I know that if I avoided Facebook, the internet, newspapers, television and just stayed in my house all day, I might enjoy living here just a bit more. But I do not listen to reason and I surf that web, I read that newspaper.  More often than not, it ruins my day.

Today, I almost exploded after seeing this video posted on Israel’s Ministry of Absorption website (klita.org.il). The clip depicts a little blond boy, clearly a half breed (Israeli dad, American mom), in his house in fill-in-the-blank, USA. He has just finished drawing a picture as his father naps on the couch. He calls out Daddy, several times to no avail and then finally calls out “Aba” (Hebrew for father) and the father wakes up from his nap and praises his son. Then a worried voice over warns: “They will always be Israeli, but their children won’t -Before Aba becomes Daddy, help them come back…” (you can view the video clip below)

This advert does not surprise me at all; Israeli government agencies and the people inside of them think Israel is the center of the earth, and that all who live outside of it are sad, lonely bastards. But I have got to say, it hurts.  It hurts because the message is: we don’t want you to be open to the world, we don’t want you to stop feeling superior, we don’t want you to mix. We want you to be singular, to speak in one language, to serve in one army, to live in one place, to have one opinion. If you leave, don’t think it will be easy for you children (believe me, it won’t), they are not one of us.

 The videos make it sound like Israelis living in the US are in some kind of cult and we need to help to free them from the shackles of some charismatic leader that is keeping them hostage in a horrible land where freedom of speech is a basic right and diversity is more often than not, celebrated and not discouraged.  It couldn’t be that these Israelis, on their own free will decided to leave the “promised land” and look for opportunity, acceptance and understanding in a place that values other things besides what you did in the army and how much reserve duty you do…maybe it is that army and reserve duty that drove them out in the first place?

These videos also raise questions about how the Ministry of Absorption deals with immigrants when they arrive. How does the ministry view those pesky American Jews who move to Israel and selfishly woo those Israelis into marrying them?  Shouldn’t we warn ‘Tzachi’ before he chats up ‘Rachel’ at Mike’s Place in Jerusalem? Shouldn’t we warn him that he could one day be answering to “Daddy”, that he could have incomplete, not-really-Israeli-enough, half breed children?

The biggest shanda for most Israelis is not belonging to the collective. If you leave and challenge the collective, you become a sinner, a traitor, a cult member who has lost his or her way. We can only hope that these stupid videos have little effect on my half breed Israeli brothers and sisters living outside of this land. Most Israelis I know (inside and outside of Israel) think they know everything so I am hoping the ones that are enjoying their post doc in New York, or working in Silicon Valley, or selling cosmetics door to door in Denver continue to live abroad, to not feel guilty about it and to realize that they are not sad lonely bastards. Instead, they are those who have taken a chance, opened their heart to difference and have the ability to show us the light...

Respect

This word congers up an endless number of questions in my newly focused, cool, calm and collected head:

What does it mean?

Who should I give this to?

Who deserves R.e.s.p.e.c.t?

                           Respect?

To add to the confusion and angst that makes up my half Kurdish half American/Ashkenazi Jewish soul, knowing how to answer these questions has never been straight forward. I have learned the hard way throughout my life, that respect means different things to different people. For my dad and other male Kurdish men over the age of 50 that I know, respect is afforded automatically to you if you:

a.  Happen to be born with a penis

b.  Have that first grey hair grow in, coupled with some nice deep crow’s feet to frame your eyes.

It doesn’t matter how you act, or how you treat other people, if you are a man or you are old, or if you are lucky enough to be an OLD MAN, you get respect- you get tea brought to you obediently after the meal, those around you never dress immodestly in your presence, and no one ever talks back. You agree with the opinion of the man/old person/ old man in political discussions. Otherwise, you are disrespectful; you are treating the object of respect like a ‘dog’.

Other sides of the family see respect as something to be earned- like the respect you give a university professor- you aren’t born with it, but through hard work and a lot of effort people never say your name without the title, you are revered and even feared by some. This is how my mom sees respect and it is always a blast (no, really) to watch the two worlds I live in collide over this issue.

After many Shabbat dinner arguments and several walk-outs, I have learned a few things about respect:

It is easy to respect old people on trains- more often than not they smile, thank you for giving them a seat and sit down. It’s also really easy to make a cup of tea.

