In Fondi, the young professor found me. He had been looking for me for some time – and he found me, for he was walking toward the Jewish world.
For this very reason, he was filled with satisfaction and spoke to me of his desire to know Judaism in order to find G-d, perhaps to glimpse a path and overcome evil (or Evil, as he is more accustomed to).
But, perchance – I asked him –, has it ever occurred to you that HaShem (or G-d, if you prefer) does not want to (and cannot) be found? By any chance, have you ever thought about the possibility that Judaism is not a path, nor does it give you any certainty about a world that will never be reached?
Have you also considered that in Jewish formation there is no concern whatsoever with evil or good (or Evil and Good, if you prefer), and that there is no theology to be grasped? Have you thought about that?
Well then, in Judaism we do not study, we do not seek, and we do not sell HaShem.
Judaism does not aim for an encounter with Him (or of Him). We cannot say anything about Evil or Good, since they are Persian, Greek, medieval fantasies, aggravated by African cults. Instead, we concern ourselves only with good or bad behaviors, with good or bad choices. In Judaism, we do not project ourselves into a future world; and, if it is to be future (if it exists at all), it will come naturally, independent, and within whatever HaShem may intend.
There are no magics, there are no formulas, nor prayers that can modify the times, the cycles, and the Will of the Eternal!
And so, without a future or surprises, we learn to look at our hands, our feet, our eyes, our ears, our body, our feelings, our knowledge, and everything that comes to us for realization. We teach our children that a cliff is indeed a cliff (and not a concept). We teach that a garden is indeed a garden (and not a fantasy).
And we make it clear that, upon our table, a bread must be just, made by just hands and acquired with just resources, because, when we pronounce some word (among ourselves), we do not do it to thank (for children do not thank their parents), but, at least, we pronounce them to bless HaShem, in order to be sure that that bread has no other origin but that of justice, goodness, and lightness…
We also teach that an enemy is indeed an enemy (an enemy always!). And the best for us is that the enemy be well, tranquil, occupied (very occupied), and live far from our houses, very far indeed! But the enemy is not “something” fallen from the “sky”, a supernatural being, a rebel in Bereshit, or a spiritual entity with sexual desires. The enemy has hands and feet, has hunger and thirst, has vision and smell, just like us. But he, the enemy, has no just table nor just bread; he has no limits, nor does he know principles.
Unlike us, when he is hungry, he eats without measure or criteria. Therefore he stretches out his hands and advances his feet, caring for neither this nor that. And when he sees or perceives something, the enemy wants it for himself, in an uncontrollable mimetic desire—snatching, destructive, and fatal. For this reason, we always wish that our enemies have everything, occupy themselves greatly, and remain very tired, so that they forget about us, our gates, our goods, our children, and our lives.
But we, who know nothing of their gates, their goods, and their children, nevertheless do not forget them; we never forget that they are enemies and we want them to be well, and far from us.
In Judaism we do not discuss theological concepts, we do not defend religious dogmas, we do not seek believers or infidels, we do not take anyone to the Synagogue, we do not form missionaries. We neither despise nor approve of another’s religion, because Judaism is our best silence—a singular and respectful silence. And so, we are never in the squares or on the street corners (nor on religious stages). The religious stage is not, in fact, for Jews… On the contrary, we are involved with our sweat, with our books, with our Sefirôt.
But we do not study the Eternal, and we do not even pronounce His Name! We ask nothing of Him, but, with a deep and respectful feeling of gratitude and reverence, we bless His Name every morning and every afternoon, and at nightfall, we look at our children, covering them tenderly and launching them into the Presence of HaShem…
We love the Festivals; we count on our fingers the days remaining until the next Festival and what we must do to make them joyful, wonderful, and human. Our Festivals do not project anything magical toward the future, nor should they be read as prophecies. Our Festivals are merely Festivals of memory, with which we tell our history (to our children).
Yes, my dear friend, with them we tell our own history; for this reason, for millennia, we have made the same bread of bitterness and captivity, and we do not eat, during that period, any leaven, so that we do not forget that leaving slavery is a hurried act, an act that permits neither comfort nor reflection.
