Rain on Douglas Street

Douglas Street, Echo Park, Los Angeles– the street i live on.

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Selma to Montgomery 1965 Photos by Alfred Loeb

These are my father’s photographs from the march from Selma to Montgomery.  He shot these images with a Leica camera and a 50 mm lens.

His participation in this march, when i was very young, had a lasting impression on me and shaped the work I have done my whole life, which I tell in my essay, My Father’s Yellow Feet, which is included here, following the photographs.

Click on any image to see enlarged view.

The Police Are Your Friends

Pete Seeger

Martin Luther King, Reverend Ralph Abernathy, Andrew Young and other Civil Rights Leaders

Rabbi Hershel

Coca Cola, States Rights, Martin Luther King and Communism

VOTE

Faces of the Future

My Father’s Yellow Feet
By Emma Rosenthal
The year I was conceived, the FBI took out a freshly pressed manila file, put my last name on the file tab, and waited for my birth to fill in the rest of the information.
My father was just another Jewish activist so there was little doubt that this child; his first born, who would be raised in red swaddling cloths, on picket lines, boycotts and demonstrations; would need to be monitored.  That year,  my father, a staunch supporter of gun control, a man who despised gun ownership, placed a loaded shot gun beneath my parents’ bed because of threats on his life, on our lives, because of work he was doing in fair housing.  In that bed, over that loaded gun, I gestated for nine months.
I was five when he went to Selma to march to Montgomery with Dr. King.  By court order only 200 marchers would be allowed to travel the full distance to be met by a larger rally in Montgomery, if and when they finally arrived.  I was unaware of the danger and was only filled in awe.  Jewish freedom riders did not always arrive home safely.    My daddy was going to march for freedom. Freedom; a word that would echo through my home for many years.
This was the second march.  The first one ended in a bloody riot when the police attacked the marchers and they were forced to turn back. My father was gone for the longest time but all I really remember were the calloused deformities he had when he came home.   His feet recovered from that journey but he still bears hard yellow reminders of that long march.  I remember him resting on his bed after he had returned. I looked at those bruised, yellowed feet and said with all the determination my five year old spirit could muster;  “The next freedom march you go on Daddy, I’m going with you.”
The next march I remember was a memorial service in Philadelphia, as with other cities all over the world.  Someone had shot Dr. King.  I remember standing in the line of humanity, I remember the air on my skin, I remember the green, green lawn of the arboretum, I remember the somber spirit of the crowd, I remember the voices echoing through microphones and speakers.  I remember being nine  years old,  and somebody had shot Dr. King.
A year later my father made plans to take a bus to Washington D.C. to march against the war.  These were safer times to march, but the sting of the fifties, the threats against his life, the assassination of the Rosenbergs, the McCarthy witch hunts, Cheney, Shverner and Goodman, four little girls, Malcolm, Evers, King and many others, still were fresh in his mind.  He would not take me.  It wasn’t safe.
I had to go.
This was freedom and I had promised his calloused yellow feet that I would go on the next march. “If a man does not have something he is willing to die for he is not fit to live”  I said as I quoted Dr. King.  It was 1969. I was almost eleven years old.  I’m not sure how much I understood about rice paddies, napalm and imperialism, but my father was going and I had to go with him.
I had to go.
There was no way I could let him go without me.  I argued and polemicized with him for days until he finally conceded that he would take me.   My mother packed us reubens for lunch and he made me wear a dress so that we would look respectable, no torn blue jeans for us.  It was a green sweater and a matching skirt that just reached my knee.  I remember.  I remember because it was a cold day in Washington in 1969, November 15.  I remember the bus and the old woman who gave me brownies to eat and the edges had been burned in the pan.  I remember the rows and rows of yellow busses, I remember the button, long since lost, a white hand forming a peace sign against a black silhouette of the capital building.  I remember seeing the marble buildings of the Capital and L’Enfant Plaza, with its large light bulb street lights, the Washington memorial.  I remember the pro war protesters telling me to go back to Russia, a place my ancestors had lived in and died in and could never return to.  I remember the smell of marijuana, the chanting and the singing, the speakers, the crowds.  I really remember the cold, my stockinged legs, the cold air and no protection from it, but most of all I remember not caring that I had to get up at four in the morning, not caring that the air burned my skin, not caring that I was hungry or thirsty.  I just cared that I was there, that he brought me and that I would do this again many, many times.
I am sure that my initial FBI file has swollen and perhaps fills many boxes. For years my mail has sporadically arrived opened and the clicks on the phone are reminders that very little is truly private. My name appears on hit lists and blacklists. I receive the occasional death threat. I turn away from cameras at demonstrations unless I know the photographer.  And I have photographed them too.  (I have my own files.)  There may yet be a day of reckoning.
I am tired of police officers in uniform holding video cameras.  I am tired of the cops who come right up to me and shoot my picture while I stand under a red banner.  Most of all I am tired of the ones out of uniforms;  the G-men and women who sit in on meetings and pretend to fight for freedom, who feign that longing in their eyes, all the while taking notes and foaming discontent within the group.  I know we have made mistakes, over the years of organizing I have seen movements come and go, groups break and splinter.  I only wish I new which mistakes were ours, which discord was truly part of the movement and which was caused by infiltration, government espionage and counterintelligence programming.
I wish I knew.
I march with my small child and keep my eyes on the baton yielding men with helmets on horseback.  I am ready to grab up my child with the power of motherhood and run if need arises.  I am afraid for him in demonstrations, I am afraid for him as he grows into a man in a society afraid of its youth but I bring him.  He never had to ask.   “No blood for oil” was one of his first sentences and for years he would point to the Federal building and call it “Peace now.”  I carried him on the picket line of the L.A. teachers’ strike and nursed him between picket duty and cluster meetings.  I carry my father with me too.  He doesn’t march with me any more, not in form, but he is there in spirit and I remember his feet, his calloused feet he brought back form Alabama and the promises I made to them.  I will always remember those feet.

Poem: November

Written on the passage of proposition 187 and on the anniversary of Kristalnacht

(On November 8, 1994 voters in California voted to prohibit undocumented immigrants from using public services, schools and health care.  In 938, Herschel Grynszpan killed a German diplomat in reaction to a decision to deport all Polish Jews.  Kristalnacht, (November 9 1938), the night of broken glass, resulted in the death of 99 Jews, the destruction of Jewish property and close to 300 synagogs, and the deportation of as many as 30000 Jews to concentration camps.)

The fog horns went off, sending warning signals through her head.

Genocide alert!

Genocide alert! 

You must now register yourself down at city hall or you do not exist

You must now register yourself down at  city hall

we will decide if you exist

 

The fog horns went off

The fog horns went off

sending shivers through her skin

down her spine

through her belly

 

The sirens went off

The sirens went off blasting their warning,

sounding their call

You do not belong here

You are blocking our destiny

You must go back to your bush

your cave

your rock

 

The fog horns went off

The fog horns went off

As if to purify the night air

As if to settle the dust

that draped itself over the cities

Glass shattered

crashing, as if splattered on the pavement

it could put food in their bellies

hope in their hearts

Heads crack like crystal

Hopes line the pavement

 

The sirens went off, the search lights sputtered

In search of them

In search of them

They  are relegating you

They are relegating you

The buses are over here

The trains are over here

We give you your one way ticket

We give you your one way ticket

Your new destinations.

You are blocking our destiny

-Single file

-Your own good

-A gentle transition

We are relocating you

We have relocated you

Genocide alert! genocide alert!

L8S ANG3LES: NOW SHOWING AT THE ANNENBERG SPACE FOR PHOTOGRAPHY

Showing at the Annenberg Space for Photography:

March 27 – June 28, 2009. 
Located at 2000 Avenue of the Stars in Century City, Los Angeles.

Annenberg Space for Photography

 

“It’s the sense of touch. Any real city you walk, you brush past people, people bump into you.  In L.A. nobody touches you, always behind this metal and glass.  I think we miss that touch so much that we crash into each other just so we can feel something. “     -From the film Crash

 

The Annenberg Space for Photograpy

It’s been said, in L.A. there’s no there, there: no culture, no sense of place.  It speaks to the lack of a central identity,  the isolation of freeway travel, the emphasis on personal image, the distance between intimates, both in time and space, the lack of a sense of community,  each of us in our own cocoon existence.   Its not that Los Angles doesn’t have culture, it just fails to invest in its cultural infrastructure, art museums located to avoid community access, or that put a greater emphasis on which benefactor gets which wall named for them, rather than accumulating great pieces to the collection or providing a center for community and connection.  It’s in the small community galleries, coffeehouses, art centers where L.A.’s cultural wealth and connection can be found, where undiscovered, uncelebrated artists’ works are displayed while under and unpublished literary talents recite poetry to the uncelebrated walls; each community, separate, often in ethnic enclaves, apart, unconnected, disjointed, the parts never mingling as a whole.

In the movie Crash, these separate worlds come together only by the intersection of violence and accident. 

Not so the Annenberg Space for Photography’s inaugural exhibit, L8S ANG3LES-images as diverse as the city for which it’s named.  The 8 and the 3 in the title of the exhibit refers to the 11 photographers featured, covering such diverse themes as celebrity portraiture (Douglas Kirkland, Gary Gorman) photo journalism and war photopgrahy (Carolyn Cole, Kirk McKoy, Lawrence Ho, Genaro Molina)  architectural photography (Tim Street Porter, Julius Shulman), social documentary photography (Catherine Opie, Lauren Greenfield),  and hybrid photography combining with other art media (John Baldesari.)

The images in the exhibit in additon to the diversity of genre, range in size from 3×3 inch images to 4×4 foot images, color, black and white, large,  small and medium formats, digital, film,  the glamour and the detritus, the contemporary, and the historical.

Such different styles, approaches, disciplines, formats and focus could have made for a very scattered and unconnected exhibit, but it is exactly that diversity, that make this exhibit a more cohesive whole and provides a unified image of what and who Los Angeles is;  the parts of a whole, the joining of all those tiny community galleries, combined into a symphony performed by 11 of Los Angeles’  most gifted photographers.

Up the escalator of the building, from the garage, and out onto an above the street, plaza, where steel and glass high rise buildings frame the spectacular natural landscape that surrounds the city,  rests the tiny postmodern structure that houses the Annenberg Space for Photography.  The  small space  unlike a community gallery, but also unlike any other Los Angeles museum, packs a powerful amount of art and expression within its walls.  Parking in the structure costs $1 with museum validation.  The exhibit itself is free.  In a city where a family of four needs to plop down almost $40 to go to the Museum of Tolerance, this most L.A. of spaces is so very un Los Angeles, and as such may very well challenge and transform this city away from its disparate and separate parts into something more cohesively aware of itself, (though the Century City location may limit the range of visitors to the space.) There is no glitzy giftshop, no overpriced museum café (reasonably priced restaurants are within close distance) no walls named after obscure benefactors. The space is remarkably accessible to wheelchairs, (another concern of the Annenberg Foundation, of which this space is but one project,) though the parking could have better signage.  (Drive to the elevator to the left, within the parking structure, following the signs to 2000 Avenue of the Stars.  Don’t follow the signs pointing to handicapped parking.) 

The space, designed to resemble the interior workings of a camera, follows a circular path, with a central area, that contains two large screens.  In the back of the structure is a reading room, with a smaller assembly area, more similar to a classroom with a smaller screen.  For this exhibit there were two films; in the main assembly area, on both screens was a film that gave an overview of the photographers and their work.  A less polished and unedited version provided more in depth discussion by the photographers, of their work, vision and process. 

The two films are not available on line or for sale, though I was told might be at a later date, and except where stated, little information was provided about the formats or techniques used in obtaining or processing the images, which would have been helpful and informative. 

The first artist featured in the exhibit is Julius Shulman, who claims to need only one shot, one negative for each project he works on.  He works in large format on black and white film. His prints are impeccably developed with attention to light and shadow.   Born in 1910, he is the oldest photographer featured in the exhibit and his work spans several decades.  His architectural photography is sharp, high contrast and utilizes wide depth of field, allowing the viewer to visualize the structure in the context of the greater geography.  One of the more innovative aspects of his work, is his use of actors within the scene, so that the space has people within it, drawing the viewer in, allowing for a deeply personal and human experience of the space.  Over time, the style of clothing, and props used by the actors sets the image in a historical context as well.  It is a very powerful technique that adds significantly to the depth of his work.

Continuing with the focus on the landscape that is home to Los Angeles’ humanity, the next photographer is another landscape photographer, Tim Street-Porter, who photographed many of the same structures that Shulman photographed, but with a very different tone and result.  He also works in film, though uses more color film than Shulman, His work also has a wide depth of field, with an emphasis on detail.  Where Shulman uses people in his scene to provide depth and context,  Street- Porter uses the natural world as stark contrast to the angular twentieth century architecture that he refers to as L.A.’s “legacy.” For example, in his image of the Disney Hall, the hard curved and angular steel walls stand in stark contrast to the herb garden.  This effect is possible with the use of color film, where the green landscape (or the soft desert colors of Palms Springs) stand in brilliant contrast to the controlled design and lines of the architecture.  His colors are deep and saturated, and his use of environmental and reflective light is precise and powerful.  (The image of Disney Hall, taken before the steel was buffed,  shows white and blue steel walls, refecting the colors of the sky.  In his photo. ““Dawnridge” the residence of Tony Duquette, Beverly Hills, 1967 Ornate Interior with Italian Baroque screen”  he utilizes the ambient sunlight coming through the window on the otherwise unlit room.

 

The next two photographers in the exhibit are portrait photographers who capture images of the glamorous world of celbrity; the image and industry of Los Angeles.  Douglas Kirkland asserts that it is important for a portrait artist to do nothing that  “you would be uncomfortable being done to you.”  Especially interesting was his description of his collaboration with the subject; that “ the photographer an the subject make the picture; the photographer doesn’t make the picture himself.”  His portraits include Morgan Freeman, Bjork, Brigite Bardot Niclole Kidman and others. Most interesting were his photos of Marilyn Monroe and Judy Garland.  Diverging from the glamour of celebrity portraiture, he notes that the images of Monroe, naked with a white silk sheet, were taken only months before her death.  Equally challenging of Hollywood glamour was the image of Judy Garland’s tear filled eyes and tear stained face.  In the film shown in the reading room, Kirkland explains the collaboration that went into both shots.  In the former, the idea of the bed, the sheet and the nudity apparently came from Monroe’s artistic vision.  There were many photos taken of the shoot itself, of Kirkland photographing Monroe.  In stark defiance of the artistic tradition of the objectification of the female form and the essential obliteration of her greater humanity, Kirkland, in describing the power and intensity and his own profound understanding of the collaboration that went into the shoot  challenges so many of those assumptions ever the more significant given that the subject was a woman whose humanity, value and life was obscured by her beauty, her commercial value and the objectification of her sexuality.