 It is more difficult to respect the people I love, because there is more at stake. When I afford respect to those I love, I have to oscillate between Eastern and Western notions (and therefore expressions) of respect. My western sensibilities tell me ‘how can I say that I respect –insert family member name here-, if I smile and nod as they sing the praises of some racist Israeli politician’ (for example).  Don’t the people I love deserve to hear and know my ideas, opinions and beliefs, even if they do not agree with them? My Eastern sensibilities tell me, how can I argue and disagree with this person if I know it will hurt their feelings?

Over time, my sisters and I have learned not to mention certain topics at the dinner table as they cause unneeded stress and make some family members feel depreciated and hurt. But we also have learned how to talk to these family members and they too have gone through a process. You change a lot when you have little half-breed kids running around you for more than thirty years.

Finally, the East and the West are both missing the point when it comes to respect- don’t we all deserve it? Shouldn’t we all give it? We need to liberate respect from the cultural shackles in which it lies captive and let it flow freely through the universe… regardless of place, time, or consequence, regardless of East or West. 

Magneto holds his hand up and with all his might, attempting to bend the metallic water tower he sees in the distance. As he furrows his brow, he thinks about the sadness and anger that fuels him, about how different he is from the rest of the world.

Professor X can see the future, his telepathic powers helping to save lives and cities. Like Magneto, he feels out of place, but there is this powerful emotion that rings inside his head, telling him Belong! Belong!

Last weekend after meeting these two X Men for the first time (yes, I know I am many decades late…) I had to ask:

What does the half breed do with his or her pain?

The X-Men, of Marvel Comic fame, present two courses of action for all of us half breeds.

Conform (to society, blend in and hide our superpowers) or Separate (and celebrate our difference even if it means a life of eternal isolation)?

In the few months since I began my blog, Half Breed Haven, I have pondered this question trying to understand both what a half breed is, (Is it someone who is of mixed race or religion? Is it anyone who feels out of place? ) and what influences a half breed’s decision-making process around the question posed by the X Men- Conform or Separate?

At times I am Magneto, angrily crushing the skulls of those who don’t except me and then there are moments when I am Professor X, eager to be considered an honored member of the place where I am.

I caught myself acting like Magneto this week when I couldn’t pronounce a word with the right Hebrew accent and I said to my staff, “You know what I mean, I can’t say it in your accent” separating myself from everyone in the room. The looked at me quizzically, perhaps not understanding why I was isolating myself from them.


Happily there are also times when I feel like I really belong, like that email I got from my boss a few days ago telling me how eloquent I am in Hebrew and how I can’t use the “new immigrant” ticket anymore to differentiate myself from the people around me.

Unlike Magneto and Professor X, more often than not, my reactions to feeling out of place are unconscious and reactive. My out of place-ness does not dictate everything I do, but it is always there, hovering above my soul like a humming bird, flitting around in and out of sight, reminding me that I am loved when I feel like a wall flower and kicking me in the butt when I am feeling powerful, part of the group. I am a half and half breed- I have the fury of the outcast Magneto and the determination to belong of Professor X.

I guess we are all half and half -breeds--- We are at once like Magneto and Professor X, toying with these alternate states of belonging and loneliness, forever searching for a place that makes us feel normal, whatever normal is...

The good Jew that I am, I take this month of repentance thing really seriously. I think about all the horrible things I did this year (…insulted people at work, cursed pushy Israelis on public transportation to hell, “utterly embarrassed” uptight family members, ate shrimp, gossiped a lot, passed by many begging people on the streets of Jerusalem without giving them a dime…) and reach out to those who I have hurt to ask for forgiveness. I really like this built-in system we have, us Jews, a little less intense than the Catholic confession ritual but similarly structured: this is the designated time to say sorry, to look back and to make amends; a time to clean up all of our unfinished business.

Lots to say sorry for this year, but as an angst-filled half breed, I still have large amounts of anger and resentment stored up inside and the question that I raised at the table over breakfast this morning: What should I do with it?

Let it out: 
Call or write to the people who make my skin crawl and tell them exactly what I think, to their evil self-righteous faces, arms flailing, slightly altered Kurdish nose angrily wrinkled on one side. It will make me feel great for a few minutes but it will result in strengthening their case against me… In other words,“Tamarita is the heartless Bitch’”

Hold it in: 
Keep in the feelings and let them brew in my already overwrought gut, the same gut that welcomes and harbors tension and worry, tearing apart my chances of creating new life. In other words, “Tamarita doesn’t sleep at night”   

Take the High Road: 
Kill them with kindness. Or maybe,  Kill my anger with kindness. This is what I will do, I will call them up, and Shana-Tova*-them, wish them well, but really mean it. I will put things in perspective, hold my head up high, revel in the good things I have, be modest, take the high road. "Tamarita is content, learning to be happy"

There are many choices, directions to follow. May we all learn this year to take the higher road, the road that leads us to whatever enlightened state we imagine for ourselves.