We have no shame in saying, during our Festivals, that we were slaves! We celebrate our harvests, our moment of integral constitution at Sinai, and we celebrate our new periods of work, much work, remembering our bad actions, our bad behaviors in a complete cycle, the privations, the huts (in which we lived). Furthermore, we remember the moments when our enemies destroyed our palaces, our altars, and how, strengthened in our principles, we rid ourselves of them, fighting, fighting hard, with real swords, forks, and stones.
We remember our state in a strange land and the governments – Persian, Catholic, or Nazi – that tried to erase us from history, and how people of our people, of flesh and bone (men and women), kept their purposes clear, their love unshakable, and, with wisdom, used everything they had learned at home with their parents and siblings to decide on something, to do something, and to define that we do not have to disappear from the earth.
Our days are not occupied, integrally and insanely, with a continuous hustle and bustle.
No! We do stop; there is a day, deliciously special, when we stop to eat a braided bread, made by an amiable woman who is satisfied with HaShem.
We stop to drink wine, to eat fruit, sweets, and honey, to sing with our sons and daughters and, hand in hand, to dance, nudging each one of them, tickling them, laughing out loud, and smelling their hair. But we do not give them any religious sermon on this day!
We also stop, on this day, to meet with other people whom we love, our friends who, like us, ate of their braided bread, made by their amiable women who are satisfied with HaShem, and drank of their wine and ate fruit, sweets, and honey, who sang with their sons and daughters and, hand in hand, danced with them, and nudged them, and tickled them, and laughed out loud, and smelled their hair without, however, giving any religious sermon.
For this very reason, when more friendly people are together, everyone knows what braided bread, wine, sweets, honey, sons, daughters, amiable women satisfied with HaShem, laughs, and outbursts of laughter mean. And the motives, all the motives, for not wanting to work on this day. When we are together, we despise religious speeches and sermons, because our children, women, and friends are worth more than religious speeches or endless prayers.
However, when one of our friends works on this day and we cannot see him in our gatherings, this neither bothers nor charms us.
In fact, we do not send any spy to his house, no missionary, and much less a prophet! We do not investigate our brother or our sister, because, in Judaism, each one is responsible for themselves and, just like the letters of the Hebrew alphabet, each one is worth by themselves, has their own weight and their own measure (which no one seeks to know, for it is the indecipherable measure of each individual).
The responsibility in us reaches levels of greatness and depth, of weight and substance, but it is individual, singular, and untransferable. From an early age we are instructed in good behavior, we are taught by the example of our fathers and our mothers (yes, in Judaism we know well the words father and mother!).
We learn to do, to concretize, to transform a brick into a castle, a page into a library, and, thus, we are continuously exercised in deepening, in studying, and in the search for knowledge. We frequent second-hand bookstores more than restaurants…
We thus develop, naturally, respect for those who, eventually, may be our masters, our professors. However, they are not our spiritual guides, they are not our pastors, nor do they lead us anywhere.
They are masters who teach us the Torah and the Talmud, and who encourage us to teach the Torah and the Talmud, transforming us into masters and professors who teach the Torah and the Talmud… They, the masters, are not our owners nor the owners of our houses, because what they hold in their hands and bequeath to us is so precious, grand, and essential that, because of that—exactly because of that—we learn that our house is our garden, our refuge, and a projection of ourselves.
We learn that our houses reflect our love for Jerusalem.
Ah, Jerusalem… Jerusalem is our center. And from there, we learn to look at the world, the universe, the kosmos…
There, especially there, we find ourselves again as a people, as human beings who overcame death, the gas chambers, and all kinds of malice, who transcended the pains and were reborn! The city of Melech David and Melech Sh’lomo—Poetry and Wisdom hand in hand!
No, no, my dear friend, Judaism is not solitude. We are warmly sociable. Judaism is a fulfilling silence, a fire that burns without speech, an energy that makes and remakes our soul.
If you want to walk with us, you may come. Yes, you may come (why not?).