Greg Gorman images are close up and intimate and as he explains, reflect the confrontational nature of portrait photography. He states; “For me a photograph is most successful when it doesn’t answer all the questions, and it leaves something to be desired.” While he claims that his work shows a deep humanity, I found his focus to be more formal and less personal than Kirkland’s, and more concerned with image and technique.  I didn’t see his work breaking out of narrow constructs of film celbrity,  and his most famous subjects were little more than props to highlight his technical skill and artistic vison.  His photo of Imman, naked, shows every goosebump on her arm,  though little concern or empathy for her quite apparent discomfort. His inviting image of Leonardo DeCaprio, might beg several questions and assuredly leaves many wanting more, but says little about the person behind this very skilled and polished image.  His thought to detail use of side lighting, dark clothes, close ups and heavy shadows shows impeccable skill, but unlike the other artists in the exhibit do little to actually illuminate our common human experience.  Though within the context of this exhibit  that focuses on all that is Los Angeles,  this nakedly narrow application of immense skill to document celebrity  and image, seems especially appropriate.  

The next two artists in the exhibit are deconstructionist, using photography not only to document our lives but to challenge our core assumptions.

Catherine Opie considers herself a social documentary photographer. Her work explores community, home, gender and relationships.  “We are very fluid with gender and we always have been” she states, in reference to her images of women with mustaches or little boys in tutus.  She captures Los Angeles communities: the local Mercado, the memorial for a slain gang member, friends at home, what it means to be home “what’s behind the closed door.”  She explains.  Her work is in color, including a few Polaroid shots.

Opie’s work is followed by the work of fellow deconstructionist, John Bladessari.  This was perhaps the main incongruity of the exhibit, as I felt her work resonated mostly with Lauren Geenfield’s work,  which was sandwiched between the works of L. A. Times photojournalists. A more fluid transition would have placed Baldessari next to Gorman, followed by Opie and then Greenfield.  Regardless, I found John Baldessari’s work to be least compelling in the entire exhibit.  He combines photographs with paint to make rather trite statements about identity and celebrity, though perhaps in contrast to Gorman’s work, the few prints of his in the exhibit had a contextual value.  There was nothing technically inspiring in his images nor in his print quality.  Obscuring faces with large dots to emphasize our general unimportance, or the false importance we put on image and celebrity, was artistically quick and dirty, showing little innovation, vision or creativity.  If Gorman’s work obliterated the humanity of celebrity though image and glamour, Baldessari obliterated it with condescension and triviality.  His work utilizes mostly vinyl print, snap shot photography, cut outs and paint, in combination.

The rest of the exhibit, with the exception of Lauren Greenfield, focused on the work of L.A. Times photojournalists.  Lawrence Ho, Genaro Molina and  Kirk McKoy photograph L.A. bringing the disparate Los Angeles communities to the whole, every day, in the L.A. Times. These are the artists who capture an entire story, an entire humanity in a single image. In the photograph: Fashion Show, Actors Stuart Townsend, Charlize Theron, Adrian Brody, Kate Capshaw and director, Steven Spielberg  attend a fashion show.  The model stuts past these privileged eyes, who gape at her bikinied body, her head out of the frame.  In the row of  front seat celebrities, one rests her hand on her lap, lined up by the camera so that it also could seem to be grabbing the crotch of the mode;  the model’s anonymity and sexuality on display for the entertainment of privilege and power.  Apparently this event was a fundraiser for the Children’s Action Network.

Equally powerful is Ho’s image of Gustavo Dudamel,  the Venezuelan conductor  who will begin his tenure as Music Director of the Los Angeles Philharmonic in fall 2009.  In this photo, Dudamel is filmed conducting the Los Angeles Philharmonic.  The film is shot at slow speed and narrow depth of field,  so that Dudamel’s hand, wand, hair and jubilant smile seem to move within the still frame, capturing the intense energy he brings to his work.  The light falls just perfectly to illuminate his face and hands.

In Genaro Medina’s  image Maaple Avenue, “A woman and her daughter make their way through the garment district framed by a bubble gum machine along Maple Avenue in Downtown Los Angeles”  The bubble gum machine almost fills the frame. This color print, has wide depth of field, providing a glimpse of  Los Angeles streets and skyline, through the optical distortions of the gum ball machine. 

If there ever was a photo that left me “wanting more” it was Kirk McKoy’s, The Fun Bunch” depicting a group of friends from Inglewood, jumping into a body of water in Marina del Rey.  Printed in black and white, I want to know so much more than what this print reveals: what format was it shot in?  how staged was it?  How many shots were taken?  It is a very different shot, if taken with the non-spontaneous 4×5 or with a digital camera, shooting multiple frames per second. Regardless, the composition and energy of this photograph makes it one of the most memorable of the entire exhibit.  Kirk McKoy is the Senior Features Photo Editor and Deputy for the  Los Angeles Times.

In the exhibit, awkwardly displayed between local Los Angeles Times photographers and L.A. Times war photographer, Carolyn Cole, are the works of anthropological photographer,  Lauren Greenfield whose still and video photography documents youth culture, the impact of media and celebrity on kids from different cultures and how this creates its own homogenized culture.  She addresses the social and emotional lives of girls and “how the body has become the primary expression of identity for girls in contemporary American Culture.”  Her images, in color, contrast consumerism, conformity materialism with the wisp of humanity attempting to escape beyond those limited constructs. Her work exposes “the darker side of stardom and celebrity” and how this impacts youth and their self image. Greenfield provides images of society girls getting ready for the prom, damas on their way to a quinciniera, a young man on his bed looking over designer objects, trying to look rich for the other kids at an exclusive private school, teenagers at the beach, a woman with anerexicia  leaving treatment, a toddler in a dance outfit at an opening of a department store shoe department, a young woman, looking in the mirror, pushing her breast together, talking about her aspirations to be a topless dancer.  Through these incredibly intimate images,  her work delves into “what is public and what is private.”  To do this, she explains, one must gain the trust of the subjects so that they are “okay with having you in their space.”  

 

While this review has amassed almost 3000 words, there was an ineffable quality to both individual work and the exhibit as a whole.  If this inaugural exhibit is any indication, this new space promises to provide Los Angeles with a meeting ground and a much needed artistic infusion, combining its talents with its diversity, quite possibly breaking the Los Angeles divide of freeway and distance. 

 

Webography

http://www.annenbergspaceforphotography.org/

http://www.baldessari.org/

http://www.greggormanphotography.com/

http://www.douglaskirkland.com/

http://www.regenprojects.com/artists/catherine-opie/

http://www.timstreet-porter.com/home.html

 

Filmography

Crash. Paul Haggis. Lionsgate. 2005

.

Poem: Daily resurrections

 

…that your passion may live through its own daily resurrection, and like the phoenix rise above its own ashes. ~Khalil Gibran

seedlings
take hold to delicate earth
words carve images on empty sheets of verse
the house holds musty
the smell of baking bread
there are three new
poems in the world today
that weren’t here before

I wish
I had more strength
the sap sucked from my limbs
by birds of prey
I lie here before the next attack
and prepare my quiet insurrection

each
breath I take is manifesto
against the huge machine
we have yet to dismantle

I wait
for when we can plan the uprising
the birds picking at my heart
taste the bitterness of my tenacity
if you looked into my eyes
you would see clarity

hope
disguised as tears
to fool the vultures

Poem at the Break of War

 

Today marks the 6th anniversary of the latest war against Iraq by Western Imperial forces, funded
by the surplus labor of U.S. and international workers.

They rob us to bomb them.
Emma
__________________

A Poem At the Break of War
March, 19, 2003
By Emma Rosenthal

i can kill the mirror of my own likeness if i do not recognize myself
i can kill you if i do not know that killing you is killing you
i can kill you if i believe you kill me
i can kill you if i have been shattered
i can kill you if i love the sound of shattered glass
i can kill you if i want your death more than i want my life
i can kill you if i think the general is part of me
i can kill you if i love the flag more than the blood that soaks it
i can kill you if  red hands walk down cat walk runways
i can kill you for greed
i can kill you for fashion
i can kill you for land
i can kill you if i have no memory
i can kill you if memory tells me to
i can kill you if i abhor the womb
i can kill you if i despise the breast
i can kill you if the phallus is a weapon
i can kill  you if your children scare me and i wage a war against youth
i can kill you if i hate music
i can kill you if that song keeps playing in my head
i can kill you if the general sings lullabies to me while i sleep
while the general wages war against me
i can kill you if i believe the war is waged for me
i can kill you for privilege
i can kill you for expedience
 i can kill you for luxury
i can kill you if i forget that killing you is killing me

i cannot kill you for truth or hope
i cannot kill you if i know who i see in the mirror
i cannot kill you if i love the womb
i cannot kill you if milk issues from my breasts
i cannot kill you if i know the phallus brings the possibility of life
through the tightness of connection
i cannot kill you if i love windy days on open cliffs
i cannot kill you if the songs of birds wake me before the generals lull
me to sleep
i cannot kill you if my skin wakes up electric
i cannot kill you if i have been taught to think
i cannot kill you if i see you when i look in the mirror
i cannot kill you if your name dances in my mind
i cannot kill you if i dance naked in the rain
i cannot kill you if i see you naked and i love your wounds
i cannot kill you if the tides tell the time and the moon lights the
night
i cannot kill you if i live on this rock in space and i know we live
together
i cannot kill you if our words touch
i cannot kill you if i know you bleed
i cannot kill you if i hear your voice
i cannot kill you if i hear your prayers and chant them with you
i cannot kill you if i know your innocence
i cannot kill you if i see your children resting in your arms
i cannot kill you if i love the general and call him home
i cannot kill you if there is a river in my heart
*************

This battle
Emma Rosenthal

forswears
a war based on
lies whispered in the night
in panic stored under pillows
in centuries of fear

this battle invites
the complexity of your existence
the embrace of one we have been told to hate
love against terror
passion over dominion

this battle affirms
revelation
the rejection of lies
in thirty second sound bytes
greedy promises
false alliance

this battle implores
we understand the complexion of wealth
the essence of water
the sanctity of land
the wall between neighbors

this battle requires
a fight with open hands
and broken heart
i am not afraid to show you my wounds
nor tend to yours

nor am i afraid of connection
or honest deliberation

this battle commands
diligent study
patient instruction
honors life through righteous living
requires that i do not avert my eyes
that i insist you look at mine

this battle asserts
that i sleep soundly
that i  not disturb growing seedlings
worship the simple sacred
the sanctity of skin and blood and bone and sex
wishes tenderness
whispers embracing kindness
imploring me to take you in
deeply

this battle grasps
the intimacy of risk
love:  the ultimate rebellion
courage of the unarmed
cup in hand
offering sustenance
to those who would speak ill of us
and do us harm

this battle  enlists
the soldier: calling him home
drawing a circle in the sand
together, all of us
no lines and battlefields
no body bags
the smell of death

this battle realizes
the generals will not bring us truth
when they kill you
i must hear the absence of your breath
the silencing of voices never heard
the ashes of  flesh, untouched
diminished faces never seen

this battle obliges
that we rend our clothes
bow our heads
take in your death as if you were
our sister
our lover
our  child

this battle demands
we carry you
pressed in a book of poems
the battle cry of hope against the thunder clouds
of bombs and sirens

this battle enjoins
us
bound together
i wipe the tears from your cheek
as if they were my own
holding  tightly
you to me
against
the machine
that would take
you
away
from us
forever

©2003 Emma Rosenthal  All Rights Reserved.  Permission to copy or
forward in its entirety.

Obituary and Memorial

Alfred M. Loeb, Presente
December 10 1926 – October 25, 2006

In lieu of flowers, the family is asking that donations be made to Sojourner House in Rochester N.Y.

http://www.sojournerhouse.org/contr.html

My father died this morning. He had been on a respirator for several days and decided to be taken off the machine. He and I had a complicated relationship and hadn’t spoken for several years. But grief knows it’s own timeline and even the profoundest of separations are widened by death.

Alfred Morton Loeb, my father; was a civil rights activist, a computer scientist, a skier who was involved in alpine sky rescue and back country ski camping into his seventies, an avid cyclist (until a year and a half ago when, at the age of 78, on a 30 mile bike ride, he hit a car that was going through a stop sign.) He was an amazing photographer, whose work has yet to be catalogued and given its proper due. He could fix anything and everything. He loved classical music but didn’t understand poetry and hated rock and roll.

He is survived by: his wife of 57 years, my mother and biochemist Marilyn Rosenthal Loeb, my sister, Judith Whitaker and her two children: Caleb and Maya, my brother, Andrew Loeb, my son, Leon and me.

Despite the chasm between my father and me: the bridges burned, the broken spirits, the heartbreaks on both sides of the divide; he gave me who I was. So much of what we receive in life is monetary and material. When I was five years old He bestowed upon me the most precious of endowments, the most valuable of inheritances: knowledge of my purpose in life. There are deciding moments in all purpose driven lives. Here is the telling of that moment in mine when my course was determined for me; when I knew what I would do with my time on this rock.

*********************

<>My Father’s Yellow Feet

<>By Emma Rosenthal

<>The year I was conceived, the FBI took out a freshly pressed manila file, put my last name on the file tab, and waited for my birth to fill in the rest of the information.

My father was just another Jewish activist so there was little doubt that this child; his first born, who would be raised in red swaddling cloths, on picket lines, boycotts and demonstrations; would need to be monitored. That year, my father, a staunch supporter of gun control, a man who despised gun ownership, placed a loaded shot gun beneath my parents’ bed because of threats on his life, on our lives, because of work he was doing in fair housing. In that bed, over that loaded gun, I gestated for nine months.

I was five when he went to Selma to march to Montgomery with Dr. King. By court order only 200 marchers would be allowed to travel the full distance to be met by a larger rally in Montgomery, if and when they finally arrived. I was unaware of the danger and was only filled in awe. Jewish freedom riders did not always arrive home safely. My daddy was going to march for freedom. Freedom; a word that would echo through my home for many years.

This was the second march. The first one ended in a bloody riot when the police attacked the marchers and they were forced to turn back. My father was gone for the longest time but all I really remember were the calloused deformities he had when he came home. His feet recovered from that journey but he still bears hard yellow reminders of that long march. I remember him resting on his bed after he had returned. I looked at those bruised, yellowed feet and said with all the determination my five year old spirit could muster; “The next freedom march you go on Daddy, I’m going with you.”

The next march I remember was a memorial service in Philadelphia, as with other cities all over the world. Someone had shot Dr. King. I remember standing in the line of humanity, I remember the air on my skin, I remember the green, green lawn of the arboretum, I remember the somber spirit of the crowd, I remember the voices echoing through microphones and speakers. I remember being nine years old, and somebody had shot Dr. King.

