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On December 1, 2001, my husband stood on an unfamiliar street in the heart of an unfamiliar country.  He had just turned eighteen and his life was shit.  He just wanted a little something to numb the pain.

This was the place to be, he was told.  Here was the action.  By day, a bustling pedestrian mall, by night, a refuge for the down and out to come nurse their pain with whatever was available.  This was where the action would be.

The street was full.

He was standing in an alleyway, right next to Burger King, when the first bomber blew up.  He told himself it was a sonic boom.  Then he walked a few feet forward and saw the carnage.

A man lay on the floor in front of him with blood pouring out of his head.  People ran past, up and down the street, oozing blood, their clothes torn…their hands holding pieces of themselves.

He walked down, to the right, propelled by the masses of people.  There were bodies on the floor.  It was surreal.  Smoky.  Dark.  Chaos.

And then the other bomber burst into a shooting flame, rising above the buildings, right into the crowds running away.

That’s when he realized there was nowhere to go.

That’s when he realized what it means to live with enemies.

By the time the third bomb, hidden in a car up the street blocking access to emergency personnel blew up, a new reality had formed in his mind.

Half a bottle of vodka later, as he watched the news play the scenes he witnessed over and over again, he noticed he was still shaking.

He was eighteen, in an unfamiliar land.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

We’ve been reading the news and following up on what happened in Boston.  I don’t know if we have a right to comment.  I don’t think it’s fair to compare.  But I do have one thing on my mind.

That night, back in 2001, 13 people died; 11 civilians and 2 terrorists, and 188 civilians were injured.  When the death toll is counted, there is always a pause before this is said, but it is said.  Two bodies, however mangled and destroyed they are, are gathered and taken care of.  I don’t know if they are buried with anything more than a shovel and a box, or how often they get returned to their families, but they are not left to rot.

Because the dead, despite who they were before or what they did, deserve a bit of dirt to disintegrate into.

It’s not the least or the most we can do.  It’s not a favor.  It’s not anti-justice, or pro-terrorism.  It’s humane.

We live in Israel.  We suffer at the hands of people who think we have no right to live.  But we maintain a spirit of humanity that we can’t deny.  We come from dust and we return to dust.  Once we are nothing but flesh and bone we must return to the ground, despite our breathing moments.

There is a terrorist who is nothing more than a body now.

As long as he lies on a table with nowhere to go, he has taken away an entire country’s ability to rise above in the fight for a higher ethical code for humanity.

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So this guy walks up to another guy at a bus stop.

Guy at the bus stop is on his way to a rehearsal for some sort of theater group…he’s creative and fun that way.

And this guy likes to let loose because he lives in the heart of a conflict and it’s good to live life fully when you never know what the guy who walks up to you at a bus stop might do.

Well, anyway, this guy walks up to this guy at a bus stop.

He’s only been a free man for a bit.  He should be living his life and maybe joining a theater group because he also lives in the heart of a conflict and it’s good to live life fully when you just never know what’s next.

But this guy has a problem because he believes in a code that tells him that if his relative is accused of something it’s up to him to prove the family still has honor.

So he walks up to this guy at a bus stop.

And he stabs him enough times in the abdomen to make sure he will die.

Then he steals his gun, which the guy who is dying at his feet has in order to live his life fully in that tiny place at the heart of a conflict with a bit less fear, and shoots at a bunch of young soldiers, gets himself moderately wounded and arrested.

So the guy is going to live for a little while in a prison where he’ll get an education, food and political promotion and most likely will be traded for something intangible like a good will gesture and his family will have their bloody honor back and all will end well for a guy who stabbed another guy at a bus stop where he was waiting to be picked up for rehearsals.

Evyatar Borovsky was laid to rest along with his full life and dreams of theater while his wife and five children wept and my land twisted and turned and a fire raged on and on in the heart of all this conflict and no one in the entire world said a word about the man who just wanted to live.

So I’m telling you the story about the guy who dared to walk up to another guy who’s name was Evyatar and who had a wife and five children and family and friends who loved him and a life that was full and vibrant and loving and who had to die at the feet of a guy who didn’t give two shits about the life of the man he stabbed at a bus stop in a little place that’s the heart of a conflict that killed a man for daring to live.