But do not intend to go out into the world trying to fix it with Judaism, nor to turn against your old peers, incriminating them, defeating them, and causing them displeasure. Do not do that!
If you want, come. But if you come and live as a Jew, you will not make yourself better than your old companions, nor will you be able to tell them anything.
You will only point to yourself (only to yourself!) a unique, proper behavior, especially if you perceive that our G-d is your G-d and that our People is your People; and, thus, you will not be able to do – nor permit to be done to others – what seems hateful, unjust, and indecent to yourself.
Il Poeta era lì, forestiero napoletano, a guardare la polvere di foreste amazoniche tritate dalla brama. Dunque, lei è arrivata, irrompendo nei corridoi, frettolosamente, scagliando le scarpe, alte e nere, oltre il portone.
Quelle scarpe lanciate a terra hanno ruggito una voce concentrata, come se fosse possibile udire per loro tramite la voce musicale distante, intensa. Perché ci sono donne che usano i piedi per danzare; altre, invece, li usano prima per gemere e poi per liberarsi — per il salto che le strappi al collante asfaltico e per l’impulso che abbatta pareti e barriere.
Chi si toglie le scarpe cerca la leggerezza e il conforto di un atto libertario: cerca il mare, la brezza, lo stato di comunione, la poesia, quegli occhi che vedano, lo spazio, il vento, la tempesta, il tocco delle mani fatto scultura rinascimentale.
In un punto qualunque dei piedi femminili inizia il cammino verso il paradiso!
Lei, allora, ora scopertasi donna e persona, si è tolta le scarpe e le ha tenute lì, gettate, come simbolo di resistenza e scherno, traguardo di liberazione, disegno melodico, espressione d’intelligenza, invito al pieno incontro dialogico. Quella donna si è tolta le scarpe in cerca della pelle, dei pori e del corpo; in cerca dell’anima che transita per le vene, della vita che organizza i muscoli e rapisce il seno, in cerca della luce che scintilla sulle labbra e fa dilatare le pupille.
Quella donna si è tolta le scarpe perché le ali non erano sulla sua schiena, ma nei piedi. E ha cercato ali nei suoi piedi, ali che la portassero verso le capanne alpine, da dove era giunto il Poeta, per bere dalla mano della Poesia o, chissà, più vicino, a portata di un dito, tra le vie e le locande andine o, semplicemente, per il rischio di un verso possibile nell’incontro di persone e di esseri soltanto.
E ora quella donna, questa donna, così vicina ormai, con i piedi sciolti, le scarpe gettate, pesterebbe l’uva con intensità, cantando e danzando per tutta la notte. Solleverebbe le vesti per pestare l’uva ancora più a fondo e, all’alba, lancerebbe altra uva nel palmento, continuando a cantare allegramente con le vesti rialzate, immersa nel vino e nella poesia, poesia trovata sulla strada, nel corridoio, sul portone e in quei piedi, ormai, liberi.
The Poet was there, a Neapolitan stranger, looking at the dust of Amazonian forests ground down by greed. Then, charging through the hallways, hurriedly, flinging her shoes—high and black—past the gate.
Those shoes cast to the ground roared with a concentrated voice, as if it were possible to hear through them the distant, intense musical voice. Because there are women who use their feet to dance; others, however, use them first to groan and then to break free—for the leap that tears them from the asphalt glue and the impulse that smashes walls and barriers.
Whoever takes off their shoes seeks the lightness and comfort of a libertarian act: seeks the sea, the breeze, the state of communion, poetry, those eyes that see, the space, the wind, the storm, the touch of hands made into Renaissance sculpture.
At some point in a woman’s feet begins the path to paradise!
She, then, now discovering herself as woman and person, took off her shoes and kept them there, thrown, like a symbol of resistance and scorn, a landmark of liberation, a melodic design, an expression of intelligence, an invitation to a full dialogical encounter. That woman took off her shoes in search of skin, pores, and body; in search of the soul that travels through the veins, of the life that organizes the muscles and ravishes the breasts, in search of the light that shimmers on the lips and dilates the pupils.