A year later my father made plans to take a bus to Washington D.C. to march against the war. These were safer times to march, but the sting of the fifties, the threats against his life, the assassination of the Rosenbergs, the McCarthy witch hunts, Cheney, Shverner and Goodman, four little girls, Malcolm, Evers, King and many others, still were fresh in his mind. He would not take me. It wasn’t safe.

I had to go.

This was freedom and I had promised his calloused yellow feet that I would go on the next march. “If a man does not have something he is willing to die for he is not fit to live” I said as I quoted Dr. King. It was 1969. I was almost eleven years old. I’m not sure how much I understood about rice paddies, napalm and imperialism, but my father was going and I had to go with him.

I had to go.

There was no way I could let him go without me. I argued and polemicized with him for days until he finally conceded that he would take me. My mother packed us reubens for lunch and he made me wear a dress so that we would look respectable, no torn blue jeans for us. It was a green sweater and a matching skirt that just reached my knee. I remember. I remember because it was a cold day in Washington in 1969, November 15. I remember the bus and the old woman who gave me brownies to eat and the edges had been burned in the pan. I remember the rows and rows of yellow busses, I remember the button, long since lost, a white hand forming a peace sign against a black silhouette of the capital building. I remember seeing the marble buildings of the Capital and L’Enfant Plaza, with its large light bulb street lights, the Washington memorial. I remember the pro war protesters telling me to go back to Russia, a place my ancestors had lived in and died in and could never return to. I remember the smell of marijuana, the chanting and the singing, the speakers, the crowds. I really remember the cold, my stockinged legs, the cold air and no protection from it, but most of all I remember not caring that I had to get up at four in the morning, not caring that the air burned my skin, not caring that I was hungry or thirsty. I just cared that I was there, that he brought me and that I would do this again many, many times.

I am sure that my initial FBI file has swollen and perhaps fills many boxes. For years my mail has sporadically arrived opened and the clicks on the phone are reminders that very little is truly private. My name appears on hit lists and blacklists. I receive the occasional death threat. I turn away from cameras at demonstrations unless I know the photographer. And I have photographed them too. (I have my own files.) There may yet be a day of reckoning.

I am tired of police officers in uniform holding video cameras. I am tired of the cops who come right up to me and shoot my picture while I stand under a red banner. Most of all I am tired of the ones out of uniforms; the G-men and women who sit in on meetings and pretend to fight for freedom, who feign that longing in their eyes, all the while taking notes and foaming discontent within the group. I know we have made mistakes, over the years of organizing I have seen movements come and go, groups break and splinter. I only wish I new which mistakes were ours, which discord was truly part of the movement and which was caused by infiltration, government espionage and counterintelligence programming.

I wish I knew.

I march with my small child and keep my eyes on the baton yielding men with helmets on horseback. I am ready to grab up my child with the power of motherhood and run if need arises. I am afraid for him in demonstrations, I am afraid for him as he grows into a man in a society afraid of its youth but I bring him. He never had to ask. “No blood for oil” was one of his first sentences and for years he would point to the Federal building and call it “Peace now.” I carried him on the picket line of the L.A. teachers’ strike and nursed him between picket duty and cluster meetings. I carry my father with me too. He doesn’t march with me any more, not in form, but he is there in spirit and I remember his feet, his calloused feet he brought back form Alabama and the promises I made to them. I will always remember those feet.

The Smokescreen of “Anti-Semitism” and the Destruction of a Community Farm

The Smokescreen of “Anti-Semitism” and the Destruction of a Community Farm

By Emma Rosenthal

Ralph Horowitz credits alleged anti-Semitic remarks directed at him as his unique reason for refusing to sell the South Central farm to the farmers. It is important to note that there has been considerable support for the farm from members of the Jewish community, including a number of Rabbis, and the web page of the South Central Farmers, in response to these allegations, has an uncompromising condemnation of anti-Semitism. Additionally, none of the statements, or speeches by the leaders and spokespeople for the farm, nor the banners and posters that lined the fence around the farm contained any of the vitriol Horowitz ascribes to the movement as a whole. It would be impossible for the leaders of this movement to control or to be responsible for every statement, letter, email and web page of those who claim to support the farm. Perhaps a few errant individuals may have made such hateful, disparaging and unacceptable statements, but to associate the actions of a few with the farmers themselves or their appointed spokespeople would be to replicate the exact same bigotry such alleged statements embody.

Additionally, to believe Horowitz, that these remarks were what changed his mind, contradicts the intractable position he maintained throughout the entire campaign to save the farm, not withstanding, what he himself claimed was a weak moment when he briefly offered to consider a sale that would have amounted to a multi million dollar profit for him.

Equally preposterous is the claim that he was personally insulted or victimized by these alleged accusations and insults. Nothing in Horowitz’ behavior during this entire episode indicates that he was at all concerned with what anyone thought of him: not as a businessman, community member nor as a member of any particular ethnic group. It is also improbable that these racist insults offended Mr. Horowitz’ sense of moral outrage, as it would appear from his behavior that he has little concern for social justice or human rights. As for being a victim; Mr. Horowitz saw to profit considerably from the sale of the farm. (Through back room deals in 2003 the city sold the farm to Horowitz for the same 5 million dollars it cost them to purchase it under eminent domain in the late 1980’s.) His original request for 16.3 million dollars from poor subsistence farmers was an obscenity. His refusal to sell it after weeks of fundraising displayed a flagrant lack of good faith.

The cry of “anti-Semitism” from someone so wealthy and powerful as Mr. Horowitz is nothing more than one more political strategy, one sly attempt to save face, the false play of the race card, the distortion of the real body politic and in the end, a desensitization to real acts of racism and bigotry against Jews, especially those Jews not protected by wealth and power. While crying about social and personal responsibility; disregarding the hard work, sweat and financial equity put into the farm by the farmers: the profound relationship of farmer to soil, the infrastructure of trees and perennials, the value of the crops in time and sustenance; Mr. Horowitz seems to take no responsibility for his own behavior. For while Mr. Horowitz is entitled to all the greed and selfishness of his wealthy Anglo-Saxon counterparts; free from racist attacks on his character, or his ethnic group, it seems ironic that while he has embodied many negative Jewish stereotypes, it doesn’t occur to him that it is not he who is a victim of these generalizations, as the stereotypes so clearly do apply to him individually. Racists and bigots are uniquely responsible for their bigotry and as such, Mr. Horowitz is not responsible for the bigotry of these alleged messengers. But his misuse of this most grievous accusation within this specific social construct does little to discourage such conclusions and only serves as a meager justification for Horowitz’ lust for power and money. If anyone is to be offended by anti-Jewish comments directed at Mr. Horowitz, it is the world’s 14 million Jews who have cause to feel slighted by association with Mr. Horowitz and his un-neighborly behavior, in the unfortunate event that his individual traits of greed and wealth be applied to us all.

<>©2006 Emma Rosenthal All Rights Reserve

Bob McCloskey for Congress: 3 Poems

These are the poems I read at the recent fundraiser for Bob’s campaign

http://www.takingbackthehouse.org/

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Daily resurrections

…that your passion may live through its own daily resurrection, and like the phoenix rise above its own ashes. ~Khalil Gibran

seedlings
take hold to delicate earth
words carve images on empty sheets of verse
the house holds musty
the smell of baking bread
there are three new
poems in the world today
that weren’t here before

I wish
I had more strength
the sap sucked from my limbs
by birds of prey
I lie here before the next attack
and prepare my quiet insurrection

each
breath I take is manifesto
against the huge machine
we have yet to dismantle

I wait
for when we can plan the uprising
the birds picking at my heart
taste the bitterness of my tenacity
if you looked into my eyes
you would see clarity

hope
disguised as tears
to fool the vultures
____________________________________________
twenty-five steps to a stronger portfolio

1. learn to steal
2. disguise debt and theft behind legislation
3. invest in war
4. ignore the greater good
5. deify wealth
6. appreciate the poor you are eating their dinner
7. mismanage the earth and patent nature
8. patently lie
9. call theft industriousness
10. praise greed- name it success – call it spirituality
11. write a book about getting rich and wait for fool to buy it
12. affirm the laws apply to everyone
13. go for short term gains
14. follow in daddy’s footsteps
15. pretend everyone has the same opportunity
16. maintain strict double standards
17. exalt and defend privilege
18. convince the working class to aspire to be you
19. persuade the working class they are responsible for their own situation
20. hide your greed behind the flag – get poor boys to fight for oil -offshore investments – runaway shops – maquiladora labor
21. believe in your own entitlement
22. assume the divinity of privilege
23. call lack of wealth – lack of spirituality
24. invest in disparate opportunity
25. pray for the poor and kick them in the head

__________________________________________
an artists insurrection against impending armageddon

we have reached the end of days
if we listen to the generals
the strange interpretation of biblical text
we are approaching armageddon
there is no room for artist in heaven

along with jews and other infidels
we will all burn in a sea of fire
as the generals and soldiers
these crusaders in a war for oil and empire
march through the gates of heaven

how do they envision paradise?
is there any room for imagination
beyond the brilliant justification for world destruction
these ends of days are like a funeral durge
slow measured frightened and beautiful

we march behind the soldiers
in contrast to their naked brutality
we sell flowers on street corners
chant durges on the steps of city hall
paint our forms in chalk on corporate pavement

there is more for us in paradise
than these hollow promises
we cannot march to the drummers of the death knell
i dance to the sounds of the birds and the wind
the crickets whisper to me the direction to take in battle

we fight with paint brushes brooms and sewing needles
reconstruct from the ashes of their bitterness
a sea of transformation splendor majesty
hope against the fear of sky scrapers
and the destruction of the city commons

where can i meet you
will i see you at the library or the marketplace
we have no space in common anymore
each leaf and blade of grass is patented by monsanto
even my own garden isn’t mine

in defiance i sow forbidden seeds
hide fugitive artists in my garage
stash implements of self expression behind the tomato plants
hide remedy in soup bowls
sneak books of poetry across the border of forbidden thoughts

let us gather our plows and printing presses
march out our army of artisans, poets philosophers
mothers children the disabled
we shall gather in front of the monuments to corporate monopoly
creative, we shall do more than merely redistribute wealth

let us paint a mural against the bitterness of capital
let us dance with fingerprints upon the freshly polished glass
let us reconstruct deconstruct the corporate structure
let us build a monument to hope from the finest marble
gather our finest sculptors to chisel away the corporate greed

let us create a world of wealth not measured in numbers on digital screens
abundance in the depth of paintings sprawled on canvas in children’s art classes
in the prolific dances in newly reclaimed public gardens
in the flowers that bloom organic to meet the paint brushes
in the heart that meets the hands that bridge divides of freeway and distance

the dismantled impositions of capitol and greed
they cannot take you away from me
let us storm the bastille and free those trapped behind stolen opportunities
lost dreams, misplaced hope, false divisions, broken promises
gather the dispossessed and storm the factories of death and theft

let me meet you in the public square after we have dismantled corporate tyranny
taken back our territory granting it to our children in collective perpetuity
we will reclaim this paradise with our hammers and chisels paint brushes keyboards
paint and build and dance and sing through the gates of paradise
an artists insurrection against impending Armageddon

________________________

Comments

bravo these are achingly beautiful
Posted by rheim on 05/19/2006 03:23:54 PM

Quiet Insurrections! -May Day, Letter to the Editor and Grandmother’s tales

My grandmother’s quilt, circa 1920. Each circle is identical to the tip of an umbrella. My grandmother worked in a sweatshop from the ages of 9-13 making unbrellas. Photo by Emma Rosenthal.

On the crest of the impending wave about to strike every city and town this Monday, I offer the following musings: The first is a letter to the editor, I sent to the L.A. Times, Los Angeles Jewish Journal and the Pasadena Star News. The second; My Grandmother’s Knitting Needles, was first published in LoudMouth Magazine, Cal State L.A.’s Feminist Newspaper in Issue 4: Winter 2004. It is the story of my own grandmother and a reminder that if we did deep enough, most of us will find that at least one member of our family is an immigrant with dubious entry documents, or no documents at all. While current immigrants hail mostly from Mexico, Central America and Asia, immigration discrimination has been a national plague dating back to the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 and since then, reflected in one piece of repressive legislation after another; directed mostly against peoples of Asia, the global South and Eastern and Southern Europe. Poor working conditions, exploited labor, insufficient educational programs have long plagued wave after wave of immigrants. The exploitation of undocumented workers has been a keystone of U.S. capital. The pejorative anti- Italian term WOP, simply means, “without papers”, used to refer to undocumented immigrants, by greedy employers. The term was used universally, it simply stuck on the Italians.

So, I hope to make my way down to the demonstrations on Monday, but should my health limit my participation, I offer these quiet insurrections.

Peace with justice, from occupied Atzlan,

Emma Rosenthal
________________________________

Dear Editor:
Only workers in the United States and Great Britain have to declare a boycott on May first, not to go to work on that day. In all the other countries in the world, May Day is a holiday: International Workers’ Day, which grew out of the Haymarket Riots in Chicago, Ill. in 1886 when eleven people were killed during a demonstration, when a bomb went off in the crowd, and police fired on strikers fighting for the eight hour work day. Five activists, four (German) immigrants -anarchists, were accused of throwing the bomb, and despite witness testimony to the contrary, were hung, executed by the state. May Day grew into an international holiday, but in the U.S. due to red baiting and reactionary labor and governmental policies, an alternate Labor Day became the official holiday. Cleverly timed for the first Monday in September, before the school year begins, working class contributions and consciousness are little recognized even for one day, in our nation’s schools.

Few workers in the U.S. know the words to Solidarity Forever, leave alone the words to the Internationale, few know about the Haymarket strike or the Uprising of the twenty thousand. Few know who Samuel Gompers or Eugene Debs are. We are a people from many lands, torn up by the roots, wandering aimlessly, unaware of our own past as immigrants or as workers.

But this Monday brings a new breeze to the U.S. and labor landscape, because we are about to witness, and many of us are about to participate in the largest strike, perhaps the largest mass mobilization, in U.S. history. It is no accident that we are brought back to our own history, our own May Day by immigrant workers, reminding us of the international holiday that actually began on U.S. soil. Oh the many contributions of immigrants to our wide, deep and varied cultural mosaic.

These are exciting times indeed.

Emma Rosenthal
818-404-5784

__________________________________
My Grandmother’s Knitting Needles
By Emma Rosenthal

“What the woman who labors wants is to live, not simply exist–the right to life as the rich woman has it, the right to life, and the sun, and music, and art. You have nothing that the humblest worker has not a right to have also. The worker must have bread, but she must have roses too.” -Garment worker Rose Schneiderman, August 1912

Her hands moved like mercury. The click clack of the needles, back and forth, the yarn spinning from the ball on the floor into the moving swarm of hands and needles, emerging as form, as hats, gloves, scarves, sweaters. “Watch and learn,” she would tell me, and I tried but all I saw was the miraculous transformation of a ball of yarn into cloth. She had grandmother hands, bumpy where the veins stood out, loose soft skin.

