Letters From Jerusalem

A New Short Story

Hi All:

To close out the year, I’ve decided to publish a previously unreleased short story of mine, “Letters From Jerusalem.” I’ve had the story for a few years, more or less retired from submission, but as the genocidal ethnic cleansing of Gaza continued, as the Jewish world continues to justify the massacres and horrors daily playing out on our phone screens, the story rose to the top of my mind. How is it possible for a people to become so committed to an ideology that they cling to it no matter what? This story, a series of letters from one particular Jewish family across the generations, tries to offer a small answer.

In focusing on the Jewish perspective when it comes to Palestine here, I by no means want to take away from the fact that it is the Palestinians who suffer the most under Zionism, and that it is their struggle for liberation we must all be supporting. For me, part of supporting that struggle is attempting to understand, through fiction, how Zionism conquered the Jewish world.

Happy new year, may 2024 bring us liberation, justice, and a real, lasting peace.

Aaron

Letters From Jerusalem

October 5, 1929

Dear Mother and Father:

Greetings from the Holy Land! Shana Tova! May it be a sweet and joyful new year. As you can imagine, there is not much time for celebration here, even Jewish celebration (though I do miss Mother lighting the candles, the holiday meal). We are busy paving the way for a new country. The conditions are hard but it is more than worth it. It might take another generation or two, but we will succeed in rejoining the family of nations—we will, and we must. Though the struggle is far from over: not only do the British try to stop at us at every turn, but the Arabs rioted this summer (as I'm sure you've heard by now). But even with all of that, we are working away, making in-roads. I am meeting such wonderful people! My Hebrew is also coming along. I can hold my own with the old-timers at the market, work my way through the dailies. Still, behind closed doors most conversations are in Yiddish, and you'd be surprised how many people want to converse a little in Polish.

            I've left the farm—the image of me wielding a pickaxe in the hot Mediterranean sun never made much sense did it?!—and now work directly for the Yishuv in Jerusalem, doing translations, writing press releases. The work might sound boring, but it is satisfying, even exciting at times: I'm involved with negotiations with institutions and governments throughout Europe.

            I have to tell you, once I got here, I felt reborn. It was as if my first eighteen years on this planet were some sort of waking half-life; Poland already seems like a dark, distant dream. I am no longer going by Motti. To mark my rebirth, I've taken a new name, a good strong Hebrew name. Moshe. Not to say that I'm leading the Jewish people to salvation, but I definitely feel like I am part of the vanguard as we push and suffer our way through the desert, but instead of letting chance and the whims of the powerful dictate our search for the promised land, we are here now, building it ourselves. 

            As you can imagine, the Arab revolt is the main topic of conversation these days. Should the British react more forcefully? What will this mean for our demand for more Jewish immigration? Some among us believe that the Arabs will never understand our need for a state, that they will have to be confronted with force. I am less sure. Surely we can make Palestine into paradise on earth and include our Arab neighbours and cousins? Though I am more than willing to take up arms if that's what is needed to secure our Jewish future in a Jewish Palestine.

            I have to tell you about one of the wonderful people I've met in Jerusalem. Her name's Tamara. Her whole family emigrated from Austria when she was a young girl. Her father is an optometrist, and she is studying to be a nurse. She speaks brilliant Hebrew, not to mention German, Yiddish, and even a little Arabic. I guess I may as well tell you—we got married! It was a simple, quiet ceremony by the sea. Though don't get too excited, Mother, there are no plans for starting a family quite yet. We are too busy to think of anything like that, though the joy of bringing Jewish children into a new Jewish world does come up between us in our rare quiet moments.

            Has Natan set sail yet for America? While I am happy he has decided to leave Poland, I wish he would have come to join me in Palestine. He is my brother and I wish we were together. From Father's last letter, I understand Natan expects the two of you to eventually follow him across the Atlantic? Well, if you must, you must. But I hope, once we have achieved our modest goals here—once we have thrown off the British and opened the doors wide to the farflung Jews of the Diaspora in our own Jewish state!—you will consider joining me in our new homeland, in Eretz Yisrael.

            Send my love to everybody.