That woman took off her shoes because the wings were not on her back, but on her feet. And she sought wings in her feet, wings to carry her toward the Alpine cabins, from where the Poet had arrived, to drink from the hand of Poetry or, who knows, closer, within a finger’s reach, in the Andean pathways and inns, or simply for the risk of a possible verse in the encounter of humans and beings only.
And now that woman, this woman, so close now, with her feet unbound, shoes thrown, stomps grapes with intensity, singing and dancing all night long. She lifts her dress to stomp grapes deeper still and, at dawn, throws more grapes into the press, continuing to sing joyfully with her dress raised, immersed in wine and poetry, poetry found on the street, in the hallway, at the gate, and in those feet, now, free.
In the world I imagine – and stand for, nobody gets executed for using drugs, hell, not even locked up! Nobody gets burned or stoned for being gay, lesbian, lover, transvestite, man, woman, black, white, atheist, communist, anarchist, Jew, Catholic, Evangelical, Agnostic, Buddhist, Umbandista, Candomblecista. Nobody is shot, electrocuted, sawed, quartered, hanged, crucified, lynched. Nobody is an owner or a beneficiary (not even the State!), but everyone is a user, an inhabitant, in equal measure and proportion. Nobody turns a profit off another human being, but everyone cooperates, produces, consumes, parties, sings, dances, celebrates. In the world I imagine nobody pays tribute to any entity, religious or administrative. Nobody is condemned for worshiping their gods and keeping their sacred books, but, then again, nobody is condemned for blaspheming against the gods or ripping up sacred texts. In the world I imagine there are conflicts, plenty of them, but nobody settles them in courthouses before “Authorities” who don’t know the first thing about the reality of the Villages and Towns, before “Authorities” carrying “handbooks” and codified, uniform “rulings” for everybody, because there is no everybody, there are individuals! Nor, by any means, do they settle their conflicts before distant tribunals or in those courts locked away, out of reach, in Capital cities (there aren’t even Capitals in the world I imagine): conflicts are settled right in the Village, in the Town, with everyone sharing a spot around the table, with coffee and bread laid out for anyone there. In the world I imagine there is no Authority; there is Solidarity! There is no Power, any Power, not even symbolic! Nobody studies to serve the Market, yet there is a Market, a People’s Market; one studies for – and through – Knowledge, Emancipation, and Individual and Human Growth. In the world I imagine there is no Stock Market, no Banks, no anonymous Shareholders. Nobody has official tax numbers – they have a Name. Nobody is discriminated against for wearing (or not wearing) long hair (natural or dyed), being bald or wearing wigs, growing a beard, a mustache, or shaving it all off, wearing makeup, piercings, tattoos, pants, dresses, bras, flip-flops, shoes, boots, shirts, ties. Nobody is humiliated for being heavier or thinner, for being a child, young, or old. In the world I imagine there is no divide between manual or intellectual labor, rural or urban, between carrying a hoe or a book, between scrubbing toilets or writing on a blackboard, between seed-planters and singers of love’s refrains. No woman is prosecuted or condemned for having an abortion. Nobody is pried into and slandered for being separated, divorced, for eating meat or veggies, for drinking coffee or cognac. No man bosses a woman around, in fact, no man and no woman boss anyone around. There are no military police – nor paragraphs! No flag-bearers, no rifle-toting guards! No zoos! In the world I imagine, Love is Free, totally and absolutely Free. There is no Fidelity, no Morality, but there is Ethics!
Ocorreu-me outro dia que a frase mais desagradável já publicada sobre privilégio está no título de um artigo científico, e que a demonstração dela custou aos autores um Banco Imobiliário usado, uma moeda e um saco de pretzels.