“Before a girl could get married in my village she had to prove that she was patient enough for the task,” she told me. “They would give her a bundle of tangled yarn,” she would say, as we would struggle to untangle wool, or rope or extension cords. She told the story as she wound yarn into balls for knitting. “If she could not untangle the yarn, she could not get married.” I remember that story every time I have something to untangle. I would never settle for a village marriage, but patience is a skill applied to any task worthy of completion.

By the time she was five she had lost her entire immediate family. It is not clear if they died of illness and starvation, or were killed in pogroms, massacres committed by Polish or Russian authorities against the Jewish peasants throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Either way, it was governmental policies towards the Jews that killed them, living in the region that was Poland one day, Russia the next, bombarded by Cossacks, government sanctioned thugs that rode in on horseback killing and destroying everything in their sight, slashing open the bellies of pregnant women, raping children, killing the livestock, burning homes. She remembered being thrown into a root cellar by her aunt when she was only six to hide from the Cossacks, hidden among the carrots and parsnips, potatoes and rutabagas while death, destruction, ravaged in the streets above her. At six, she landed on Ellis Island in New York Harbor, with her aunt and nephews, on the false passport of her dead cousin. They came to join her uncle in New York, in America, where there is such abundance that they shovel gold in the streets. What she found was the tenements of New York’s Lower East Side. Delancy Street, Hester Street. A three room, cold water walk up flat on the fourth floor. There was no bath, the toilet was in the hallway, shared by all the families on the floor. She slept in the kitchen.
She decided to go to work. At age nine she went to the factory by day and school at night. Now she had three different identities, as common to the immigrant experience as cheap labor and cloth dust. She was of course, herself – Anna Kaufman – daughter of Aaron Moses Kaufman and Choma Reingold. Her passport gave her the identity of her dead cousin. And now she had a third set of documents, for work, identifying her as a thirteen year old. She found employment in an umbrella factory, making the tips of umbrellas.
She worked there for three years. By the time she was 12, she was able to make every part of the umbrella and was now a shop forelady. It was that year, 1909 that a strike broke out in the garment industry. The strike, led mostly by Jewish and Italian immigrant teenagers, was named the Uprising of the 20,000. Not a machine whirred, not a wheel turned. The strike that began on November 22, 1909, lasted almost four months, through the winter and ended on March 8, 1910. She wasn’t a leader in the strike, but she left her lofted position of middle management and walked out with the other workers in one of American history’s biggest strikes. “I didn’t want to be a scab,” she told me.
Such a different world, where a 12 year old girl knows the sanctity of a picket line and the importance of righteous bread.
“Watch and learn,” she would tell me, her hands moving like silver as yarn became cloth. “Watch and learn.” She would tell me.

I still can’t knit. I never have crossed a picket line.

Hurricane Katrina and Refugee Status

Hurricane Katrina and Refugee Status
By Emma Rosenthal

My grandmother was a refugee. By the time she was six years old, she had lost her entire family to genocide. I don’t know if my great-grandparents and their children were murdered in the brutality of daily pogroms or if they simply died of starvation and poverty imposed by a racist regime on a marginalized population. Either way, my grandmother was part of a wave of Jewish refugees fleeing persecution and genocide in Russia and Poland at the turn of the previous century.

Legally, my grandmother was not a refugee. That is, she was not conferred refugee status. But by all current definitions of a refugee, my grandmother most certainly should have qualified as one. She came on the false passport of her dead cousin, traveling with her only living relative, her mother’s sister. Her Uncle was already living in New York City and through him, the family was able to immigrate to the United States.

When the media referred to the victims of Katrina as refugees, there was great protestation within the African American community at the use of the word, that it was racist, the victims of the hurricane were “Americans”, not foreigners, not refugees, that it implied that the victims of the hurricane and government policy were being dehumanized as less “American.” For some critics, it perhaps triggered memory of wave of immigrant and refugee group that displaced African American populations in jobs and housing, and then moved on, and in some cases, up.

For the most part, he media, to their credit, responded in uncharacteristic haste and stopped using the offending term, replacing it with the term, “evacuees”. Self-definition is a basic aspect of self-determination, so if someone doesn’t want to be called a refugee, then no one should impose the title. But I must raise a concern for the humanity of the huddled masses of the world In the battle for social justice, none can afford to wage a competition between the have nots and the have nots, the divide and conquer that allows the ruling class to use its manufactured divisions and its granting of spoonfuls of privilege to one group at the expense of both, what Audre Lorde refers to as horizontal hostility. Ours must be a battle of universal humanity, the determination that all life is equally of value. Many of the world’s refugees are the victims of the same hubris and greed, the same elite, the same multinationals, the same policies as the evacuees of New Orleans.

In dialogue with friends of mine from many ethnic groups, who have for years referred to themselves or their families as refugees, I heard “What’s wrong with being a refugee?” Some were markedly offended at the rejection of the term. I wasn’t as offended as I was disturbed by the divide birthed in the denunciation of this word. When I first heard “refugee” in reference to the displaced people of New Orleans, while I understand the offense taken, it did not strike me as a disparaging remark, but it did jolt me. Every year there are hurricanes. Every year people are displaced, but this disaster has a political and human magnitude that is unsurpassed in recent U.S. history. It marks, at the very least, the largest migration of U.S. citizens in more than a century. The thought of a refugee problem, as desperate as any calamity world wide, originating in the United States shocked me. I think it was the use of this word that first helped me understand the magnitude of the situation, the displacement of more than half a million people, the racism and classism of government policies and neglect. I can’t speak for the media establishment, or members of the ruling class. I am not part of either estate. But I would imagine that for many Americans, not least of all, those of Jewish, Irish, Armenian, Haitian, Central American, Arab (especially Palestinians) descent, the term may have also been a wake up call, an indication of the severity of the situation. It may very well have heightened our solidarity. I know it had that impact on me.

Perhaps this is a clash of narrative, for while many ethnic groups have been marginalized and massacred by U.S. governmental foreign and domestic policy, having faced injustice here, even while seeking refuge, African Americans, brought by force, are the only group whose human status has been specifically and legally diminished as 3/5 human, written in ink that has stained the fabric of the U.S. Constitution at its inception. The racism against African Americans has a unique grasp on American history, the American Psyche and the American narrative.

To many of us, who either arrived here as refugees or whose families did, the term offers no disparagement. We see refugees when we look in the mirror, when we pray, when we revisit family photo albums, when we tell our children our family narratives. For Jews it is the story of wanderings, expulsions. For the Irish, it is the potato famine, caused, not by natural disaster, but by colonization, poverty, poor land management, lack of indigenous rights, monocultural agricultural methods and greed. For Haitians it is boats unseaworthy, the cover of darkness and, if caught, return to brutality, tourture, death. For Central Americans it is the trauma of secret wars, torture, executions, death squads, the fight for labor and indigenous rights. For Armenians it is the struggle for recognition as the first major genocide of the twentieth century, For Cambodians, the killing fields. For Rwandans it is the million killed in 100 days, slashed to death with machetes, torn apart by the remnants of conflict sewn by retreating colonialism, replaced with neo-liberalism and neo colonialism, while the world turned its back. For Palestinians it is uprooted olive trees, checkpoints, exile, nakba, the key to a door to the house in the village that no longer exists, despair, mixed with the hope, that under international law of the implementation, eventually, of the right of return. And while many Palestinians live in desperate conditions in refugee camps in Jordan, Lebanon and the territories occupied by Israel since 1967, many Palestinians, who also refer to themselves as refugees, and also hope to return to their homes and villages, live and work and were born here in the United States. Many, living in first world comfort, are doctors, lawyers, teachers, businessmen and women, but they are, nonetheless refugees, deprived by both Israeli and U.S. policy of the right of return, of their most basic indigenous rights. For most of these peoples it is the story of genocide, displacement, eviction, policies meted out to rid the land of the people. Refugees are not just the tired poor huddled masses of foreign lands, they are a significant part of the narrative that built this country.

More offensive, in my opinion, was the priority placed on animal rescue, the chartering of private air conditioned busses and airplanes for the airlifting of dogs and cats, some traveling in first class accommodations while people, mostly poor and Black, remained in sub-human, life threatening conditions in the toxic soup that filled the streets of New Orleans.

For many of us, being a refugee doesn’t make you less of us, less “American.” it makes you one of us. It helps us to understand your story, the current situation. It is our language of suffering.
And yet, without a doubt, by international definition, the displaced people from New Orleans are not refugees. Under international and national law, refugees are people displaced by political turmoil due to their political affiliation or group membership that have crossed an international border.

Left to die in the flood waters, deprived of food or water or medicine for days, locked into a flooded region without supplies, then, days later, forced at gun point to leave their homes and their city, shot at for foraging for food and water, divided from family members, the victims of a class and race war that has been waged against the people of the United States, by the government of the United States, and multinational corporations, not having crossed an international border, the People of New Orleans, are not refugees. (Unless they took refuge in Mexico or Canada) they are Displaced Persons. Refugees (when recognized as such) have rights and status under both national and international law. They have the right of safe passage and the right of return. The displaced persons do not. They are at the whim of the government, their only hope, being the will of the people to find justice in a most unjust and deliberate storm.

Not that George Bush and Company caused the hurricane, but they saw it coming, literally, in the days leading up to the storm, and intellectually, in the years preceding it. While corporate spin masters reconstructed the English language to change the more declaratory term, “global warming”, to the more sanitized, “climate change”, scientists had been warning about the impending rise of sea level, the risk of harsher weather conditions. More specifically, it was clear that in the event of a massive hurricane, New Orleans was doomed. While government agencies blocked aid and waited to attend to the sick, stranded and dying, the port and offshore oilrigs were secured and private no bid contracts were awarded to Halliburton. Like the stolen elections of 2000 and 2004, these events don’t happen on their own, they are part of back room policy and planning. That the current administration has little concern for the opinions and lives of common folk is evidenced by the rush to war for oil and empire and the dismantling of the social and industrial infrastructure here at home, without our consent. This brazen grasp for power without even the pretext of popular consent is what is unprecedented, the hubris of a ruling class whose only mistake was not having a hand on the pulse of the nation. The dialogue on race has changed and they didn’t see that coming. While government abandoned the people of New Orleans, the people of the nation and the world set up lemonade stands, car washes, food and clothing drives, concerts, collections for the people of New Orleans. Many opened their homes and took in strangers. We were outraged at the brutality of the government. The overt racism and classism of government policies in the days after the hurricane, brought the issue of race and class to the fore of American dialogue. It is this dialogue that is the only hope, not only of the people of New Orleans, but for the rest of us as well. For while the levees broke in Louisiana, the poverty that locked the residents into the city so they could not evacuate before the storm, the lack of government planning and willingness (contrasted to the efforts when disaster has hit more affluent areas,) to assist and finance that evacuation, the forced evacuation after the storm, the disempowerment that threatens to keep them from returning to their homes is also a yoke around the necks of the rest of us as well. Decades of government policy, of both political parties has resulted in lower paying jobs without health care, the break down of our health care emergency system, our education system, our safety net, the build up of private industry and the sacking of public funds for private use including the newest form of slavery; the prison industry (whereby private businesses run prisons in which prisoners work as slave laborers for the profits of these enterprises.) Every mother who has had to fight for life saving health care, struggled with diminished educational, youth and public health programs, including mental health programs that allow our children to thrive, every family that struggles to put food on the table, to send children to college, to have options beyond prison, the military and Walmart, lives under the wheel of this machine. Both nationally and internationally, the impact of U.S. empire strangles the poor through overt military action or the discretion of neo-liberal policies and neglected infrastructure, where the poor drown and starve behind broken levees while the rich rush in to sweep up the profits and grab up the land.

U.S. immigration law provides right of entry and legal status to those it grants refugee status. Many would be refugees, (for example, Central Americans and Haitians running from death squads, Jews fleeing Nazi Germany,) have died because of a racist unwillingness to confer status on those fleeing persecution. Who receives refugee status also reflects the racist and political priorities of the ruling regime. During the cold war era, the Cuban upper class and Soviet dancers easily received refugee status. Mayan peasants fleeing death squads often did not and were returned, against all international law, to their country of origin to face certain death. Currently, U.S. Immigration prisons are full of men, women and children (yes, children) who cling to the (hated) word, “refugee” for dear life, hoping to be endowed with its status, people, whose only crime is a desire to flee persecution and take refuge in the United States. Refugee status is a lifesaver. It offers membership, privilege and status. Privilege that I fear the people of New Orleans won’t have. Once the water recedes, and the rebuilding begins, will the how and the why and the use of the billions Bush and the Congress promise be determined by the returning multitudes, or will the efforts of the government to refuse aid, so that people would leave, and not return, pay off for big business? Will the poor be gone, and high rise condos and the ports and oil fields be in the hands of the wealthy and powerful? Will the New Orleans French quarter be rebuilt like a Vegas version of Egypt, Paris or New York, or will power be endowed to the people? Seized by the people? Will the market determine the price of housing in the new New Orleans, or will we all insist that affordable, safe housing be built for the poor and working class who resided in the region before the deluge? Can the sons and daughters of former slaves and the sons and daughters of former refugees band together to insist that the rights of return and the right of safe passage, apply to displaced persons regardless of borders crossed or uncrossed? Can we insist that public funds, fund public jobs, build public infrastructure, in New Orleans, in the United States and abroad, that our resources, our labor, not go into the hands of multinational corporations in bids for power, profit, oil and empire, but build bridges and levees here at home and in solidarity around the world?