May all of us, in spirit and in body, have a happy and healthy New Year. (you too Anat!)

                                      *Happy New Year in Hebrew

In this age of computerized alienation, it is hard to feel like a community. Especially when you are trying to avoid a lot of the people you don’t really like. Especially when you dodge into that used bookstore off of Yaffo to evade yet another spout of tedious small talk with a pregnant acquaintance. Especially when you think you really utterly hate everyone on the train to work.

In Jerusalem, the feeling of community often arrives when you least expect it. This summer has been an eye opener for my Israel-hating soul. Israelis, who are notoriously known for their “Kacha Zeh- That’s just how it is…” attitude, have had enough and for the past month and a half have organized around cost of living issues in an attempt to make it a little bit easier for everyone to rent apartments, buy basic food stuffs and generally live a normal life without slipping uncomfortably under the poverty line.

I feel proud of these Israelis, and am excited to join them tonight in a nationwide demonstration entitled: “The March of the Millions” (in Hebrew it sounds much less holocausty…). Of course, because we are Jews, this upheaval is accompanied by criticism and disagreement from within and this in turn weakens our effectiveness by showing disunity. There are several diverging opinions in this struggle: Those who have always been disadvantaged, even when most Israelis weren’t complaining about minimum wage and high housing prices, are calling the protest “bourgeois” and Ashkenazi, some of them setting up separate tent cities as a way of emphasizing the difference between them (mostly Mizrachi, working class people living in the economic peripheries of big cities like Tel Aviv, Be’er Sheva, Haifa and Jerusalem) and those who initiated this summer’s protests: “white” middle class people, who have recently been hit hard by the Israeli economy. There are also a whole slew of people on the case of Daphne Leif, film student at Tel Aviv University and initiator of the tent city on Rothschild Street in Tel Aviv.

 “How can you demand all this when you didn’t even do the army?” 
The pompous &%*# television announcer asked as she stood in front of all those tents lining the beautiful city boulevard. Yes, because if you don’t do the army in this messed up country called Israel, you have no right to exist, you have no right to live, no right to demand justice, no right to contribute in the way you know how….

And then there are those who think it is all a conspiracy: there aren’t REALLY any economic problems, I mean, if these tent people are so poor, then how did they get enough money to pay for that enormous billboard announcing the protest this Saturday right below the Azreieli towers, it must be political, I don’t trust those protestors…

While many of the perspectives I presented above may be compelling: I DON’T REALLY CARE!  I am sick of watching the people of Israel make 50 % less than their American counterparts while they pay New York City prices for housing, food, transportation and clothing. I am proud that finally a whole bunch of us are fed up and we believe that we can make a change. Because of this protest, I feel pangs of community, my half-breed out-of-place-ness disappearing for long drawn out moments as I walk through my beloved city of Jerusalem.

I felt this belonging a few days ago, when riding the light rail to work, wedged in between a bearded man dressed in black and his twelve children, dressed Von-Trapp style in the same dark modest clothing. We peered out through the same window as the train edged along the track between Zion Square and Machane Yehuda Market. On the wall across from us, a prophet with a spray can had written,

“דרך ארץ קדמה לתורה” 

 “Acting in consideration and kindness to one’s fellow human beings precedes the Torah”.

I smiled. Although I didn’t want to turn around and hug the guy behind me, I felt like I belonged in this city as I got off the train and joined the crowd of old ladies with their sacks full of fruit and vegetables... For just one moment, I have found my place.

I don’t do well with change. When Asher moves something around in the apartment when he is in one of his queer-eye-for- the-straight-guy moods, I feel this weird feeling in my body, like I ate a sketchy samosa on a train to Katmandu, like something is just not right. This is how I feel every time I come back to Israel after being away in the civilized world where they have this mysterious term you may have heard of: customer service, where people are polite and kind (generally), where there is respect for personal space, and, this time around, amazing Indian food.  I always bragged about being able to tap back into my various homes around the globe (Jerusalem, New York, London, San Francisco). It’s a strength that most half breeds have, but as I get older it gets more and more difficult to globetrot with ease as I once did.