O artigo é de 2012 e se chama Higher social class predicts increased unethical behavior, o que dispensa comentário. O laboratório era em Berkeley, o desenho era de Paul Piff e Dacher Keltner, e tinha aquela simplicidade que costuma preceder as descobertas irritantes. Dois voluntários que não se conheciam sentaram frente a frente. Jogou-se uma moeda para o alto, à vista dos dois, e o vencedor do cara ou coroa recebeu o dobro do dinheiro inicial, dois dados em vez de um e o dobro cada vez que completasse a volta. Nada foi sussurrado. O pesquisador anunciou as regras em voz alta e saiu da sala. No meio da mesa ficou uma tigela de pretzels, servida para os dois.
Quinze minutos bastaram. Os favorecidos passaram a bater a peça no tabuleiro casa por casa, subiram o volume da voz, comeram mais pretzels e, ao final, explicaram a vitória pela maneira como haviam avaliado o risco de cada compra. Do relato desapareceram o dado extra, o dinheiro dobrado, o salário em dobro a cada volta e a moeda que distribuiu tudo aquilo. Foi cortado da história como o parente que não entra no álbum de família. Ninguém mentiu. Eles acreditavam, e acreditavam porque a alternativa era admitir que estavam esmagando alguém que nunca teve como reagir, o que nenhum de nós admite antes do almoço.
Em outras palavras, mérito.
Dois rapazes de dezesseis anos moram a quatro quilômetros um do outro, na mesma colina, e são presos na mesma semana por atirar pedras na mesma estrada. Os dois vão a tribunal de menores, e é aí que a semelhança termina. Um responde diante do tribunal de menores militar, pode passar dias antes de ver um juiz, é interrogado em hebraico sem advogado e sem os pais, e suas audiências de prisão preventiva, que são o essencial do processo, correm no tribunal militar comum, porque a jurisdição do tribunal de menores não alcança justamente essa parte. O outro responde diante do tribunal de menores civil, com prazos curtos, oficial de condicional e a mãe sentada na terceira fileira.
Os números da própria polícia israelense, no período em que ela ainda os divulgava por completo, mostram como termina cada trajeto. Mil cento e quarenta e dois menores palestinos presos por atirar pedras, cinquenta e três menores israelenses pelo mesmo ato. Quarenta e seis por cento dos palestinos indiciados, contra onze por cento dos israelenses. Entre os palestinos indiciados, cem por cento condenados. Entre os israelenses, quatro considerados culpados sem que a condenação fosse registrada, um absolvido, e um último cujo desfecho ninguém sabe informar. Ao final de dezembro havia trezentos e cinquenta e um menores palestinos sob custódia israelense por motivos que o Estado classifica como de segurança.
Ninguém que hoje discute o assunto jogou a moeda. Nossos avós chegaram fugindo de gente empenhada em matá-los, e chegar foi, para quase toda família que conheço, a diferença entre existir e não existir. É um argumento forte.
Votei contra em quase todas as eleições desde que cheguei, o que mostra que não sou a melhor referência, mas mesmo assim vou ousar. Também eu abro a torneira e sai água, também a minha placa passa nas duas estradas, e o meu voto acrescenta a isso apenas a sensação agradável de que o vencedor é outro. Ninguém em Berkeley pediu o segundo dado. O vencedor o encontrou na mão e jogou, e no fim explicou o resultado por si mesmo, e é aqui que peço um acordo entre nós. Você pode ser uma boa pessoa. Eu acredito que seja, do mesmo modo que acredito nos rapazes daquele laboratório. Mas enquanto cinco milhões de pessoas do outro lado jogarem com um dado só para que o nosso lado siga ganhando, não venha me falar em mérito.
Nas encostas secas do norte de Israel cresce uma flor que, como eu, quase nada tem para oferecer ao mundo. Chamam-na íris negra. É escura como o veludo gasto de uma túnica antiga, um roxo tão fundo que a luz desiste de atravessá-lo e apenas o toca por fora. Sento-me perto dela nas manhãs de fim de inverno e converso comigo mesmo, porque ela talvez seja a única criatura que compreende aquilo que sou.