            Yours always,

            Moshe/Motti

June 1 1948

Dear Ema and Aba:

Well, Moshe's dead, killed in this stupid war. Your son is dead. He's gone. I'm leaving this country that's so itchy to be born it's giving in to its worst instincts. I'm taking the kids and I'm coming to join you and Natan in Montreal. I don't know how I'll manage it, but I'll find a way. I used to love this place as much as Moshe, but Jerusalem thirty years ago is a different place than Jerusalem today. Everybody has gone wild. I do not wish to be a part of this bloodletting. How could this lead to any good? Moshe always had hope (though I can see now that once you live inside of an idea it's near impossible to see outside of it, and, well, to put it bluntly, the idea now runs like wine through our veins). In the end he took that hope with him to the grave. As for me, I have a new hope, a hope for a better life, in Montreal. In Canada. The New World. I can't begin to imagine what it's like. The kids will adjust. They're young enough. I know what everybody will call me, what they are already calling me. Traitor. Coward. Yoradim. Infused with diaspora weakness—can you imagine? Moshe's best friend said this to me—he's only been here himself ten years! And, fine, if it's diaspora weakness to not want to have to kill in order to live, then that's what I've got.

            I know we have never met, but I hope you will be kind to me and the children. They are your grandchildren after all. Moshe's children. How is Montreal? Is it as cold as they say? Do you think Natan has enough room for the three of us, at least until I get myself on my own two feet? I am working on my French. Bonjour. Ca va. I will come as quickly as I can. Moshe hasn't even been buried for three days. Oh, Moshe, what have we done?!

            I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't speak this way.

            I will burn this letter and try again.

            Tamara

January 27 1977

Dear Ma, Pa, Jill, Tyler, Suzie, and Snow White:

Greetings from the Promised Land! I hope everything is okay ('b'seder'). This country is freaking amazing. I have no idea why Bubby left when she did. Mom, how come you never had an interest in moving back? I've been here barely a hundred and fifty days and it already feels like home. I went by my grandfather's grave today—what would I have called him, do you think? Zaidy? Grandpa? Pops? Saba, I suppose. To think, I'm in direct lineage with somebody who gave their life so the Jewish people can have a country of their own. I'm full of pride like I've never been before.

            It's been three months now since I've been at the new moshav. The desert is hot, but it's not like what you would expect: it's mostly rock, not sand. My Hebrew improves every single day. It's my weekend off, so yesterday I hitchhiked up to Jerusalem. Don't worry, it's perfectly safe! Everybody does it here. I wanted to spend Friday night at the Western Wall. I am writing this letter to you from a sidewalk cafe, surrounded by ancient Jewish brick and history. The very air is full of it.

            I miss all of you so much. What I do not miss is the Montreal winter! I have fallen in love with this country. With its fierce and uncompromising people, its culture, its history, its pride in itself. It truly is the Jewish homeland. Everywhere you look there is a piece of Jewish history. Imagine—it's only been ten years since Israel reclaimed the old city, since our army conquered the Golan and the Sinai and the West Bank. Some people are already talking about exchanging the new territories for peace—a very bad idea, if you ask me. Anyways, all that to say, I'm seriously thinking of staying here. They call it 'aliyah' when a Jewish person immigrates here, it means 'rising up.' To rise up. Well. I am ready to rise up. To relive my grandfather's own journey. The Israelis I've met are such a mixture of toughness and softness and anger and love, I want to soak it up, soak it in. Let it stain me, change me.

            I know what you're thinking Tyler, and as a matter of fact, yes, there is a girl. Her name is Naomi. She's actually sitting beside me right now, drinking a Nescafe, reading a Hebrew newspaper (sometimes she reads it to me, but she goes so fast it's hard to understand her). Oh—she wants to say hello. She's literally taking the pen out of my hand. Okay okay. Here she is.

            Shalom! How nice to meet you. I like your son very much. Sorry for my bad English. Joshua says I should tell about myself. Well, I grew up in the Hula Valley. My family grows fruit, dates, wheat. I was in the army for two years. I have been at Moshav Halevi for almost a year now, helping get the farm off the ground. That is where I met your Joshua. I cannot wait to meet you, and hear stories from Canada. Joshua has showed me pictures. I've only seen snow once, in Jerusalem. It was very beautiful! Joshua wants me to tell you what we call snow in Hebrew. We call it sheleg. Okay. That's all for now!

            Hey, it's me again. Tell Bubby I am making her, and Moshe, the grandfather I never knew, proud. I know she wasn't thrilled that I was coming here, so far away from her and Montreal, with such violence going on, but let her know I am safe. I think I understand why she never talked about her life here, about Moshe and his death, about why she ran away when she was needed most. Why she was so upset I decided to come here. I never told you this, but before I left she begged me not to join the army. Don't tell her, but I am seriously thinking of doing just that—how can I call myself a Jew without putting my body on the line for the Jewish people? Let her know that I finally feel like I have a purpose.