Jerusalem also has difficulty with change. It took almost 13 years to build the light rail train that started running on Friday. Things like municipal politics, stupid urban planners, devious ministers of finance and many human errors caused this delay, and now that this change to our urban landscape is finally here and we can use this hunk of metal that has been carting biblical ghosts around the city since March, something feels off in Jerusalem.

The train, like an earthquake (and the tsunamis, fires, landslides and avalanches that ensue), brings with it the negative feelings of thousands of city dwellers, who seldom meet and who now get to see what this city is really made of: Lots and Lots of very Orthodox Jews and those of us who refuse to relinquish our post, who refuse to let this city be destroyed. So now we feel the tension, people hating each other as they straphang, glaring at one another as they stand as sardines, sweating and swaying to the train’s monotone hum. It’s a scene that makes me sick.

I know that these people live in my city. I view them as “pure breeds” even though I know that anyone can have a half breed soul.  I also feel sad for them. I feel sad because they have these very strict borders that everyone in their community is afraid to cross. They have few half breeds and probably those who are half-breeds within them, end up leaving or running away. Their communities are pretty much a half breed Hell.

Today I met some of these Jerusalemites as I rode the train to work. An old woman got on along with a million other ultra-orthodox mothers, fathers and children. The train was filled to the brim but when it emptied out again, I advised the women to take a seat near the door of the train. Immediately, a young girl swooped in and took the old lady’s seat. I wanted to scream I was so angry. It makes no sense to me why religious parents are so serious about making sure their kids where kippot* and tzitzit,* making sure they know all the Jewish laws about keeping kosher and the Sabbath, but they can’t fucking get up for the old women on the train. Something is off here. So my half breed heart stepped in:

“Can you please let this woman sit down?”

 I said, deep Kurdish snarl wrinkles appear on my face, just like my dad.

She frowned, a little embarrassed, and got up allowing the woman to sit down. I felt a moment of relief, a minor battle won. I chatted with the woman about how horrible it is, this train, so full, but maybe it will get better in a few weeks, then, they will have to pay, or then we will be a little bit more used to the change, it won’t be like a piece of new furniture, that brings up all our uncomfortable feelings, reminding us that underneath it all something is just not right.



*Kippot- Skullcaps, a circular head covering worn by Jews as a way of showing one’s fear and respect for God

*Tzitzit are specially knotted ritual fringes worn by observant Jews

Escape is the half breed’s secret weapon. We have the ability to delve into our other self, the power to switch off and appear in another galaxy, an alternate world. I try to get out of here to visit Krypton (or what remains of it…) at least once a year (sometimes twice). I usually plan ahead copiously, with tickets booked months in advance, places to stay organized, everything in place.  I have been mucho-overwhelmed at work and was therefore over utilizing my organizing abilities there, so of course 24 hours before my flight out to London, I took out my passport to discover that it had expired on the 21st of June, the summer solstice.

Fear and worry overcame me as I trudged into the Ministry of the Interior, most formidable of Israeli government offices.

The queues didn’t bother me; the feeling of cattle being herded from room to room did not faze me. But when it was finally my turn, I didn’t think I would be forced to lie so blatantly to Etti the not so lovely clerk that sat before me, smacking her gum as she counted the minutes to her next cigarette break.

She looked at my ticket and saw the date: I had purchased it months ago, how did I not think to renew it earlier?

“Sorry, she isn’t going to authorize this. You are just going to have to miss your flight tomorrow...” a little flicker of joy glistened in the corner of her eye. Etti liked to watch people squirm; this was her only fortress, the only place to stand over people and revel in the indiscriminate power of the Israeli government.

Something in me clicked, turned on. My facial muscles contorted as tears began to drip down my face,

“I have to go, my best friend is giving birth and I have to be there with her, I can’t miss it...”

Etti looked at me and her eyes showed remorse, or identification- at the end of the day, she was an Israeli mother, and the thought of missing a birth, a chance to watch another Jewish baby enter this world was enough to make the passport producers work a nightshift. Say anything about birth, midwives, nursing, nurseries, maternity leave, bottles, baby food, diapers, pacifiers, cribs, how s/he sleeps through the night…and you can nurse the heart of any evil clerk at Misrad Hapnim* into submission.