A íris não guarda néctar. Não oferece açúcar, nem perfume que embriague, nem a promessa de fartura que as outras flores usam para chamar quem passa. Quem se aproxima dela faminto parte faminto. Ela aprendeu, ao longo de milhares de estações, que nada tem para dar senão o próprio corpo escuro, e que esse corpo escuro sabe fazer uma coisa apenas, guardar calor. Quando o sol se põe atrás das colinas e o frio desce das montanhas como uma água invisível, uma pequena abelha sem colmeia, sem irmãs, procura onde passar a noite. Encontra na garganta da íris um abrigo morno, porque as pétalas beberam o sol do dia inteiro e o devolvem devagar à criatura adormecida, enquanto as estrelas giram lá em cima sobre o silêncio da encosta. É tudo o que a flor possui. Abrigo. E eu, que atravessei tantos países e tantos nomes, descubro que também não tenho mais do que isso a oferecer a quem se aproxima. Não a riqueza que esperam de mim, não o mel que vêm buscar, apenas um lugar morno onde alguém cansado possa dormir uma noite sem morrer de frio.
Levei quase uma vida inteira para não me envergonhar disso. Houve um tempo em que eu queria ser o rio caudaloso que alimenta os campos, o pomar carregado de frutos, a fonte de onde todos bebem. Queria ser necessário, queria ser visto. Mas o rio não escolheu ser rio, nem a íris escolheu ser íris, e talvez a única sabedoria que me reste seja aceitar a medida exata daquilo que sou. Sou a flor escura da encosta. Dou pouco, e dou por inteiro o pouco que tenho.
Há ainda outra coisa que a íris me ensina, e é a mais difícil de todas. Durante quase o ano inteiro ela não existe. Terminada a breve primavera, as pétalas caem, a haste seca, e a planta desce para dentro da terra, recolhida num bulbo que ninguém vê. Meses e meses de invisibilidade. Quem cruza a encosta no calor do verão jamais imagina que ali embaixo, na escuridão morna do solo, uma vida espera em silêncio a hora de subir outra vez à luz. A íris não morreu. Apenas desapareceu dos olhos do mundo, e o mundo, que só ama aquilo que consegue ver, tratou de esquecê-la.
Assim me sinto diante da minha própria família. Não me perderam, não me expulsaram, não houve crueldade nem gesto brusco. Simplesmente deixei de estar visível. Desci para dentro de uma terra que eles não enxergam, um país distante, uma língua que não é a deles, uma vida feita de palavras que escrevo sozinho ao amanhecer. Existo, respiro, floresço à minha maneira em outra estação, mas para eles é como se eu tivesse me recolhido ao bulbo e o silêncio se fechasse por cima. Às vezes me pergunto se ainda pensam em mim, ou se, como fazem com a flor sob a terra, apenas presumem que eu voltarei quando for a época, sem perceber que ninguém garante a próxima primavera.
A solidão, descobri com os anos, não é a falta de gente ao redor. Um homem pode viver cercado de vozes e continuar sendo o bulbo enterrado, uma vida inteira presumida e nunca olhada. Ela mora na distância entre aquilo que sou por dentro e o tão pouco que os outros conseguem ver por fora. E no entanto já não sinto a amargura de antes. A íris não amaldiçoa o inverno que a apaga. Ela desce, espera, e quando chega a sua hora abre de uma só vez toda a sua escuridão diante do céu, sem pedir licença, sem esperar plateia, florescendo pela pura necessidade de florescer.
Talvez seja isso o que ainda me falta aprender com ela. Já não a esperança de ser enfim notado, pois essa me custou caro demais. Resta a coragem de florescer no escuro, breve e por inteiro, oferecendo o único bem que possuo, um pouco de calor guardado ao longo dos dias frios, para que alguma criatura solitária, tão perdida quanto eu na vastidão da encosta, encontre onde passar a noite e não morra sozinha antes que o sol volte.
E se um dia me perguntarem o que fiz da minha vida, direi que não fui rio, nem pomar, nem fonte. Fui a íris negra do norte de Israel. Não durei muito e quase nada possuía. Mas o pouco que tinha, dei sem reservas, e enquanto durou foi tudo.