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It’s haunting

…the way it rises up

…and soars over my head

…over my land

…piercing my heart

…year after year after year

…ending with an echo

…ringing through my mind

…all day long

…and into the night

…where I find myself

…at a loss for words.

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The street is cobblestone…pretty, yet inconvenient for weary little feet and stroller wheels.

It’s been a long morning.  Breakfast was nice, sitting at an outdoor cafe on the street overlooking mountains, sipping freshly squeezed orange juice and laughing just because…and then walking along the road with all the shops, pretending to be first time tourists visiting the holy city of Tzfat as we shared the beauty of our land with our children…and now the Artists’ Quarter…narrow cobblestone streets lined with display windows where you can find intricate pieces of art, magnificent paintings… sculptures… glass work…jewelry…hand-made wonders nestled high up in a little city of art surrounded by a little land of majestic proportions that takes my breath away.

We told her about this place weeks ago.  She’s been so looking forward.  On the train, as we passed neatly plowed fields…she asked about the artists again.  And then, when the sea came into view and she had to look away because the sun hitting the endless blue was blinding, she wondered about what kind of pictures they made up on the mountain top, way too far for an impatient five-year old who wanted to get off the train already.  On the last leg of our journey, the bus climbing up the mountain on twisting roads as the sun went down outside the window she was pressing her noise against, she leaned back, her head resting on my shoulder, and thought about what she was going to see as she sucked her thumb and twirled her hair around and around her little finger until her eyes closed and she fell asleep.

And now, here we are…and she’s tired…because she walked so much…and because she didn’t have her own bed to sleep in last night…and because she’s only five and we haven’t stopped at a playground even though we said we would…

Her little feet drag on cobblestone.  She shrugs her shoulders when we point out all the beauty surrounding us.

Then she sees him.

It’s a small shop.  His paintings are average for this little street.

He is sitting in front of a canvas.  He is creating a small souvenir someone will purchase as a memory of their visit here.  He barely looks up when she steps in and stands behind him.

She watches him, quietly, for a long time.

I am ready to  move on.  I call for her.  She is transfixed and doesn’t hear me.  But he hears and he turns to me, and to her, and sees something in her eyes he must recognize.

He smiles at her.  He holds out his brush and asks her if she would like to paint.

My little girl very slowly nods and accepts his brush.  She holds her head still as she gently presses the brush to the canvas, bringing it down ever so carefully as he looks on.  She takes a step back, ready to hand the work back to him, but he shakes his head at her and tells her to continue.  And then, stroke by stroke, my little girl paints a memory.

Her eyes are bright.  Her cheeks are flushed.  She steps back from her work with pride.  As she hands over the brush, he smiles at her again.

“You’re going to be a great artist,” he says.  And nodding knowingly at me, he adds, “I can tell…I can tell…”

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Sometimes, late at night when I should be asleep, I remember.

I remember how I used to be…when things were bad…when I was a bad little girl…

And I wonder…if I could talk to her…what would I say?

I should say…the things I was taught to say to her…

I’m so sorry you’re hurting.

It’s not your fault.

You are not bad.

This is going to be over soon.

You will get better.

It will get better…

But I feel…like saying…

Kill yourself…now.

Because it won’t get better.

Because in twenty years from now you will sit with this memory, because everything in your life reminds you about some part of it, and you will think about how it can never go away and you will want to die.

So die now.

Avoid one thousand future deaths…

One thousand future hurts…

One thousand future lies…

And never remember this.

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The anthem for the broken people is part song, part chant, part silence.

It has no rhythm. No rhyme. No pattern.

It has highs and lows and in betweens.

Sometimes, it’s one, clear thought.

Most times, it’s a long rambling journey like the one they told you once you would have to take until you would find the end, past the twists and turns and drops hiding around thorn bushes and smooth rocks, under blue skies streaked with the blood red of your childhood and the blackness of your youth, and into the future of either victory or death, although you never know which one you want to be your end, so you keep going around and around on this rambling road until you can’t take it anymore and have to choose something so that you can go somewhere else and leave the anthem of the broken people lying on the ground with the shattered pieces of the shadow you used to be put together by a hope you once dreamed, only to realize that there was a piece missing and there is a hole where you should be.