And so it was. With that lie and many sheepish looks and “I am so sorry I will never do this again”s I got my passport and was on my way to my non-maternal, baby-less getaway…

Told any good lies to get through a border or romance a malicious government clerk? Would love to hear about your lies....

                                                           *Ministry of the Interior

This question pops into my mind from time to time as I travel by bus to work surrounded by pious seminary girls, hunched over their prayer books or their psalms, too engrossed in their spiritual endeavors to get up for the old man hanging from the strap above their heads. 

 I live in a city that clearly has a problem with half breeds. In my city, you must wear a uniform to show who you are, so that it is clear which team you are on. You can’t wear a kippah and go to a gay bar (actually, they closed our only gay bar about two years ago…). You can’t wear a long skirt and French kiss your boyfriend in Zion square (well, you can, but everyone will call you a slut and not accept you into that prestigious religious high school your parents want you to attend…). You can’t wear a tank top and walk into the women’s section of that synagogue for Mincha, the afternoon prayer. You cannot be a half breed.

This is a difficult situation because almost all the people I know who live in this city are half breeds. They are mixes of identities, religious, ethnic and cultural. At times, they celebrate their multifaceted identities. Often, because of peer pressure and just because it is easier, they join in the hype and choose a team. This is the case with one of my work colleagues…

I was telling her about this party I went to recently. It was my husband’s friend’s wife’s birthday celebration. She happens to be very pregnant and so were all 17 of her friends –they bobbled around the room, joyous and estrogen-full. It was a challenge for me keeping up appearances – I am in the process of trying to get pregnant after a year of pregnancy-related unhappiness and it was just hard being around all those placentas. I was happy that my workplace didn’t include 20 fertile birthing-age women. And I was also glad I wasn’t religious (like most of the women in the room)….it must be much more difficult being non-pregnant in a religious community where everyone is encouraged to have as many children as possible.

“No,” my work colleague replied, “If you were religious you would have the power of Hashem behind you…”

Again, I held in my frustration and brought this pearl of wisdom home with me on the bus. Since my surgery in January I decided to start reading Psalms, to pray for health, to ward off the fear I feel, to pray for good things, like a nice healthy baby. I talk to God. I don’t do it with my fancy wig and mini Tehilim on the bus, but I do talk to Her. How dare my colleague say that God doesn’t listen to me?

A similar interaction happened this Friday in the Shouk. Asher and I were walking down the main thoroughfare of the Machane Yehuda Market and a young man dressed in a black suit and hat held out some Tefillin and asked Asher if he wanted to put it on. Asher stopped and in a calm and collected manner said,

“You are humiliating me in public.”

The young man was taken aback. Halbanat Panim, as it is called in Jewish law literally means “to whiten your face,” a reference to the physical reaction some people have when embarrassed.

The man stuttered, “Well, I ask people to lay Tefillin all the time and no body else has been hurt…”

“How do you know I didn’t lay Tefillin today?” Asher asked, “Just because I don’t look like you? How can you judge me like that?”

Asher Grinner, postmodern talmid cha’cham (learned scholar), then went into a logical defense of his position. I of course beamed at him proudly and watched as the Ultra Orthodox man we were speaking to came around. He was actually listening. He will probably continue to solicit Tefillin wearers on the streets of big cities, but he understood that he had made us feel bad.

It’s probably because he is from San Francisco-now that’s a half-breed friendly city!

So the moral of the story is: 
Don’t judge a boychik by his head covering,

Don’t think God only shines His of Her light on you,

Always stop and listen and you may find another half-breed,

Walking past you in the market when you least expect it.
                                   
                                                                                        ÓTamar Zaken

In every great city I am in, I think of Anat. 
I see her walking confidently along busy streets, I see her in shops and talking to people. I see her in her essence, I see her beautiful: all eyes on her. All cities belong to Anat. Every time I see a tall woman with light curls and spunk in her step, I look back and lift up my sunglasses, to make sure, to see, is that Anat?

The last time I went to visit Rotem, Anat’s cousin Reut was there and she said, “They should have an Anat-New York tour.” I agree. Every city I am in is Anat’s. I think of her every day as I walk in Jerusalem: This is where she lived with Ori, this is where she did her laundry, this is where we lived together, this is where we used to flirt with those cute guys in that pub, and this is where I last saw her. Jerusalem is Anat’s and so is New York, and Sydney and Antigua and all other places she ever set foot. They are all Anat’s.

