it the very best of us, every ounce of our essence
Mendelssohn, Heine, Marx, Arendt, Schoenberg, Auerbach, Börne, Einstein
We proclaimed Ich bin ein Berliner
We were met with the reassurance Arbeit Macht Frei
Trains waiting at the gates
The acrid stench of six million in the air
Our legacy in this country is still ink drying on the page
Some of us came here as refugees
Beaten down after millennia of degradation, murder, exile, and genocide
This was America – a new place, a new hope
We looked up at the woman whose flame is the imprisoned lightning
And her name Mother of Exiles
Cradling all the promise of a country who has sworn to love all who wander
It is in this country that my family has made its life, one that has provided me every opportunity
And now the shining promise is dying – the gates are closing, the clock is winding backwards
Fear and intolerance, our most insidious enemies, creep out of the shadows where they lurk
Emboldened, impassioned, risen again
My intention with this piece is not to say contemporary America is comparable to any of the societies I mentioned here. Beneath the cynicism that tends to crust over my heart, I believe in the resilience of this nation. I believe in the future of the American Jewry. I mean only to say that we should not assume that it can’t happen here. Reading the narrative of Jewish history is an arduous and transcendentally painful task. For thousands of years our very existence and survival has remained precarious. Our trust in the mercy of those around us has so often resulted in catastrophe.
In the last few weeks I found myself thinking not of those who perished in the Babylonian or Roman conquests, Spanish Inquisition, Eastern European pogroms or the Holocaust, but of the Jews who lived in these areas generations before these events and thought themselves safe. Thought themselves accepted. Thought themselves Spanish, Russian, or German. How could they have known what would happen to their children? To their grandchildren? Did they feel it? Did they know what was coming, or did they really believe that these places, which had so seemingly welcomed them, would be their homes forever? Did they feel the overwhelming, all encapsulating sense of dread that I found myself feeling these last few weeks? Is my optimism making a wrong choice? Will I be dooming by children? My grandchildren?
Unfortunately, my history tells me my optimism is misplaced. But I will cling to it. I will cling to it as is my sacred duty bound by blood. As it is commanded in Exodus 22:21, “And you shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”
I mean not to frighten anyone, nor to accuse or blame. I mean only to say that we must remember. The American Jewry must remember the lives and deaths of those who came before us. Those people whose sacrifices, both of their dignity and their lives, have brought us here to this moment. To this chance to be brave with our eyes open. We owe the dead that much. And to those who forget:
May your children turn their faces from you.
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