…

…

When the silence starts to choke the little bits of life left, a haunting hum floats through the air.

The anthem gathers speed and adds the drums to its rising sound as it hits notes only broken people hear.

They gather together, all the broken people, and raise their silent voices as they try to break the world so that it will know how they feel.

Only, the world, already broken, has been singing this song, chanting the words for millions of years.

The anthem has nowhere left to go.

Dying down, it travels back inside the holes of the broken people and widens them so that next time, maybe, there will be more broken people to share the broken tune of a broken anthem with a broken world filled with the holes broken people made.

Shhhh.

Can you hear it?

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It’s hard to form the words, ignite the flame of remembrance, when my memories are few.

It’s hard to eulogize a man I barely had the chance to meet, but that one last time, the last of a handful of times, I think I may have seen the lion man.

Sharing a beer together, watching him watch all of you, I saw what you have always seen.

I saw him look across the room with a small smile, a simple smile, giving him a rosy glow as he sipped slowly and watched and watched and watched. And when it was time to go, he turned to me and nodded his goodbye from his watchful eyes, accepting me to his domain.

He was a lion. Strong, steady and fearless, he led his pack with fierce love. He stalked through a world of deserts, jungles and muddy swamps, picking his fights thoughtfully, cunningly. When he fought, it was a fight for truth. It was powerful. It was deadly. It was real. When he walked away, it was with his head high, his shoulders back, his spine still. He faced every day with the kind of bravery found in an undisputed leader. He was a lion man.

A lion doesn’t lay down to die. A lion fights until the end. A lion leaves a pride.

So be a strong pride, for the lion man. Be a true pride. And go off in every direction and make a lion out of another man.  Set your spirit down in stone and watch your pack carefully, lovingly, and remember the lion man who made you, the lion man who led you, the lion man who left you standing still, in a world of deserts, jungles and muddy swamps, ready to be a lion man.

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Those three words
shooting off the screen
blazing a trail to my heart
to my guilt
to my torment.

Those three words
lifting me from my burden
sending my soul soaring
flying high
flying free.

Those three words
written to me
to my past
to my inner child
to my hidden self

Those three words
take me to a place
of gratitude
of contentment
of peace.

I forgive you
you wrote
and I can only reply
Thank you
because I know
you know
the thing about
those three words.

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“If I ever become a real artist I’ll make a series of sketches called Sad People.  All kinds of people – age, race, culture – will be represented with the common denominator being a sadness that jumps out at you.  Then I’ll have a gallery and people will come…it’ll be like a sad room…a place for people to feel their sadness.”

“Hmm…the sad room…so do you think there are more sad people than happy people?”

“For sure!  I mean, hopefully everyone has felt happy and sad at some point in their lives…but sadness seems to me to be harder to express.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, let’s see…it seems like everything to do is for happy people.  Happy people go out, party, see a movie, go to a park…all things fun need to have happy people to use them.  A sad person isn’t going to have so much fun at a party unless they’re drunk, and then it’s not really so fun, and a movie to a sad person is just an escape…a restaurant means tasteless food or trying to fill a hole with food…and who wants to sit in the park with sadness?  So what I’m saying is that happiness is automatically validated by societal norms.  Happy people are productive people who know how to utilize their time in this world for work and play.”

“Ok, sounds interesting.  Now what about the sad people?”

“I think – and this is totally me and my theories – I think that sad people never get their sadness validated and so it just sits inside and spirals…adding to more sad feelings and more spiraling…let’s call it the Sadness Effect.”

“Huh.  So being sad isn’t accepted.”

“I don’t think it’s not accepted – I mean everyone gets sad…it’s just that it’s not validated.  How many people can actually validate sadness for someone?  How do you do it?  From what I’ve seen and experienced with my own sadness, when I tell someone about it they either becomes sad with me or take a step back and leave me with a feeling that has nowhere to go but back inside to fester.”

“I see.  So how do you validate sadness?”

