lifta

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Lifta Watching Eliyahu’s lush wide angle lens capture the homes and landscape The empty, silent buildings The green shrubbery and hills surrounding The cold water gushing into the Mikveh I used to take my sons to, before the Holy Days I am filled with shame, Having never questioned the silent witnesses The dilapidated stonework and arched rooms The emptiness of what once was Merely accepting the fact as part of history Never asking who lived here? Are they still alive? Where? Now watching the human rights groups visiting The screen focuses on the single survivor Who eloquently points to where he once lived He speaks of Lifta with emotional warmth Some 3000 souls living in peace In hundreds of stone walled homes Now vacant and rotting. The detritus of iron beds still sticking out of the earth growing Inexorably on the floors. I would walk here often Across the valley from my home Never questioning the dotted stone homes Zigzagged along the side of the hills Hugging the landscape, seemingly haphazardly Like small toy box houses when seen from my garden across the valley. Then came the highway that divided the valley in half And walking the dog became more difficult And the noise made the sweet smelling valley Less inviting, as did the diesel fumes. Back then the mist filled the valley early in the morning And the deer frolicked carefully Always wary of possible threats The dump on the top of the hill was filled with rainwater And Gilbert loved to jump into the cool refreshing water Albeit emerging muddy and filthy. The heather in April and the perfumed moss The wetness and fructification of the spring valley flora

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Lifta    Watching  Eliyahu’s  lush  wide  angle  lens  capture  the  homes  and  landscape  The  empty,  silent  buildings  The  green  shrubbery  and  hills  surrounding  The  cold  water  gushing  into  the  Mikveh  I  used  to  take  my  sons  to,  before  the  Holy  Days    I  am  filled  with  shame,  Having  never  questioned  the  silent  witnesses  The  dilapidated  stonework  and  arched  rooms  The  emptiness  of  what  once  was  Merely  accepting  the  fact  as  part  of  history  Never  asking  who  lived  here?  Are  they  still  alive?  Where?    Now  watching  the  human  rights  groups  visiting  The  screen  focuses  on  the  single  survivor  Who  eloquently  points  to  where  he  once  lived  He  speaks  of  Lifta  with  emotional  warmth  Some  3000  souls  living  in  peace  In  hundreds  of  stone  walled  homes  Now  vacant  and  rotting.  The  detritus  of  iron  beds  still  sticking  out  of  the  earth  growing  Inexorably  on  the  floors.    I  would  walk  here  often  Across  the  valley  from  my  home  Never  questioning  the  dotted  stone  homes    Zigzagged  along  the  side  of  the  hills  Hugging  the  landscape,  seemingly  haphazardly  Like  small  toy  box  houses  when  seen  from  my  garden  across  the  valley.  Then  came  the  highway  that  divided  the  valley  in  half  And  walking  the  dog  became  more  difficult  And  the  noise  made  the  sweet  smelling  valley  Less  inviting,  as  did  the  diesel  fumes.    Back  then  the  mist  filled  the  valley  early  in  the  morning  And  the  deer  frolicked  carefully    Always  wary  of  possible  threats  The  dump  on  the  top  of  the  hill  was  filled  with  rainwater  And  Gilbert  loved  to  jump  into  the  cool  refreshing  water  Albeit  emerging  muddy  and  filthy.  The  heather  in  April  and  the  perfumed  moss  The  wetness  and  fructification  of  the  spring  valley  flora  

Supported  and  formed  the  sustaining  natural  backdrop  to  this  village.      Now  memories  are  darkened  by  the  history  brought  to  my  consciousness  Having  read  of  Allenby  reaching  Lifta  Seeing  the  photos  of  the  British  army  And  the  capitulation  of  the  Turks    And  the  realization  that  Jerusalem  was  theirs  on  reaching…  Lifta!  A  fateful  place,  a  turn  in  the  fighting  1919  Allenby  dismounting  off  his  horse  out  of  respect  for  the  old  city  The  Rabbis  and  Imams  and  Mullahs  there  to  greet  him  A  new  dawn  The  realization  of  a  millennial  dream  Allenby,  Balfour,  Weitzmann,  making  this  happen.    Lifta,  the  place  triggering  this  new  change  The  place  of  no  resistance  Of  capitulation  to  Empire,  once  Turk,  then  British  now  Israeli.  A  place  of  forgotten  memories  Of  lost  dreams  Where  families  lived  generation  after  generation  Now  denied  their  collective  story  even  In  the  rubble  of  what  once  was.    Lifta  looms  large  in  my  memory  Times  of  bonding  with  my  sons  The  climbing  and  talking  The  jumping  into  the  cleans  waters  The  questioning  of  tradition’s  claim  as  to  its  association  With  Joshua  bin  Nun  And  our  participation  in,  yet  critical  discussion  of  tradition  This  LIfta  as  the  trigger  of  our  approach  to  tradition,  culture  and  religion.    It’s  almost  as  if  Lifta  was  the  very  blind  spot  I  am  now  forced  to  see  The  lacuna,  my  son,  himself  so  attached  to,  Now  had  to  demythologize,  In  exploding  the  gentle  leafy  green  family  myth  Embodying  the  good  times  The  family  times  The  conversations  we  engaged  and  broke  our  intellectual  teeth  on;  Now  shattered  by  the  light  focused  on  the  very  retina  that  gazed  unawares.            

The  ethical  lacuna  In  not  questioning  In  not  seeing  these  homes  These  families  This  village  As  an  open  moral  wound.  Too  much  time  To  allow  it  to  fester  in  memory  He  focuses  his  wide  angled  lens  over  the  valley  And  the  zigzag  homes  form  a  jarred  knife  That  cuts  deep  into  my  heart.      Lifta  captures  the  imagination  for  many:  Now  neo-­‐Hassidic  groups  Squat  in  hovels  And  the  night  air  is  interrupted  by  the  wails  of  Breslover  Chassidim  Pouring  their  hearts  out  to  the  Almighty  silent  One      Now  nature  groups  pass  through  the  valley  with  middle-­‐aged  folk    Sun  capped  and  binoculars  suspended  Chatting  and  jovial  Unawares  of  the  history  of  this  place  Beyond  the  flora  and  fauna  Now  horses  carrying  school  girls  wearing  their  riding  gear  with  arrogance  And  pride,  walking  carefully  along  the  path  Anxious  to  avoid  the  rocks.    I  think  back  in  shame  My  time  here  My  assumptions  My  appropriation  of  the  Zionist  idea  My  acceding  to  the  reigning  powerful  myth  Not  questioning  more  Not  asking  who  lived  here  and  why  they  were  absent    These  silent  spaces  This  once  thriving  village  Souls  living  and  dying  Generations  passing  down  stories  Now  skeletal  structures  Chimeric  shadows  of  the  past  This  story  of  Lifta    Points  an  accusing  finger……at  me.