Implementing Relative Calm: Israeli Prime Minister Announces Unilateral Cease Fire

AS PUBLISHED: Arabic Internet Media Network
http://www.amin.org/eng/uncat/2005/nov/nov8-1.html
AMIN

<> <>November 8, 2005
Implementing Relative Calm:
Israeli Prime Minister Announces Unilateral Cease Fire
By: Emma Rosenthal*
<><>Jerusalem:Israeli Prime Minister, Tzedek ben Shalom[i] announced today, in a landmark decision, that the Israeli government has agreed to talks with all major Palestinian organizations and has declared a unilateral cease fire, putting an end to checkpoints, differentiated license plates, housing discrimination, ghettos, house demolitions, land seizures, military incursions, summary executions, random shootings, targeted killings, road and school closures, city wide lockdowns[ii] and general hegemony in the region, in a move that would restore centuries of relative calm[iii] and peaceful co-existence between Jews, Muslims and Christians after nearly a century long breach of historical co-existence. <>

In a rare statement, Israeli Prime Minister Tzedek ben Shalom, declared: “Commencing immediately we will begin a program to beat our swords into plowshares and neither study nor teach war any more[iv].” On the issue of state violence, he stated: “For years we have admonished the Palestinians for violence while violently suppressing non-violent Palestinian protest. We shall begin to follow our own advice and admonition and implementing a policy of non-violence, for certainly if non-violence is the preferred method of conflict resolution for subjects of a regime, it can be no less appropriate for those in power. And if violence against the state raises moral questions, then violence on behalf of the state must also be condemned”

He went on to say that financial aid and military support from the global superpower would no longer be acceptable as such backing was not within the vital interests of the peoples in the region.[v]

“I am dissolving the current government and have declared open elections with full franchise to all adults over the age of 18, living within historic Palestine.” He added that voting accommodations would be made for, and full franchise granted to Palestinians residing outside of the indicated territory, that all barriers to return would be lifted and that special funds for repatriation would be available to Palestinians in the Diaspora, similar to funds that have been provided by the State to Diaspora Jews wishing to make aliyah,[vi]

“I have asked the government of Venezuela to send a delegation to oversee and certify the election and campaign process.” He said, citing recent Venezuela elections and popular uprisings in which the people of Venezuela defended their democracy from U.S. imperialist intervention.[vii] “We are impressed by the tenacity of the people of Venezuela in their resistance to both overt and covert pressures exerted on that government by the ‘Imperialist Entity.’ “

U.S. officials were also reported to have offered to assistance with election monitoring but were declined. Israeli officials cited historic examples of U.S. intervention in elections worldwide, a history of domestic policies that denied full voting rights to women, African Americans and to immigrants lacking requisite documents, as well as recent events within the current boundaries of the United States, specifically in those territories presently referred to as Florida and Ohio, (more historically known as the Seminole and the Erie Nations) [viii] in which specific official arrangements had been made to prevent full franchise to African-Americans, non-Cuban-Latinos and American Jews[ix]. Ben Shalom went on to admonish mainstream American Jewish organizations for not being more vocal on this issue at the time, careful to reiterate that Jewish franchise was not more nor less important than that of any other group, but that, had American Jewish organizations been more focused on Diaspora issues and less interventionist, then perhaps a just peace may have been more forthcoming. That this was typical of role of mainstream American Jewish organizations in ignoring issues of human rights and marginalization of Diaspora Jews while focusing only on U.S. foreign policy vis-à-vis Israel.

He went on to promise full franchise to “foreign workers”[x] and that a public service announcement campaign would be initiated to foster an appreciation of diversity to help with this period of transition.

Citing his general concern he announced that he would be approaching members of the Iroquois Confederacy, the oldest living democracy,[xi] to help the newly elected, diverse and representative assembly, finally draft a constitution.[xii] He cited the Iroquois Constitution[xiii] as an inspiration to the nations of the world.

He quoted from the Iroquois Constitution: “anyone or any nation outside the Five Nations … if their minds are clean… shall be welcomed to take shelter beneath the Tree of the Long Leaves.” When asked by the press if this was also a reference to similar edicts in Biblical text, specifically, Leviticus 19:34 which stipulates that “the stranger that dwells with you shall be unto you as one born among you, and you shall love him as yourself,” he stated that he wanted to be careful not to confuse his role as a secular leader by making overtly religious references. Several sources close to the Prime Minister indicated that that was the specific mitzva[xiv] to which he was referring.

The Cheif Rabbi, Solomon Hillel Ha Levi Ha Levi Cohen,[xv] in a press conference a few hours later, reversed the twentieth century interpretation of Biblical prophesy that supports Zionist ideology, citing conflicting examples of inclusion and exclusion within Mosaic law[xvi], and said that in seeking Biblical inspiration regarding treatment of the non-Jew, a religious Jew need look no further than Deuteronomy 16:20 “Justice, Justice you shall pursue, or you shall not be allowed to live on the land.” He also made references to repeated Biblical commandments on welcoming and caring for “the stranger.” When pressed on the issue of women, he further stated that restrictive laws concerning women, especially those regarding marriage, family and the limited right to divorce, were to be repealed, that he was initiating a search for the lost book of Miriam the Prophet[xvii] and that once it was found, promised to canonize it with the other Prophetic texts.

Palestinian leader, Ibrahim Abu Jihad[xviii] said that his discussion with ben Shalom, which reportedly took place in the visiting tent of the infamous Negev Prison,[xix] had been positive. He went on to say that he was looking forward to campaigning as soon as he might be released. He praised Israeli officials for this extreme change in stated policy but raised concerns that at least up until this point, the process had been unilateral and that the Israeli government had a history of unilateral actions and public declarations of disengagement that were followed by repressive actions to the contrary. “Nonetheless, I am hopeful,” he stated. He encouraged Israeli officials to take immediate steps to guarantee full Palestinian input and participation in all future policy changes and demanded the release of all political prisoners[xx].

Chava Bat Chesed[xxi], of Jewish Mothers for a Just Tomorrow, when asked for her statement on the matter said, “Hey, It could happen!”

*** *** *** ***

- Emma Rosenthal is a disabled Jewish American artist, writer, educator, activist and consultant, living in southern California.

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[i] Tzedek ben Shalom: Hebrew: Justice son of Peace. Like all the names in this journalistic parody, this one is fictitious.

[ii] Lockdowns: referred to in most press as curfew, in some cities last days and weeks, preventing workers from getting to work, students from attending school and the sick from obtaining medical care.

[iii] Relative calm is the term used by the U.S. and Israeli governments as well as most mainstream media networks to refer to a period of time when Palestinians, and not Israelis, are killed.

[iv] Isaiah 2:4

[v] U. S. support always comes with strings attached, and U.S. intervention takes many forms, sometimes outright military intervention, other times, neo-liberal manipulation through the International Monetary Fund, The World Bank, the WTO, the AFL-CIO, “free trade” agreements and other international policies made to serve the interests of U.S. multinational corporations and global elites. This is what Arundhati Roy refers to as the check book or the cruise missile, in her book of the same title, and in her speech: “Tide or Ivory Snow? -Public Power in the Age of Empire:”

“On the global stage, beyond the jurisdiction of sovereign governments, international instruments of trade and finance oversee a complex system of multilateral laws and agreements that have entrenched a system of appropriation that puts colonialism to shame. This system allows the unrestricted entry and exit of massive amounts of speculative capital – hot money – into and out of third world countries, which then effectively dictates their economic policy. Using the threat of capital flight as a lever, international capital insinuates itself deeper and deeper into these economies. Giant transnational corporations are taking control of their essential infrastructure and natural resources, their minerals, their water, their electricity. The World Trade Organization, the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund, and other financial institutions like the Asian Development Bank, virtually write economic policy and parliamentary legislation. With a deadly combination of arrogance and ruthlessness, they take their sledgehammers to fragile, interdependent, historically complex societies, and devastate them.”

http://www.democracynow.org/static/Arundhati_Trans.shtml

[vi] Hebrew: to ascend. In Israel it refers to those Diaspora Jews who become citizens of Israel.

[vii] The U.S. is notorious around the world, and especially in Central and South America for disrupting popular and democratically elected governments, that advocate the needs and rights of the populace, often nationalizing natural resources at the expense of U.S. multinationals. Recent attempts by the U.S. to support repressive and reactionary forces in Venezuela have been unsuccessful. Democratically elected President, Hugo Chavez continues to put the will of the people over the will of the U.S. government and multinational corporations.

www.handsoffvenezuela.org

[viii] For First Nation maps, go to:

http://www.ahsd25.k12.il.us/Curriculum%20Info/NativeAmericans/Index.html

[ix] In press coverage of the 2000 election, it was reported that in “elderly communities,” several voters had inadvertently voted for Buchanan when confused by a “butterfly” ballot, which was not used in other neighboring voting districts. There were also reports of machine malfunction and poll workers unwilling to help voters. It was reported that these communities were less likely to vote for Bush, more likely to vote for Democratic presidential leadership. Now, lest one get confused and think that in Florida people get old and change political parties, it should be noted that these elderly communities are Jewish retirement communities consisting predominately of Jews from the New York area, aka “snowbirds” who, having worked their whole lives, move to Florida in their golden years. By law, when a voter asks for a replacement ballot because of a mistake or damage to a ballot, he or she is supposed to receive one. When a voter asks for assistance, he or she is supposed to receive it. These rights were denied these voters. While voting rights violations in these communities were not as brutal or as intimidating as those in other communities, these “votes for Buchanan” did swing the election. Mainstream Jewish organizations were, for the most part, silent on the issue of voting rights, even where Jewish franchise was denied.

[x]Israel has a growing foreign worker population, whose civil liberties are severely limited. There workers, are allowed to live in Israel to provide a cheap labor supply. Coming mostly from Asian nations, they contribute to the cultural and religious diversity of the country.

[xi] Iroqouis Confederacy: The first United States of America, consisting of the 5 Nations of the Mohawks, Oneidas, Onondagas, Cayugas, and Senecas. A sixth nation, the Tuscaroras, migrated into Iroquois country in the early eighteenth century and was incorporated into the Confederacy. http://www.iroquois.net/http://www.iroquoisdemocracy.pdx.edu/index.htm

[xii] Israel does not have a constitution.

[xiii] The Iroquois Constitution, otherwise known as The Great Law of Peace, The Great Binding Law, and in the indigenous language: Gayanashagowa, has been cited as inspiration to Benjamin Franklin and the founding fathers when drafting the U.S. Constitution. The Great Law of Peace reflects a popular democracy, without the controls on popular influence dictated by the representative democracy installed by the U.S. Constitution. http://www.iroquoisdemocracy.pdx.edu/index.htm

[xiv] Mitzva: Commandment or Biblical law. (It can also mean a good deed.)

[xv] Hebrew: Solomon (The King of ancient Israel who was known for his wisdom, but was also reputed to have brought the Goddess into the palace) Hillel (a reference to Rabbi Hillel (circa 200 BCE) often quoted as having said “If I am not for myself, then who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, then what am I? And if not now, when?”) Ha Levi- the Levite; one of the original tribes. Cohen; the priest.

[xvi] Mosaic law refers to the laws set up in the Torah, (the first five books of the Hebrew Bible, otherwise known as “The Books of Moses.” This elucidation of the conflicting inclusive and exclusive nature of the Hebrew Bible is attributed to Christian human rights activist and scholar, Tannory Ruth Ateek, in my home, Passover, 5764, first night.

[xvii] Exodus 15:20: “And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances.”

[xviii] Ibrahim Abu Jihad: Arabic: Abraham father of Jihad. Abraham was the patriarch of both Islam and Judaism. Jihad is a highly maligned and misunderstood Arabic word that means struggle, both in reference to the internal process of self-growth and reflection and the external struggle for justice.

[xix] Israel’s Negev Prison, situated in the Negev Desert, consists of mostly tents, armed guards, limited medical attention, limited food, poor sanitation. Prisoners have reported the use of a variety of torture techniques. Many of Israel’s political prisoners are held in administrative detention through out Israel and the Occupied Territories, that is, without charges, without due process, without contact with an attorney and without family visitation. http://hrw.org/english/docs/2004/08/05/isrlpa9198.htm

http://www.addameer.org/resources/reports/addameerSumoud.html

[xx] Israel’s political prisoner population has been an issue raised by several human rights groups, including Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch. Many political prisoners are held in administrative detention. Children are not given adequate medical attention and do not receive an education. Currently there are 7036 Palestinian political prisoners of which 370 are children and 103 are female. 700 are held under administrative detention and 700 have severe medical problems. There are also Israeli (Jewish) political prisoners, though not as many, including the refusniks, those young Israelis who refuse all or some aspect of military service, and Mordechai Vanunu, who has recently been rearrested after 18 years in Israeli prison for divulging Israel’s nuclear secrets.

[xxi] Chava Bat Chesed: Hebrew: Life, Daughter of Loving Kindness. Chava, according to popular Biblical interpretation, was the first woman, (although some would bestow this title to Lilith.) Chesed is one of the sephirot in the Kabalistic tree of life.

© 2005 Emma Rosenthal All Rights Reserved. Permission to reprint, distribute and copy in entirety.

Letter in the Jewish Journal

Dear Editor,
On: “Teacher Class on Mideast Stirs Doubt:”

Constantly accusing all critics of Israel and Zionism as anti-Semitic is the false use of the race card meant to silence dissent .  Accusing organizations like the AFSC of anti-Semitism risks isolating the Jewish community from the larger human rights discourse.

The ADL should stop monitoring human rights organizations and instead enter into real dialogue based on universal principles of social justice. There are well meaning people who have serious, legitimate concerns with Israeli policy and Zionism with no malice toward the Jewish people, these concerns stemming from a global understanding of the principles of justice and human rights that should be applied to everyone. To have a different policy towards Israel would be hypocritical and indefensible.

Your article raised concern regarding conference coordinator Linda Tubach’s affiliation with Cafe Intifada, which, as you correctly reported, supports Palestinian cultural programs, such as arts, educational, labor, community and human rights organizations, all essential parts of any dynamic democracy which Israel and its defenders claim it to be. Why then, the concern with our organization?

You incorrectly reported that Linda Tubach no longer serves on our Advisory Board and that it has been disbanded.  It is the pen pal program that has been discontinued not our  Advisory Board. We are grateful for Linda’s continued participation.

Sincerely,

Emma Rosenthal
Executive Producer,
Cafe Intifada
Member of the UTLA Human Rights Committee

Andy Griggs
Advisory Board Member, Cafe Intifada
Past Chair and current member, UTLA Human Rights Committee

Jewish Journal of Greater Los Angeles

http://www.jewishjournal.com/home/searchview.php?id=14753

2005-10-07

Teacher Class on Mideast Stirs Doubt

by Tom Tugend, Contributing Editor
PHOTO

An upcoming course on the Middle East for public school teachers has gotten the attention of Jewish organizations for its allegedly unfair tilt toward a pro-Palestinian viewpoint.

Titled “Teaching About the Middle East,” the professional development course, which earns participants points toward salary increases, will be given Oct. 14, 15 and 17 at the Wilshire District headquarters of United Teachers Los Angeles (UTLA), the L.A. teachers union.

The Anti-Defamation League (ADL) will send an observer to monitor the sessions. Spokeswomen for both the ADL and The Jewish Federation of Greater Los Angeles said their organizations are looking into the matter, but withholding judgment.

The heightened scrutiny arises from the complaints of Paul Kujawsky, a teacher at Germain Street Elementary School in Chatsworth and past president of Democrats for Israel. A routine listing of the workshop caught his eye, and on Sept. 1, Kujawsky sent a formal, three-page letter, headed “Propaganda, Not Education” to Superintendent Roy Romer of the Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD) and UTLA President A.J. Duffy.

