A number of my readers and friends have been upset by the lack of new material. Let me apologize to those who have missed the seagull in her flight. I have been collecting and synthesizing information; I have been procrastination and bruiting; and I have been answering questions with more questions.
Ever since the seagull took her first flight, I have been expected to have an opinion about the presidential elections in three countries simultaneously, about history and culture of Russian speaking countries, about the Judaism, and many other isms.
A few of my stories spoke to people in such a way that “ I am not an expert” excuse does not cut it anymore, and yet the only time I wrote anything remotely political, or socially provoking was after the tragedy of September 11th.
My Mtsiry
His crutches as a metronome,
Tapped in the hall, - echoed in me.
I sang and joked to escape from
His labored steps that can’t brake free.
His eyes sparked fire, of tamed spirit
Looking like Mtsiry in the wild he went on.
His mother cried some times in secret,
Eyes shut, his father chanted the “Koran”, …
When I sent the Russian version of this poem to one of my on line buddies, in 2001, he remarked that I knifed him in the heart. “Thank you!” I said, “I am glad to have such a weapon.”
People chant words-War! Bin Laden!
Kill Muslims! To Afghanistan!
I hear the softly crying mother.
And father chanting the “Koran”
11. 09. 2001. - 06.30.2007
Eight years later things changed very little and watching the news lately, I find at least one woman in black a day. Mothers in mourning appear under black veils in Kabul; almost in rags in my home town of Sukhumi; they wear mini skirts in New York at times, yet they are the same everywhere- still in mourning. Sometimes their sons are not dead, yet they have something to cry about nonetheless. And therefore today at now thirty, I often remember that one crying mother, of a crippled son, as well as that father who hid in the staircases of a hospital wing, to read the Koran. He read his Koran the same way as many Soviet Jews read the Talmud.- not understanding the words, yet pronouncing them because “HE KNOWS.”
I am an American today, I do not wish to be anyone I am not, as I did as a teenager. But at the same time I have lost something I had as a teenager, too: I lost the desire to understand politics. Power play is not interesting to me anymore. Wars are not as cut and dried as they used to be, but women in black are the same. The lessons of WWII are forgotten, the sacrifices of our grandparents are unappreciated, and genocide repeats itself in many corners of the world.
Is it unrealistic, melodramatic, childish, then, to believe that a woman in black will not be a suicide bomber herself? It probably is, but I believe that I don’t have to read the Torah, or the Koran, or Kama Sutra, for that matter, to understand the lady in black. I didn’t loose vigilance, but I don’t need weapons of mass destruction; my weapon is a pen. And using my pen, I stand together with women in black, and I send the white dove of peace to the world. And as my white dove takes it’s flight, I proudly wear the star of David on my neck and I sing “Ani Maamin.” – I believe.
It is that belief that drives me to sit down and write a character that is six years old. She lives in a world where physical limitations make her different from her piers; her ethnic background makes her home life different from that of her countryman, and her sense of wonder make her speak the truth, that disarms even the most unimaginative and dull adults. This girl’s journey is aided by a few imaginary friends, which help her learn life’s lessons, that most of us have to learn every day.
After a month of seemingly fruitless activities I have suddenly seen the entire plot, and the heroin herself in one “AHA” moment. This journey requires me to go back to the tales of Johan Christian Henderson and Brothers Grimm; to visit Slavic myths and legends, brush up on Jewish tradition, and translate a few Russian Nursery rhymes. And even though this is just the beginning, I am very excited about this journey.
Ever since the seagull took her first flight, I have been expected to have an opinion about the presidential elections in three countries simultaneously, about history and culture of Russian speaking countries, about the Judaism, and many other isms.
A few of my stories spoke to people in such a way that “ I am not an expert” excuse does not cut it anymore, and yet the only time I wrote anything remotely political, or socially provoking was after the tragedy of September 11th.
My Mtsiry
His crutches as a metronome,
Tapped in the hall, - echoed in me.
I sang and joked to escape from
His labored steps that can’t brake free.
His eyes sparked fire, of tamed spirit
Looking like Mtsiry in the wild he went on.
His mother cried some times in secret,
Eyes shut, his father chanted the “Koran”, …
When I sent the Russian version of this poem to one of my on line buddies, in 2001, he remarked that I knifed him in the heart. “Thank you!” I said, “I am glad to have such a weapon.”
People chant words-War! Bin Laden!
Kill Muslims! To Afghanistan!
I hear the softly crying mother.
And father chanting the “Koran”
11. 09. 2001. - 06.30.2007
Eight years later things changed very little and watching the news lately, I find at least one woman in black a day. Mothers in mourning appear under black veils in Kabul; almost in rags in my home town of Sukhumi; they wear mini skirts in New York at times, yet they are the same everywhere- still in mourning. Sometimes their sons are not dead, yet they have something to cry about nonetheless. And therefore today at now thirty, I often remember that one crying mother, of a crippled son, as well as that father who hid in the staircases of a hospital wing, to read the Koran. He read his Koran the same way as many Soviet Jews read the Talmud.- not understanding the words, yet pronouncing them because “HE KNOWS.”
I am an American today, I do not wish to be anyone I am not, as I did as a teenager. But at the same time I have lost something I had as a teenager, too: I lost the desire to understand politics. Power play is not interesting to me anymore. Wars are not as cut and dried as they used to be, but women in black are the same. The lessons of WWII are forgotten, the sacrifices of our grandparents are unappreciated, and genocide repeats itself in many corners of the world.
Is it unrealistic, melodramatic, childish, then, to believe that a woman in black will not be a suicide bomber herself? It probably is, but I believe that I don’t have to read the Torah, or the Koran, or Kama Sutra, for that matter, to understand the lady in black. I didn’t loose vigilance, but I don’t need weapons of mass destruction; my weapon is a pen. And using my pen, I stand together with women in black, and I send the white dove of peace to the world. And as my white dove takes it’s flight, I proudly wear the star of David on my neck and I sing “Ani Maamin.” – I believe.
It is that belief that drives me to sit down and write a character that is six years old. She lives in a world where physical limitations make her different from her piers; her ethnic background makes her home life different from that of her countryman, and her sense of wonder make her speak the truth, that disarms even the most unimaginative and dull adults. This girl’s journey is aided by a few imaginary friends, which help her learn life’s lessons, that most of us have to learn every day.
After a month of seemingly fruitless activities I have suddenly seen the entire plot, and the heroin herself in one “AHA” moment. This journey requires me to go back to the tales of Johan Christian Henderson and Brothers Grimm; to visit Slavic myths and legends, brush up on Jewish tradition, and translate a few Russian Nursery rhymes. And even though this is just the beginning, I am very excited about this journey.
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