            Please send me a nice suit jacket, size 42; a pair of work boots with steel toes; a big mac (ha ha); candy; anything else you think I would like.

Love,

Joshua

P.S. Don't be surprised if you don't hear from me for a few weeks, or even longer. Writing this letter has tuckered me out.

P.P.S. Can you also please send me soap, stationary, maple candies, Kurt Vonnegut novels, money, a photo of Snow White, baked beans, and as much Kraft dinner as you can manage.

April 10, 2002

Hello Pops:

How're you holding up? Remember when we would write each other long letters by hand, wait weeks at a time for them to arrive? I sort of miss that. Anyways, I know we just spoke on the phone yesterday, but hey, I'm feeling nostalgic, so here I am writing an email. It's lonely here at the house with just me and Naomi. We miss the kids. But they're off having their own kids, aren't they? Can you believe our Jonah already has two? We don't see Uri and Josephine as often as we like, but we still get to see them. Isn't it amazing how we change from one generation to another? I came with my Canadian accent and poor Hebrew and pale skin, my children popped out full sabras, prickly on the outside, all soft goo on the inside, natural arguers and yellers. They grew up knowing that at eighteen they'll be drafted into the army and be a part of defending the Jewish nation. And our grandchildren, it's as if they're reincarnated from the days of David. They'll be fierce soldiers, I know that. They'll do their country proud, like Moshe of blessed memory.

            The situation here is tense. Not as bad as I'm sure they're making it seem in the newspapers there, but bad enough. Naomi won't let me get on a city bus. What's there to say? Oslo was a big mistake. There's just no negotiating with people who want you dead. Our army is too soft, too beholden to the peaceniks.

            Speaking of, Naomi wants to say hello.

            Hello, beloved Aba. How are things in Toronto? Are you going for your walks? How is your “friend,” Justyna? When all this madness with this intifada is passed you should come stay with us for a nice long time. Maybe all winter? I'm attaching a photograph of Uri playing with the Fisher Price kitchen you sent for him. He loves it! He's talking about being a cook during his army service, and opening a restaurant in Tel Aviv, on the beach, when he's finished. He's already flipping burgers like a pro!

Love,

Aaron and Naomi

September 8 2020:

Published in Haaretz

Translated from the Haaretz Hebrew Print edition

My name is Uri Goldberg. I am an eighteen-year-old Israeli and I am refusing to enlist in the Israeli army. I am not the first Jewish Israeli to refuse to serve in the army, and I will hopefully not be the last. I was raised to be a strong Israeli, a good son, a proud Jew, a thoughtful and moral person. It is for these reasons that I cannot participate in the army. Like every Israeli child, the army has been something I've known about since I could speak, that was always there, that I would have to survive. My father served in the Lebanon War and lost many of his comrades and many friends. My great-grandfather Moshe was an original pioneer, fought in the War of Independence. He died defending the road to Jerusalem. I truly believe that what this country has become is not the country Moshe gave his life to create. If he were alive today, I doubt he would even recognize it. My older brother lost a leg in Operation Cast Lead, but what does any of that compare to the loss of life suffered on the Palestinian side? I believe that the Occupation is a moral stain on all Israelis, not only those who live in settlements or man the checkpoints. But it's more than that: Palestinians and Jews should be able to live in the same country as neighbours, friends, brothers and sisters, lovers. I am refusing so other young Jewish kids can see that it is possible to do what one believes is right. I believe those of us who wish for peace can change the course of our nation, of our people, of the world. I don't care how many jail sentences they lay down on me. I don't care if my father disowns me, if my siblings and friends shun me. I will not give in. I refuse. (And again, this is nothing compared to the Palestinians who are languishing in our jails for fighting for equality, who are dead in the ground.) And I will continue to refuse until the Occupation is over, until dignity and freedom belongs to everybody who inhabits this beautiful, special land.

            I write this letter from an army prison cell. I don't know how long I will be here. I know that I will not feel alone, because I am not alone. At night I will think about my life, my family, about Jerusalem, the only city I've ever lived in. The market on Friday afternoons. The Muslim call to prayers. The hills of gold. I will miss taking the sharutim to Tel Aviv. I will miss swimming in the sea. I will miss my friends. But it is a sacrifice worth making, a sacrifice that is nothing compared to the sacrifices of those who came before me.

With humility and hope,

Uri