The letter listed two primary observations and allegations:

The course is funded by the Middle East Teacher Resource Project, an arm of the American Friends Service Committee (AFSC). The Quaker organization has a long, honorable history of pacifism and aiding refugees (including this reporter’s parents), but is considered by many in the Jewish community as leaning consistently toward a pro-Palestinian perspective.

“Overall, the AFSC’s position is that the [Israeli-Palestinian] conflict is the result of European imperialism, not Arab or Muslim refusal to admit that the Jews have any historic or legal right to sovereignty,” wrote Kujawsky, who is undeniably and unapologetically pro-Israel.

The initiators and administrators of the workshop have denied any bias, and have rejected Kujawsky’s request that the course be reorganized or dropped. However, the course leader said that she was sufficiently concerned to seek a pro-Israel speaker for a session on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

The course has been officially vetted and accredited by LAUSD, with input by the teachers union. In 16 class hours, it strives to deal with the Middle East’s people, art, food, music, literature and cultural stereotypes, as well as Arab Americans, Muslim women and the veil, wars and conflicts, oil strategy, nonviolence, human rights and peace movements.

For better or worse, what the teachers learn will influence what they pass on to their students. At least 40 teachers have enrolled.

In the opinion of Kujawsky, “The Quakers’ goal is to end the Israeli occupation, not to end the Arab war against Israel,” he said in an interview.

Shan Cretin, the Friends Committee regional director in Pasadena, objected to attempts to “politicize” either the teachers’ course or the Quakers’ position on the Middle East, which, she said, is to work toward a nonviolent resolution.

“This workshop grows out of our larger concerns for peace in the Middle East,” she said. “In the wake of 9/11 and the invasion of Iraq, we believe that students need to know more about Arab and Muslim culture, history and politics to become informed citizens. This is not a workshop focusing mainly on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.”

Cretin, who worked with Israelis and Palestinians on health care programs in the mid-90s, acknowledged that “many of our speakers have ties to Arab organizations, but given the topics that are to be the focus of the workshop, this does not seem so surprising.”

The course was deemed appropriate by Ronni Ephraim, LAUSD’s chief instructional officer for elementary schools. She readily provided documents on the course, and explained how it was approved by a three-person committee that included a Jewish member.

The course was proposed and put together by Linda Tubach, an LAUSD staffer in instructional support service who is active in UTLA.

Tubach’s involvement is one concern cited in Kujawsky’s letter. He submitted that Tubach serves on the advisory board of Cafe Intifada, whose Web site states that it raises funds for “cultural programs in Palestine, highlighting the current plight of the Palestinian people.”

Tubach said she was part of the now-inactive advisory board two years ago, when she was involved in a Cafe Intifada pen pal writing project involving American teachers and Palestinian students, but that she no longer had any connections with the organization.

She said that she proposed the course as “a basic survey of Middle Eastern culture, religion and government … and it is our intention to have dialogues and discussions representing all points of view.”

Nevertheless, she became concerned enough about any real or perceived imbalance to ask Deanna Armbruster, who is leading the session on “The Israeli-Palestinian Conflict,” to team up with an advocate of the Israeli viewpoint.

Armbruster is the executive director of American Friends of Neve Shalom/Wahab Al-Salam, a community in central Israel, whose 350 Arab and Jewish adults and children live together, study in the same school and share civic responsibilities.

“I’m very passionate about understanding the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in terms of human experiences,” said Armbruster, and her book, “Tears in the Holy Land,” is based on this passion.

Armbruster, a volunteer with the Friends Committee’s Middle East Peace Education Program, said that the Quaker organization “strives for a better understanding of both the Palestinian and Israeli viewpoints, but it tends to delve more deeply into Palestinian issues and the problems they face” — especially in light of a widespread presumption that the Israeli side gets more favorable exposure, thanks to strong Jewish advocacy.

For his part, Kujawsky perceives a bias in the affiliation of some of the instructors, some of whom have ties to Palestinian organizations.

Among the workshop’s instructors is attorney Ban al-Wardi, who is president of the Los Angeles-Orange County Chapter of the Arab American Anti-Discrimination Committee. He will lead the session on “The U.S. and the Middle East: Before and After 9/11.”

The session on “Middle Eastern Cooking, Music and Literature” will be taught by Sami Asmar, who is a NASA physicist and an expert on Middle East music and literature.

None of the assurances of balance and fairness have satisfied Kujawsky.

“This is not a question of Jew vs. Arab, it’s about truthfulness in teaching,” he said.
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Comments

Enlighting Blog !
Posted by lobo07 on 03/29/2006 03:17:27 AM

Kissing Frogs: Beyond the Billboard Simplicity of this World

This is the second of the Kissing Frogs letters that reflect the downs and downs and downs of dating and searching.  There’s a saying, I saw it on a greeting card once, I don’t know who said it:  “If you don’t go in, you’ll never know…..”

The writer’s life is a public one, our lives splashed on the page, naked.  Someone must tell the truth and be the mirror.  I believe there is also a responsibility to kindness.
The names of all “the frogs” have been changed to protect their privacy.  It is one thing for me to decide to tell my own story.  The telling of the stories of other people requires discretion or at least, permission.

The “frog” in this story called me years later to apologize and express his regret.  He really isn’t a frog.  I have a very deep respect for him.  He is kind, deliberate, thoughtful and transforming, as well as a dedicated and determined activist.

I count him among my friends.

-Emma

______________________________________________

Beyond the Billboard Simplicity of this World
-A personal essay disguised as a love letter.

First published in Loudmouth (Women’s Resource Center: California State University, Los Angeles)  Issue 2 Summer 2003)

Dear Gabriel,

You do not need to be afraid of hurting my feelings with the truth.  If you are honest with me I will take responsibility for my feelings.  I take my risks and I alone am responsible for the consequences of my choices. On the other hand, you might want to sort out your feelings before sharing them with me. It is not a betrayal of our intimacy for you to find a few close friends, with relationship wisdom, to share your fears and thoughts, that chatter that goes through our heads as we make decisions, especially ones that signify a change in old patterns

Strangely, it wasn’t hard for me to listen to you the other night, while we were making love, of your description of your ex-wife in bed. Perhaps it would have been for most women, but that is a transition I have the strength and wisdom to walk through with you.

Your apprehensions today were very hard to hear. I do not need a man for money, security, children or status. I need a man to empower and to be empowered by, who sees my strength as beauty, who would not like me more if I were less a person. You do not need to feel inferior by my strengths.  They aren’t mine, just gifts I bring to the collective effort for the world we both envision.

I love this world so deeply.  It is my waking breath.  I bring my strengths and weaknesses to that struggle.  My strengths empower me, those I love, those around me.  My weaknesses challenge me.

I act anyway.
Afraid, I act anyway.
Overwhelmed, I act anyway.
Weak, I act anyway.

We are so broken by the billboard simplicity of this world.  I am not as self assured as I seem. I am very frightened, determined to take action beyond my ability, because I have been called to do so, because it is work that must be done. Sometimes I feel so small, so insignificant, incapable of the task before me. This courage takes every fiber of my being.

I have been alone for years, having to be strong.  I had no choice.  Some days I could not get out of bed, but I had work to do, a child to raise, dishes to clean, dinner to cook, and no one to rescue me.  This world demands so much of women, then the men tell us, “but do not let us know the work you do.  It will frighten us.”

Revolutionary men cannot be true advocates of social transformation if they want their comrades strong but their partners weak. I am tired of brilliant men and dedicated organizers who reject for their partners the qualities they claim to be fostering with the people they are organizing. If strength is not beauty, then women must make the horrid choice between being beautiful and being transformational.  This does not empower change.  This does not build a movement. I cannot be strong on the picket line, in the workplace, in meetings and speak my mind, only to lose my voice in bed.

It takes courage to be strong, to bring to this world the energy necessary to transform it, when so often men, in so many ways remind me that it is my ability to transform the world that is the essence of what they find ugly about me. This patriarchal construct of femininity, of feminine energy, defies the real energy of creation; muscle, blood and sinew, and it is ours, it is the strength that women must have to bring life into this world, to nurture life despite genocide and torture.  We must be the combatants and the peacemakers.  We must make the hard decisions, the decision to protect the men from the bravado you are raised to have, the bravado we are spared.

I don’t know where you and I go from here. First I was sad, then angry, then disappointed, then lost.  I imagine that you are perhaps going through much the same process.  I want a man that considers a demonstration or a vigil a date; deep political discourse, foreplay.  I want a man who knows how special it is to have found a woman who would write this letter, a man that is not frightened by my intelligence, but rather wants to empower it, nurture it, indulge it, bathe in it, dance naked with it. If you are not that man, I have no place being your partner.

On the other hand, I will never ask you to spend time with me at the expense of the work we both know needs to be done in this world.  It must be our time together that informs, empowers the work we do.  I would never want you to be less of a man to take care of what I need to tend to myself.  I would never want you to give up your calling, to reassure me of my place in your life.  I have a place in the world all my own.  The attention you give me won’t ever define my existence. I will never need to demand that from you, and in doing so, diminish your existence as well.
I am supposed to demand that the measure of your manhood is the money you make, the prestige you have, your ability to protect me from a world that I need to confront, not  avoid.  You are supposed to demand that the ideas I have are petty indulgences or unfeminine distractions, that I must play small in your presence, passive in the choices that are made in my life.  We have been taught to disempower each other, no small issue that this emerges out of the most intimate of interactions.  It is where we can be the most human, or where we can embody the paradigm of power and control that this oppressive construct depends upon.

It will take time to learn each other’s bodies, and trust each other’s tenderness.  Physical intimacies are always awkward at first.  I cannot be the woman you were married to for twenty-five years, you will not find her in my bed. I cannot fit into patterns you honed years ago with someone else even if I knew what was expected of me.  You must always remember, those are my breasts you are holding, my lips you are kissing, my body you are entering.  Sex is a conversation.  I cannot recite the script you wrote with someone else.  When you know me, my body, sense my sensations, we will dance a passionate dance and you can take the lead in naked, intimate embraces. To come home to tender surrender, to a space where being a woman can mean not making all the decisions, not having to take on tasks beyond my own ability would be a healing, comforting, easy relief.  Such is the contradiction.  I can give myself up in embraces with you, so gracious is your invitation, and emerge a stronger woman in the world for the quiet language we create, just us, our bodies, the night, together.

Yours?

Kissing Frogs: Guilt and Responsibility

This is the fourth (and oh I hope my last) of the Kissing Frogs letters that reflect the downs and downs and downs of dating and searching. There’s a saying, I saw it on a greeting card once, I don’t know who said it: “If you don’t go in, you’ll never know…..”

The writer’s life is a public one, our lives splashed on the page, naked. Someone must tell the truth and be the mirror. I believe there is also a responsibility to kindness.
The names of all “the frogs” have been changed to protect their privacy. It is one thing for me to decide to tell my own story. The telling of the stories of other people requires discretion or at least, permission.

Guilt and Responsibility
By Emma Rosenthal

“Class consciousness is knowing what side of the fence you are on. Class analysis is understanding who is there with you.”
-Anonymous, from a poster circa 1979

Dear Ethan,

You assaulted me today. You may choose to mislead yourself, as you tried to convince me, and tell yourself you were getting off of me when I first said no, but truth is that you threw me onto my stomach and continued to climb onto my back until I repeated the directive several times. The first “NO” should have elicited an immediate effort on your part to attend to my concerns, but you continued to assert your own desire at my expense.

Your apology for “hurting me in what was a few moments of play,” negates the brutality and dehumanization of the attack. Certainly there is room for misunderstanding. I will share with you responsibility for the first “no!” But even a dog understands the difference between playing with a ball and playing with another dog. At the moment I withdrew consent, it was no longer play. Even a man without twenty years experience within the leftist-feminist dialogue would know this.

And yet, immediately after the assault, when I confronted you, you began to lie to me about what had happened, as if I hadn’t been there, as if you could heal the injury in the denial of the infliction. I am grateful that I was introduced to this side of you in the limits imposed upon your behavior, in a public park. I tremble at what might have happened had I trusted you to the privacy of your home or mine. Most women have suffered much worse attacks, often in the intimacy of family and community. We are taught early to tend to our attacker, not to hurt his feelings, to empathize with his pain, to relieve him of his anxiety and guilt, support his lies despite our intimate contact with the truth, to sacrifice ourselves to the community and the need for apparent peace, not to make noise, nor draw attention to ourselves, not to speak out. We have been told we have brought on the attack, in the clothes we wear, the way we walk, the lilt of our voice, our hair, our eyes, merely the act of breathing, the simple act of taking up space. To speak out, to name what has transpired is to call upon the censure of the community, to risk our own isolation, the wrath of those who claim to love us.

Because of years of work I was able to understand yesterday, what had happened and to know that it was not my job to help you reconcile your trespass against me. I hope that the compassion that I share with you in the lines of this letter offers you the tools you need to begin to dismantle the rubric that would justify an attack and perhaps compel the construction of a new way of living, in love, with the world, with women, with yourself.

So, I offer you the following meditations for your own healing, assuming that you want healing over privilege, because truth be told, this world will entitle you to many women, to attack with impunity. I doubt this is your first offense. I hope it is your last. You cannot have deep intimate relationships with women if you also choose to dominate and abuse us. If you hold on to the power that this system grants you, you cannot be well.

There are two sides of the fence; the side of love, justice, communion and universal humanity; and the side of domination and hegemony. Today you chose entitlement and privilege. You did not choose the side of the fence that could have brought forth connection, possibility, hope, transformation.

Earlier in the day we spent a lot of time discussing guilt; political guilt, white, male guilt. You didn’t believe me when I said guilt no longer informs my politic or overwhelms me. I was at a loss of words to explain to you, this transformation. My meditations since the assault reminded me of what I could not explain to you earlier. It is by replacing guilt with responsibility and what I call enlightened self-interest that has allowed me a politic that is informed, empowered and empowering. Enlightened self-interest is the ownership of my own actions and the deep understanding that I have more to gain from the emergence of a universally just society than any shard of comfort, privilege might afford me, that what I have to gain from collective justice is far greater than what I surrender. Guilt, on the part of the “enlightened” perpetrator, is an excuse. It is the pithy liberal, superficial acknowledgment of the offense, without the subsequent radical profound correction of the injury. Guilt is the absence of responsibility. It stands in the place of grief for what has been lost. By feeling guilty, one identifies with privilege and not with our collective loss of community, culture, history, diversity, trust, connection, sustenance, mutual aid all that which has been replaced with disconnection, consumerism, property, dominance, distrust and monoculture.