A few weeks ago I saw the first Superman movie, the one from 1978. I am not sure why, but superheroes are something I think about a lot. They are the saviors of those vast urban spaces, they fight evil and save people; some superheroes can even turn back time. Perhaps I love superheroes because most of the time they are half breeds, like myself and like Anat. They live multiple lives, they are complex and alluring. They are really hard to figure out…

 In the Superman movie, Jor-El sends his son Superman, otherwise known as Kal-el to earth in order to save him from the imminent annihilation of their plant Krypton. Throughout the film,  Jor-El contacts his son by hologram, from beyond the grave, giving him advice and ideas, a map for the future.

Superman flies through the city, saving innocent people from death and suffering. The urban landscape is his home, he feels comfortable there. I think about this freedom, the effortlessness control that Superman has, coupled with his deep pain, his deep longing to return, to see his father, to be home once again. I identify with this longing and wish to have the power and emotional strength Superman has, a true half breed, switching between his two selves: Clark Kent and Superman.

Anat had this strength. I only now realize how hard it was for her when she arrived at university where we met… she, like superman, missed her father. But she persevered and soared through the streets of New York, captivating all of us, her friends and all who knew her, as she took the city and made it her own. I cannot return to New York without imagining Anat in every corner, strong, happy, and young. Eager to create, to protect and to love.

I wonder if like Superman, Anat will save us all. I looked up in the sky today as I stood with her family and friends by her grave and I wondered: Will I see her soaring through the air. Will she come to save us? Will she send us a sign and let us know that she is back on Krypton and everything is okay. Her dad is good, he missed her and there is some reason for all the suffering?

Yes, she says, I am okay. I know you will never stop hurting; this is the pain of being torn between heaven and earth, between love and separation between content and disbelief. I am up here flying above you, doing my thing. This is my city.  Think of me as you walk through it. 

An unresolved emotion that has plagued me since I was self-aware is anger. I am really angry about many things. I have theories about why this is: I am brown like my father so maybe the physical appearance gene is somehow connected to the disposition gene; my parents moved me to a country where people prefer to communicate by honking; I live in a place where there is no personal space, I live in a place that sells itself as something that it is not (a democracy), I still haven’t found a half decent donut here and finally, I am a half breed.

When my grandma gets angry, at someone or about something, she uses a technique that many a Jew and many a Jewish community utilized throughout our history:  she employs a Cherem on them. This means she either ‘boycotts’ them or ‘excommunicates’ them from her life. Cherem, the most extreme form of legal punishment in the rabbinic court was used in many Jewish communities during Talmudic times and the Middle Ages as a way of preserving legal and social norms within the community by excommunicating individuals who refused to conform to legal standards. The modern day Cherem used by my grandma is something we all know and have experienced. It is called “Holding a grudge” and it can be lethal.

While I love my grandma dearly and wish her health and long life, I feel that I need to dig deep into my rich heritage to find a way to set the anger free. Holding on to that anger (and that grudge) burns me inside, and stops me from moving forward. And my anger is deep.

For the past few months a particular individual who shall remain nameless (this person literally does not know who he or she is) has vexed me with his/ her small mind, overwhelming apathy and his/her ‘inability to get along with others’. When I think about this person, I think of snakes and bombs and really ugly members of Knesset and all of the injustice of the world.  Yes, this person makes me angry.

As a way of ridding my soul of this corrosive anger, I decided to write an incantation. No one ever taught me about this on my Kurdish side of the family, but I remember hearing about how the Shas party (an ultra-orthodox Sephardic political party that holds several seats in the Israeli parliament) would pass out little talismans or amulets with biblical passages or prayers written on them. These were given out so that:

1. People would vote for the Shas (I mean, those amulets are like free medical insurance! )
   

1. and to ward off the evil eye or other bad feelings
   

One amulet is called a Kame’ah in Hebrew and in the plural, Kame’ot.

So my Kameah is dedicated to this person who makes my soul scream and after it is written and recited I will set free this blood scorching anger I have churning inside me forever:

God, 
Help me to put it away, 
Deep in a trunk filled with smelly old socks where it belongs 
May it reside in a bubble of mediocrity, forevermore
Because really, it is the epitome of stupidity and selfishness
May it rot there, talking about building, and the weather and disease, and the ills of social embarrassment
The leaves on the tree cry because they know it is nothing
Because at their roots they see the real treasures that nourish this world and make it grow
They cry for this injustice

You will never know their roots  
                                      © Tamar Zaken