“I think you have to really listen.  Like, when someone says they’re sad, you have to let them know that you understand that they are sad.  You can’t try to make them happy or explain why it’s not worth being sad because then you are essentially telling them that the sad feeling has no right to be – totally invalidating the feeling, leading to another kind of sadness and loneliness as the person who is seeking validation realizes how totally misunderstood they are…it’s a terrible cycle.  And then, after too many times of getting their sadness thrown to the side, they don’t want to talk about it and try to pretend to be happy – however that may be – and then we get this whole ‘running after happiness’ trend that all started because no one ever said – ‘hey, you’re sad.  I get that.  Let’s sit with the sadness for a bit and try to understand it.’  Validating a feeling means giving it a right to exist on its own.  You can’t say ‘everyone feels sad’ or ‘it’ll pass’ cause that makes the feeling less unique.  You gotta say something along the lines of ‘I see that you’re sad.  I’m sorry you’re sad.  Let me know if or when you want to talk about it and I can do my best to be there for you.’  You know, like a kid wants validation for his sadness, he just comes for a hug.  You got to give verbal hugs out when you’re confronted by sadness.”

“So what about those people who get sad with you when you’re sad?”

“That’s the other kind of bad sadness conduct.  People can’t handle another person’s sadness as a separate person, so they use it to try to validate their own sadness, negating the original sadness and creating a neat little ‘let’s be sad together and feed each other sad pills’ scenario.”

“Isn’t that co-dependency?”

“For sure.  That’s why all these co-dependent relationships are all the rage.  You get to be sad together – gee, how fun.”

“This is all intriguing – go on.”

“Ok – so the answer to all the sad people is to teach everyone how to validate.  Then, you feel sad, you express, it’s validated, you move on and don’t sit in it forever and ever.  If everyone learned how to look past themselves and just allow other people to feel things and not take it on or step away, then the answer is solved.”

“How would you teach people to do that though?”

“Simple – if you’re the type of person who steps back, so push your instinct aside for a second and step forward.  If you’re the type of person who gets too involved, take a step back.  It’s just a small step, but it changes everything.”

“I like this.  I think you really got something here.”

“Well, anyway – back to my sad room.  I’m going to make sadness an outing.  All these happy people get to have fun…sad people are welcome to come to my gallery and cry.  It’ll be a sad party.  It’ll be fun.”

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“Write it,” my father said.  “You’re good at that and you can get what you need to get across better that way.”

A letter, something private, something intimate…but I can’t.

So I thought I’d put it out there – let you see it whenever that might be…without me having to feel like I had to beg you to understand, without feeling like it’s all on me.

And yet, here I am, over a month later, still struggling to write it.

I’m going to try, because that’s all I can do, but forgive me if I screw this one up.

See, I love my brother.  A whole lot.  More than you care to understand.

And so I love you by extension, but not as much, because you don’t care to understand.

When he called me to tell me about you – no, to ask me about you – he wasn’t sure.

So I showed him why.

Why you were so amazing.

Why you were the one.

Why he should try.

And when he saw, he called me again and I felt his happiness travel around the world and fill all our lives with joy.

When he asked me to be there, I had to tell him no.

I couldn’t come.

He understood.  He knew my reasons.  He respected my reasons.

But you didn’t and I knew that, and he knew that, and it hurt.

So I pulled away a bit because I can’t force anyone to see things differently.  And because I respect you.

And then, there we were, face to face at last.

Except your face held something that made me feel uncomfortable.

And I didn’t like the way you made me feel.

Like I should feel guilty.

Like I should apologize.

For putting myself and my family before you and your expectations.

For expecting my family to do something for me I could never allow them to do.

Five thousand dollars is a lot of money.  Money my family does not have.  We could not come to your wedding and put my parents into debt over it.  We would not.

But I still love my brother.

And he still loves me.

He asked me to apologize to you – to make things right by saying a little silly ‘I’m sorry’.  To lie in order to lessen your anger towards me.

I will not.

I did the right thing.

Please, do the same.

You don’t need to love me.

You don’t need to be my friend.

You don’t have to ever talk to me.

But don’t ever put my brother in that position again.