Guilt seeks absolution. Responsibility seeks remedy. Guilt is a form of penance, held long enough to absolve the sin until the next offense. Like Hail Marys, Our Fathers, drunken apologies and batterer’s remorse, the recitation does not alone provide remedy. It soothes the guilty conscience long enough to convince the sinner that penance has been made. It pacifies the victim long enough to sustain yet another attack. It allows the community to go on as if the attack were not a social injury, as if the remedy were not a collective one, as if the injury to the victim were not a communal concern. Responsibility is the ownership of the act, the recognition of the possibility and the necessity of transformation, the willingness to go deep into the spirit and seek change. Responsibility sees the sin as a teacher, not a burden, the vessel, hope. Guilt contains hopelessness, the underlying assumption that nothing can be done, that one is essentially flawed, and therefore free to go out again and offend again, mitigated only by the extent of the guilt to provide the sense of absolution. Guilt perpetuates domination, allowing the privileged to believe that their offense is an essential part of their flawed constitution. It embodies the notion of original sin. It serves no transformation. It serves hegemony.

At this point in time, your assault against me is of no consequence. All that matters now is what we each take from the experience. Beyond this letter, I don’t desire to share my journey with you but I will assure you, I will find illumination in the events of today. Assuming that you are remorseful, and everything in your composure after the event (even your lies,) indicated that you were, I would encourage you not to focus on your guilt, which neither serves nor honors me. So I absolve you. Not the way an obedient girl, well trained under patriarchy might absolve you, which would merely reinforce your behavior and bless you in future conquest, while her body absorbs the guilt for you, holding in the folds of her body and the folds of her being a sense of shame, of misplaced blame for having caused the behavior that she absolves you of. I absolve you to seek remedy. If you would like to honor me, to offer me restitution, embrace the possibility of what you have to learn from this experience. Do not waste the injury in futility. What has happened is done; there is no means of undoing it. If you are truly sorry, see to it that it never happens again. Do not waste time with guilt, unless your only intent is to make penance for your transgressions long enough to go ahead and do it again to someone else. Instead, do the deep work of transformation. Dig a tunnel to the other side of the fence and take responsibility for your actions. Confront privilege honestly and with a clarity that guilt does not permit. These behaviors, the behaviors of privilege are well embedded in our psyche, and guilt digs them in. Guilt is a dangerous and frivolous emotion for revolutionaries and has no place in real political transformation. It puts the burden on the shoulders of the inflicted, to comfort the inflictor It allows the community to offer up the inflicted as the communal sacrifice in lieu of a real redistribution of power, control and focus. It endangers the process, endangers those who would bring about change. It is a distraction, a justification, a false badge of honor. It is a poor substitute for responsibility, which truly and uniquely offers the ability to bring about a new paradigm, a new dynamic.

Guilt looks to the past, lives in the past. Responsibility looks to the future. So, focus on future involvements, future opportunities. When blessed with the warmth and affections of an attentive and willing woman, choose love over greed, intimacy over power.

Do not forget for one second that what she is offering is not guilt, but blessing, it is sacred, and must be treated as sacrament. Understand that the world you build is constructed with the bricks you stack every day in the choices you make. If you choose love and affirmation, communion and connection, you build possibility.

Sex is conversation, not an event or a conquest. It begins with the simplest of exchanges even before touch, even before lips meet. I hope that when you approach sexual conversation in the future, you will wait for your partner’s response. Don’t apply pressure. Listen to the shift of her body, a murmur, a repositioning of a hand. Imagine two dogs playing together: the conversation of bodies in motion. When I met you. I felt you drawn to me, interested in me, my ideas, my humanity, certainly my sexuality. But yesterday, beyond what my skin offered you, I stopped existing. This objectification meant that I could not be part of a conversation because I as a person had ceased to exist. I was no more of a sentient being to you than a ball or a squeeze toy. In the end I had to scream repeatedly to get you off of me.

At first meeting, I was so impressed with your passion for justice, your desire to enact change, your compassion, your charm, your sense of humor. I trust that these sensibilities run deeper than the shame you carry, evident in the dishonor you brought to the possibilities we presented to each other. I hope you will honor yourself and the values that you attempt to live by, long enough to transform this situation into something greater than the injury, for the sake of your own well being, as well as the healing that such a transformation might bestow upon the world.

Blessings,
Emma

Kissing Frogs: Two Nights Ago

This is the third of the Kissing Frogs letters that reflect the downs and downs and downs of dating and searching.  There’s a saying, I saw it on a greeting card once, I don’t know who said it:  “If you don’t go in, you’ll never know…..”

The writer’s life is a public one, our lives splashed on the page, naked.  Someone must tell the truth and be the mirror.  I believe there is also a responsibility to kindness.
The names of all “the frogs” have been changed to protect their privacy.  It is one thing for me to decide to tell my own story.  The telling of the stories of other people requires discretion or at least, permission.

Emma Rosenthal

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May 27, 2003

Dearest Marco,

Two nights ago you admonished me:  “Have no regrets?” you said, when I began to revisit my past.  Then you told me you wished you had never fallen in love with alcohol.

You asked me what I loved most about being with you and I said, how present you were.  How easy it was to be with you because I knew you would call.  I knew you were there.  You invited me to call, you didn’t hold back, didn’t shy away from closeness, didn’t run.

The next night you called me at the exact moment, not a moment early, not a moment late, the exact moment that I was to meet you at your home, just as I had parked the car and was on the way up to your apartment, to tell me that you weren’t home, that you were drinking, that you wanted to be alone.

You, who know how to be present, know how to connect, pretended that there was some innocence in your decision.  You didn’t call me earlier to break the date.  You waited until I would be at your home and then you admonished me, that I should have stayed home, having called to tell you I was on my way, not having found you at home, I should have stayed home.  Either way I would have been waiting.  Either way I would have been stood up.  I choose to trust you and drive to your home.  Maybe you were in the shower, maybe you had gone to the store, or were on your way home.  We had said eight o’clock.  I would trust you, and I would be trustworthy and go to your home.  That was the decision I made when I left my house, nervous that you hadn’t answered, hoping it was the distrust earned by other men, hoping that it wasn’t what it was, a relapse into the fog of alcohol, a return to this past love and all the promises she made to you.

Your drunken choice to stand me up would have been a perfect match to my pathologies once upon a time.   I would have felt desperate, abandoned, ashamed of how close we had become in so short a time, as if, in the moment of your abandonment I was some how lost, my value diminished.  I would have begged you, fought with you, tried to save you. Selfishly.  We could have played that sick alcoholic dance.

Relationships either heal and transform or they compound old wounds, reinforce old sick patterns.  I used to seek out matching pathologies.  I didn’t mean to, I just didn’t know better.  Today I seek out transformation.

I cannot date your alcoholism.  I cannot talk to it, fight with it, make love to it.  I cannot embrace it.  It is sad that you love alcohol so deeply.  That you chose to, were compelled to wake up with a hangover instead of with me should hurt me deeply.  I should be angry, offended.  But she promises you what I cannot. She tells you she will be with you always. She tells you that you are wonderful when you do yourself the greatest injury.  She tells you to forsake your self, your love, your friends, your family, your work, your cause, your mission and your calling and that she will be all that all of that could never be.

She lies to you.

If I chose to continue dating you it would be unkind.  It would be as if I were digging your grave. I cannot pretend that you are not killing yourself and I cannot nurse your death. .It would not heal you; it would send you deeper into your death, causing you to think that you could exist in both worlds successfully.

You are a wonderful man, one of the wisest and brightest people I have ever known.  That you have not experienced collaboration, creation, the victory of brilliance, saddens me so deeply, more deeply than the disappointment of the significance of your choices, more deeply than the sense of loss I felt in the moment that the phone rang as I stood on the street by your home and you told me that you would not see me that evening.

I do not regret anything that happened between us. You treated me wonderfully, gently, kindly, attentively. I do not regret my choices.    I do regret, am deeply saddened that you would choose to drink me out of your life, or attempt to bring me into a life of alcoholic fog. But I will always hold the grace that this window of time we shared bestowed upon me.

I suppose I should be angry, and perhaps I am, somewhere, deep inside, but more I am saddened, disappointed. Perhaps if you had chosen to wake up with another woman, to spend the night with another woman instead of me I might have cause to anger, or cause for self reflection, self-deprecation, I might start to question; Were her breast firmer, her stomach flatter, her skin smother, her nights wilder, calmer, her brain quicker, slower?  Was I too much? Not enough?

But you chose to wake up with a hangover instead of waking up with me, and even on my worst day I am better than a hangover, and we did not have bad days.  We only had few days.  And they were very good days, good nights, and good mornings.

For me relationships last as long as they sustain transformation, renovation, rejuvenation.  I do not measure their success in years, or rings, or vows.  I measure them in the quiet moments encapsulated in the breath between two hands, the promise of touch, the aspiration of intention, the sound of breath and pulse, the combination of ideas and visions, the integrity of passion, the potential that births new possibilities.

I wish you so much.  I wish you health, and work and brilliance, collaboration, the depth of class struggle, grace, happiness and

love.

Emma

Kissing Frogs: The Tenacity of Love

This is the first of the Kissing Frogs letters that reflect the downs and downs and downs of dating and searching. There’s a saying, I saw it on a greeting card once, I don’t know who said it: “If you don’t go in, you’ll never know…..”

The writer’s life is a public one, our lives splashed on the page, naked. Someone must tell the truth and be the mirror. I believe there is also a responsibility to kindness.
The names of all “the frogs” have been changed to protect their privacy. It is one thing for me to decide to tell my own story. The telling of the stories of other people requires discretion or at least, permission.

Emma

Published in; Coloring Book: An Eclectic Anthology of Fiction & Poetry by Multicultural Writers. Edited by boice-Terrel Allen. Rattlecat Press

http://www.rattlecat.com/homepage.html

___________________________________________

The Tenacity of Love
-An essay disguised as a love letter

By Emma Rosenthal

Al riesco de parecer ridículo el revolucionario está animado por gran sentimientos de amor.
-Che Guevara

Dear William,

This is a love letter, though not the type of love letter a man would be afraid to receive after what between us was in most likelihood a one night stand. While nothing I do is shallow, some relationships aren’t meant to last longer than one night. I am not a clinging vine, although I used to be, afraid, more afraid to be alone than poorly matched. Today I know my own feet and my own soul and I no longer have to sew myself into the hem of my garment as I walk on broken glass. This is a revolutionary love letter, not a romantic one, not one meant to bind or lure, one meant to free, to liberate, to heal.

A friend of mine called me last night, late, past the calling hours, while INS was rounding up, arresting, detaining, cuffing, fingerprinting, holding without explanation people from his country. Another round of raids, and roundups and deportations, that started before my grandmother stepped on Ellis Island, and continue to this day. All our families know this terror, if not in this generation, in ones that came before us.

He and I have known each other for many years and we love each other, not romantically, not sexually, it is a different intimacy, the intimacy that comes when there is held between two friends the faith in the endurance and the integrity of the other, an understanding, an esteem for the history of the other and the work each is called to do.

I had called him that day, twice, his cell phone had been off, unusual, that I couldn’t reach him and I had left him two messages. It had been a simple question, it was a five-minute call at best. I needed to know if the sound system we had used in the park a few weeks ago could feed two mikes.

“Why are you calling me?” He was enraged.

These are hard times and I am seeing so many of us, those of us with vision, who feel what is happening around us, I see us, we are going mad. I went mad a few weeks ago and he had carried me through it, held the burden of my perception of the moment, the distortion of the situation, the delusion, the isolation my mind had latched itself to. Lately I have been praying (even revolutionaries pray) that when gripped by the fear and insanity, when grasped in the separation, when bitterness is hurled at my feet or thrown in my face, to be able to hold my people through, to carry their burden, staying, not running away from the anger.

My people; I am Jewish, yes, and they are my people and very, very mad. Genocide will make you so, but when I say my people I do not stop at blood and kinship. This friend, he is my people. All those who fight for justice, they are my people. In this sense you too, are my people.

His anger scared me. “Why are you calling me?” he demanded. He had never asked me this before.

“Because I am your friend.” I answered as if asking a question.

“What do you want? Why did you call?” He yelled at me. I wanted to yell back or run away. I stayed. It took more strength to stay than to strike back or leave.

“It’s not important now. What’s going on?” I asked.

“ You of all people should know what I am going through. I shouldn’t have to tell you.” As if in the not knowing I had betrayed him.

Was it a personal matter he had mentioned to me last week in passing? A situation that I had thought had greater significance in his life than the attention and intensity he was bringing to the telling.

“No it is not that.” He barked. “You do not understand, perhaps it is because we live in different worlds.”

Later in the conversation he would tell me that that was not what he said at all. He reminded me that all our conversations were probably taped and that perhaps we would have the opportunity to play it back one day. At that point I understood that we had passed through the trial of this conversation, survived the test and the battlefield, this insidious war that turns us on each other.

From the moment I met him we had been held in a deep kinship. Through all the years of friendship, this was the first time I had seen it, felt it, was imbedded in it; the wall, impenetrable. We live in different worlds. We are separate. The war was so imbedded in him that he was mad at me for loving him.

How could I know what was upsetting him? Not because of different worlds, but because he had never brought his pain to me before and because there was so much that could be the cause of his distress. I began to guess and was progressively wrong each time, right, then wrong. His anger and his fear knew no harbor.

Finally, I reminded him; “Don’t embrace the separation, I am your friend whatever you are carrying, tell me, I can carry it with you. Describe this world to me. I will enter it with you. It is what I do, why I am here on this earth.”

In the years I have known him, he has shared with me the loss of the revolution, the execution of his sister, his own imprisonment, the harbinger of defeat in the silence of the radio. All with calm self-possession. I left room but never forced the matter. I know trauma, too well. I know sometimes we can make statements so horrible with such dispassion because we have not touched the pain and it isn’t time. Other times, with such dispassion because we already know, we have fallen as far as the pain will take us and we have moved on. My trauma is of no consequence. I choose to love anyway, choose to fight, choose to seek out connection despite my wounds. I have let them heal. Perhaps his wounds had healed, or perhaps they had not and when the pain surged, it always surges, I would listen then.

This was the first time he had brought his pain to me and it was coming in a torrent of anger that needed to be held, not fought.

He and I are the most dangerous of revolutionaries, because we don’t throw bombs, because we love, across boundaries, across separation. “When can we talk?” he asked me, “I cannot have this conversation over the phone.”

“I can jump in a car right now if you need me to.” I said. It was the middle of the night with more than fifty miles between us.

“No, it’s not like that. It can wait.” He told me.

