The intervals between our letters
are dependably constant.
Our friendship forged for the ages.
Our affection warm and lasting.
Our love spanning vast oceans and generations.
I write to you about the New York City blizzard
that has snowed us in this Chanukah, while my grandchildren
throw themselves upon my sticky jelly donuts. We are getting old,
dear friend; how many frayed and yellowed letters in shoeboxes?
Most days I usually stay at home in my cozy nightgown. I look
often at your photographs. Some days we still speak. Other
days I reread your elegant script. Your tinkling laughter
continues to ring in every syllable.
We were specifically instructed to: write our poems as continuations of where the poets of our choice left off, thematically, in the same mood, rather than literally, giving special thought to our own final lines.
by Gail Newman
The country between us has no borders. The barbed wire has been cut. The walls decimated. The moat drained beneath the bridge. I cross over to you carrying a metal lunch pail filled with bologna sandwiches, mayonnaise spread from crust to crust. We sit in the grass, our skirts spread over pale legs. Some days I wear jeans, a blouse with open collar. I look into your face as into a mirror. Some days we speak. Other times we remain silent. As if we could hear music inside the words.
Chanukahended, and though I haven’t written a word about it yet, I have been mulling something over quite a bit.
Traditionally, there’s a song that Jews sing after reciting the blessings and lighting the candles of the chanukiah 🕎. This song is called Ma’oz Tzur (“Strong Rock”), and there exists a popular, non-literal English translation called “Rock of Ages”.
Here is the full song in Hebrew. There are six stanzas:
This is a tune that I find myself humming throughout the year, even when it isn’t Chanukah; I just love it. Unfortunately, I don’t know the words to all of the stanzas by heart so I can only sing it with a prayer book in front of me.
While I speak Hebrew passably, it is not my mother tongue, and memorizing multi-stanza songs in Hebrew takes me some effort. On the other hand, as I observe my daughter, born and bred in the Jewish homeland, I delight in her Hebrew fluency. Also, traditional Jewish songs like Ma’oz Tzur have infused every moment of her comprehensively Jewish life in Israel. She hears Jewish songs at home; at school; at the mall; in taxis; pretty much everywhere.
Growing up in the USA, Christmas carols on the radio and Halloween songs at school were the norm for me, and while I never thought twice about my diaspora reality, these were not my family’s holidays.
I still remember the messaging that was directed at me in the eighties and the nineties when I was a child, attending Hebrew school (an afterschool program) at my synagogue. We were discouraged from trick-or-treating on Halloween; from marrying non-Jews; from falling for the wiles of Christian missionaries; etc.
This messaging was born of the Jewish establishment’s fear of Jewish assimilation, which was heightening, along with the rate of intermarriage (i.e., Jews marrying gentiles) in the USA. (As the years rolled on, the Jewish establishment gradually lost this messaging battle and had to find new strategies. Assimilation proved itself unstoppable.)
By the way, there is nothing new under the sun. You see, the Jewish community’s concern over the threat of assimilation is millennia old. The Chanukah story, which took place in the 2nd century BCE, was no less than one of a vicious and bloody Jewish civil war over Hellenization. In other words, Jewish traditionalists were pitted against Jewish Hellenizers who wanted to adopt many elements of Greek life and culture. You can guess who won.
It’s important, I think, to put this historic Jewish concern over assimilation into perspective. As of 2015, there are some 2.168 billion Christians, 1.599 billion Muslims, and less than 15 million Jews worldwide.
I honestly don’t quite know why I care so passionately about my people; but I do, and I have cared for as long as I can remember.
As a modern, I support and can respect people’s personal choices, as long as they do not cause harm to others; and, believe me, I well understand the appeal of assimilation for all minority groups. In all honesty, I was once very judgmental of more assimilated Jews, but my judgmentalism has profoundly dissipated over the last decade or so, as I’ve increasingly begun to appreciate and seek to understand the contexts of people’s decisions. You do you; I do me. Let’s aim to understand one another.
On the other hand, as a Jew, I am deeply invested in my people’s continued existence, for the Jewish people is my extended family. So what can I do to maximize the odds that my child(ren) will not assimilate?
One of the best answers I have found to this question is quite simple: I can raise my child(ren) in the Jewish state of Israel, in a society which is mostly Jewish, which celebrates Jewish holidays, which speaks a Jewish language…
I am certain, thankful and proud that my daughter will not need to read the stanzas from a prayer book when she sings Ma’oz Tzur with her children during Chanukah.