My Name on His Tongue: Poems

letter to an Israeli soldier

85 letter to an Israeli soldier July 23, 2006 Dear Mr. Israeli Soldier, Normally in letters I start out by wishing the person to whom I am writing good health and spirits. I would, if I knew you, send good wishes to your family and for your work. I am not going to do that as I do not have even the edges of good wishes for you, though if I were a diplomat or a politician I would say that I do. I am writing to you today because I want to tell you about a village , one you may or may not have passed through in a heavily armed and armored jeep (was that you I saw when I was walking back from the well with my family?) You have not bombed this village. Recently. Yet. Nonetheless, you need to see it. Close-up. The village (don’t for a minute think that I’d be so fool as to tell you its name!) is nestled among soft hills and some houses are lucky enough to catch the breezes through their windows. To get there takes some patience and I probably saw you along the way, perhaps at the airport (you get your own welcoming service, exclaimed my husband’s nephew) or at the bridge (you set off the alarm one more time, you don’t come into the country) or at the entrance to our gated community; you are everywhere, considering this country is not yours. In spite of all that, the air here has a thickness to it, a warmth. Maybe because it is holy air. The village we are going to, over bumpy pot-holed roads, has houses made mostly of white stone; some are simple one-room buildings, while others are villas with several stories. Like many villages in the area, there are myriad fig and olive and almond trees that surround the houses. Some have archway entrances that are covered with purple bougainvillea. The earth is thick and rich and delicious looking. 86 You know, there are far too many homes and buildings and other things to describe and I’m sure you’re in a hurry, so why don’t I just tell you about one house. Yes, I think that’s a good idea. I will tell you about one house. That one, up there. Let’s pass the corner grocery store and go up the hill and turn into that little driveway. This house is about seventy-three years old (yes, older than the state of Israel) and sits on a good sized plot of land atop a hill so that at night its occupants can see the lights of the town (and of two of your outposts) and can feel the cool summer air, now not so fresh and rather stained with blood and arrogance. It has a few simple rooms and has recently been remodeled so that its kitchen and bathroom are modern with new and shiny tiles. Come to think of it, I’m not an expert on architecture. Instead of telling you about the house itself, let me tell you about the people in it. That is a much better idea. Depending on the day, you will find relatives who span four generations . They include a social worker, a clothes store owner, an illiterate mother/widow/grandmother/great-grandmother, a librarian, a hairdresser, many mothers, a taxi driver, an electrician, another social worker, an author, a few students, a salesman. And the children ! There are a lot of children. Perhaps I should just tell you about them. Adults are adults, after all, each with his or her own stories/ problems (one of the social workers is from a refugee camp (1948) and has diabetes; the taxi driver (who was just beaten by soldiers. You?) has a wife who is about to give birth; the electrician (beaten, arrested and released) can’t find work; the librarian is trying to do home repairs before he returns to his home abroad). There is a thirteen-year-old girl who sometimes wears a red baseball cap and likes the Blues. Her eyes are very dark, her skin is smooth, and she is soft-spoken and kind. She has a little sister with dark curly hair, gold hoop earrings, and a bright, infectious smile. They have an older brother who has just discovered his body in that way of teenage boys, and who walks around with his thick muscled [3.145...