Friday I will know what world it is he says I do not live in. I have entered worlds like this before, stepped into lives and troubles I could have lived a lifetime and never known, suddenly connected to experiences and suffering more profound than marriage, more inextricable than divorce. This is what happens when we choose to love, the tenacity of love, when freedom is measured in humanity and the air we breathe instead of presidential platitudes. The worlds are joined anyway. Separation is illusion. Did so many Palestinians ever foresee their lives so intricately connected to the death camps of Europe? Suppose our grandparents, the world, collectively had refused the genocide of the Armenians, had entered that world, married that suffering, connected to that experience, stood up to generals and executioners. Such a stand perhaps would have changed the entire trajectory of history. The world we live in today would be very different from the experience of pain we all find ourselves in now.

William, last Friday night your anger scared me too. I am learning to tell myself words alone cannot hurt me and to endure, share the burdens we all carry living on this earth, especially those of us who know that freedom isn’t the right to go to the shopping mall. Justice doesn’t fly a flag from an SUV.

There I was, in your home, presenting possibilities, a crush now a reality. I don’t like pedestals, I tend to fall off and find no one there to catch me and there I was, and there you were pushing me off the pedestal you had propped me up on. I think you chose to insult me because you were afraid. I think I knew this at the time and so chose not to take your racist admonitions personally. “Why do we always need a Jewish savior?” you screamed at me, after repeatedly insulting the nose of the labor leader in the movie, and pointing to every rich, oppressive person and calling them a Jew. These were mean words, they were meant to hurt and they did. I shut you up by putting my tongue in your mouth. You were sweet again, on my tongue, your essence next to my skin, the scratchiness of your beard, the power of grip and grasp, the mingling of our dualities.

So why the need for a Jewish savior? Forget Jewish, forget that an entire civilization has been built on the image of a dead Jew on a stick, worn on gold chains around the necks of believers. Forget that all of Christendom has killed my people in the name of a Jewish savior. I do not know why you need a Jewish savior. I do not know why a Jewish savior captures the minds so vividly of those who would harm us so profoundly. You worship Jesus, not I. But that is not what you meant. It was just a clever way I could divert the conversation, could redirect your attack, deflect the blow, illuminate the bigotry that you were sending my way when all I was offering you was my warmth and the possibilities that can come when a man and a woman are drawn to each other, possibilities of connection, collaboration, transformation, the way that passion and vision intertwine, the nakedness of risk, the promise of endurance.

Jewish or not, we all need saviors. Very few books on Jewish history on your shelves, two or three, far fewer than the books of your people, on my shelves. I know your history much more intimately than you know mine. I am proud of Jewish labor leaders. I am proud of where my people have stood on the battlefield of human rights. I am proud of the risks we take and the love we make, daily with the world, passionately seeking deeper love and deeper justice.

Yes we make mistakes, bumble over patronizing conversation, err in cultural assumptions and misunderstandings, but we are there, risking the possibilities, allowing for the connections, breaking down the separations. Cross-cultural dialogue can be very difficult. And yet you condemned us for even being there, in the streets, in the factories, in the fields. “Why was Fred Ross Jewish? Why was Saul Alinsky Jewish?” You accused me as if we had injured you by desire alone. And yet you had invited me to dinner, had cooked for me, lit candles, chosen music. And in that evening, you could not even sit with me without insulting me, your guest, so difficult is this cross-cultural divide, so hard to cross.

And why didn’t I leave? Most women would have left with righteous dramatics, stormed out, broken something. I thought of leaving as I sat with you on your sofa, stunned by your anger and accusations but I felt in my soul that it wasn’t time to leave. There was the anticipation built up over the preceding weeks of telephone and email flirtations and innuendos, the mysteries built up in workplace exchanges that called within me for exploration, resolution. It was the man I first saw, the one who is so tender with children, the one who knows how to love the world, the adored teacher, the man who was drawn to me, not the one who offended me in his kitchen, but the man who invited me there. That was the man I wanted to kiss.

Beyond that, I have spent my life held in the rigid duality of right and wrong. I am dancing with the possibilities of dialectics, human dialectics, the changes we bring about in one another. I lived an angry life for many years. I know what it means to strike before struck, to hurt someone before I am hurt. I think that is what you were doing. Offending me to push me away. You said you were teasing. Perhaps, but these were jokes that require trust that hadn’t been earned without risking admonition.

I didn’t want to reproach your anger with anger. I wanted to leave on good terms, silly perhaps under the circumstances, and stranger yet with what manifested itself as good terms. Was I sleeping with the enemy when I joined myself with you? I don’t think so. I was dancing with the possibilities, with desire, with complexity; the understanding that each of us is more than we pretend to be. Beyond that, I was meeting you with abandon in a life of caution, fear and righteousness.

Venturing beyond your own people is not a skill you have honed, overwhelmed as you were by the prospects of one dinner with a woman from a different people. So be easy on us. There is no need to be cruel. No need to push me away. I understand you are wounded. I do not come pouring salt.

You want to go to Chiapas, you, an American, Chicano. You will be like a White boy there, stumbling over your desire to help, mixed with your assumptions, the barriers of language. Spanish in El Monte and Spanish in Chiapas are not the same, and then there are the languages of the region. You speak the language of the conqueror. None of this is simple.

Savior, why do any of us need a savior? On your bookshelf one of two books on my people, sat the book Schindler’s List. Schindler, our savior, an Austrian, womanizing, capitalist, Christian member of the Nazi Party, a slave holder, a manufacturer of war commodities and weapons. His Jews still call themselves to this day Schindler Jews. Do you remember how he saved them? He bought them. He owned them. Our savior, a slave holder, our savior, our master. I come from a people whose hair was made into rugs, our skin into lampshades and ladies purses, our ashes into the soap our murderers cleansed themselves with daily.

We all need saviors. We need saviors because we cannot endure without them, because we are not alone, we are not separate, we bleed the same, we love our children, our streets, the keys that fit into the doors of the places we call home. I do not need to be in your skin to know the pain that comes with negation, the fear that comes with marginalization. Gripped in that grip of humanity, we are inextricably joined together. When we think we are alone, that our humanity is more humane, that our suffering is greater, that our experience is incomprehensible, that we are too worthy for the support that salvation of someone else brings, then we too become dangerous.

We build monuments to our suffering and isolation. We construct walls of separation. We bring suffering upon our own image, our own community, our own blood. We do not recognize the reflection in the mirror. We find narrow solutions of self-preservation that are not preservation.

Not all Jews are labor leaders and revolutionaries. We do not all see and seek universal possibilities. Right now, so many of my people, the Jews, from ashes and lampshades, from round ups and numbers tattooed on arms, fight a war of isolation, forgetting our own skin, thinking we must be separate, forging unholy alliances with previous perpetrators in order to extract land and labor we are not entitled to, from those who never meant us harm. We are more alone than ever, more endangered than ever.

Do you want this for your people? Do you have to do it alone? Is this the road to freedom or the ghetto of the mind, the separation, the isolation posing for liberation? Justice requires unity, connection, revelry in diversity, a celebration of possibilities, the risk of connection, the adventure of love, real love, not pasty romantic love of shallow movies, not a president kissing his wife love, not the love the capitalist has for his money; propaganda; greed, not love.

Liberation requires the humility of both the savior and the saved. Truly we save each other, heal each other. These may very well be the worst of times. It is the strength we have to hold each other up that may very well be all that can get us through. We defend ourselves the most when we fight for someone else, knowing in the connection, that the possibility of a more just world is truly the only battle worthy of the fray.

-Emma

I say to you at the risk of sounding ridiculous, the revolutionary is motivated by great sentiments of love.
-Ché Guevara

Open Letter: Re: jewbitch ur a mental case?

Open Letter: Re: jewbitch ur a mental case?

The Masada 2000, is a web page that lists over 7000 individuals that
according to the site are self-hating Jews that are a threat to Israel.
My name, excerpts of my bio, two photos, portions of my poetry, a link
to my webpage and two of my email addresses along with rather vulgar and
vile attacks on my character, are posted to the list.

On Wednesday, March 10, 2004, I received the following email:

Subject: jewbitch ur a mental case?
Date: Wed, 10 Mar 2004 22:37:52 -0200
From: David Gruner Reply-To: dgruner@e…
Organization: Lycos Mail (http://www.mail.eudoramail.com)
To: emmarosenthal@e…
CC: queenmuse@e…

Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.
-Martin Luther King Jr.

Dear David,

Forgive me the informality, I was going to begin the letter, Dear Mr. Gruner, but given that you addressed me as jewbitch, I felt it safe to assume a certain informality. I believe your complete message stated: “jewbitch ur a mental case? (sic) your (sic) on masada2000 s..h.i.t.list what a jerk u r”

I understand that you found my email address on the Masada2000 website, a site that lists over 7000 Jews who are, according to the site, self-hating Jews, and traitors to Israel. My name seems to have, attached to it, quite a bit of information, most of it lifted by Masada2000, without respect to copyright, directly from my webpages. I know several of the other people listed, Many of them have served the cause of human rights with greater prominence and significance than I, and I hold them in great respect and am honored to be counted among them, which makes the amount of attention given to me by the diligent folks at Masada2000, a bit humbling. If the cause of human rights puts me on a S.H.I.T list, so be it, I certainly would have been offended had my name not been included.

I assume, with your interest in this list, the depth of your anger at me for having been so listed, and your German last name, that you too are Jewish. So I would like to ask you, what would compel a Jewish man to address a Jewish woman as “jewbitch?” This term is steeped in racism and misogyny. Is your hatred of Jews and women so deep and your ability to articulate your feelings so pithy that you have been reduced to such an epithet? Where is your love of your heritage, that you could express your displeasure of my work, in such a debased, dehumanized and clearly anti-Jewish terminology. I am a 45-year-old Jewish mother; I have raised a proud and capable Jewish son. Without having internalized the negative images of Jews and women that are rampant in our society, how else could you address Jewish womanhood this way? How could this ever be anything else but depraved hatred of yourself, your heritage and the women that have been the backbone of a battered and persecuted people? Where is your respect, for Judaism, for women and for yourself?

The Masada2000 list, provided you with excerpts of my work, that, though taken out of context, are not, for the most part distortions of my values. But I would recommend, before attacking anyone else simply because their name appears on a list, that you familiarize yourself with what they truly represent. Since you have already attacked me, I welcome you to familiarize yourself with my work, after the fact. I write extensively on human rights, social justice and against racism and oppression. Included in my definition of racism is what is commonly called anti-Semitism, which is, in all its aspects a deep and historical racism against Jews in general and Semites in particular, reflecting, (to borrow the terminology of the late, great, Edward Said) the orientalist attitude of Europe towards Jews, where we were always seen as foreign and dangerous.

Masada 2000 mistakenly affiliates me with Goebbels, the Nazi leader, responsible for the deaths of many Jews, including members of my own family, two of my Grandmother’s cousins. Nothing in my writings could have allowed a reasonable person to affiliate me with Goebbels. I am a human rights activist who understands that from the ashes of our own history of persecution must rise something greater than the mountains of skulls, the bars of soap made from the ashes of our people, the lampshades and purses made from our skin, the jewelry made from the stolen fillings in our teeth. It was Rabbi Hillel, 2000 years ago, who is quoted as having said “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now—when?” I take from this legacy, a profound belief in the universality of human rights and the imperative to fight for justice globally, seeking global solutions to issues of domination, oppression and genocide. I make no exceptions.

. Masasda 2000 also refers to me as a Tikkunite. While I am not a Tikkunite, (a member of the organization, Tikkun,) because I am not a Zionist, I do believe profoundly in the Jewish concept of Tikkun Olam; the repair of the world, of the universe. Tikkun Olam calls for universal repair, not the repair of one individual, one nation, or one race, and certainly not the repair of one at the expense of the other, but rather, an allegiance to collective well-being. My human rights work is founded on a profound understanding of our responsibility to the world, to build it and to mend it. I believe in the commandment; “Justice, justice, thou shalt pursue”(Deuteronomy 16:20.) Perhaps what has angered the diligent folks as Masada 2000, is that my Jewish identity is infused into all of my writings. My concern for the future of the Jewish people is consistent with my concern for the well being of the planet and the world community as a whole. As such I do not come to the same conclusions as the folks at Masada 2000. I hope my work is informed with a wisdom their fear and hatred cannot begin to imagine. I am not a Zionist, because I do not support nationalism as a solution to the question of injustice or persecution. I am, Jewish of course, and from what I take from that heritage; a universalist. I believe that we need to create a just world, instead of holding out for pieces of a pie that promises, through a system based on greed, smaller and smaller portions. I believe that a nationalist solution within this system only produced a new set of perpetrators free to oppress, free to support the greater hegemony, and a larger body of oppressed people to trample, exploit and exterminate.

While I do believe that the self-hating Jew does exist, I don’t believe that any particular political ideology can be ascribed to this wounded entity. I know Zionist and anti-Zionist Jews who are extremely conflicted about their identity as Jews. How could we not be, like all marginalized groups of people, we are bombarded with horrid images of ourselves, perpetrated by the dominant culture to further rationalize their hegemony, as well as to co-opt members of our community in support of that hegemony.

I assume your anger, expressed in the semi-literate rantings of your email, comes from a fear, a valid fear of Jewish persecution. I understand that many Jews feel that the entire future existence of the Jewish people depends on the existence of the state of Israel and therefore, to oppose the state of Israel, or any of its policies would be equaled to advocating for the destruction of the Jewish People. You are afraid that I am, in my small way, helping to bring down the demise of our people, that I am in part responsible for Jews killed on the streets of Tel Aviv or Jerusalem. I understand your fear, but let me remind you that it was in Europe where our people met the greatest persecution; it was in Europe where we were subjected to crusades, inquisitions, pogroms, humiliation, ghettos, discrimination, rape, slave labor and genocide. It was in the United States, an extension of European hegemony, and now, the empirical force in the world, where we were subjected to immigration restrictions, discrimination, witch hunts, red scares, executions,klan violence and false imprisonment. In this country, Jews fleeing Nazi persecution were turned back to Germany, to face certain death, while British children, and even British dogs (yes, some British sent their dogs) were given safe harbor to escape the bombings imposed on them during the war. During times of great repression in Europe, many Jews found it safer to escape to the Middle East where we never suffered in the way that we suffered in Europe, where we lived, for the most part in peaceful co-existence with Christians and Moslems. Animosity against the Jews in whole or in part, coming from the Middle East is not much more than a century old, in reaction to the imperialist intentions of Zionists such as Hertzl and Jabotinsky and the terrorist activities of Jewish groups such as the Urgun and the Stern Gang, who made clear their desire, not to simply resettle as immigrants or refugees, but to conquer. Opposition to Zionist hegemony, is not genocidal, it is reasonable.

I am not a Zionist because Zionism is unjust and as such, can never protect me. Zionism appropriates my history and my sense of justice for the purpose of perpetuating U.S. and European colonial hegemony, and when that fails in the court of world opinion, the Jews will be blamed. I am not a Zionist because I believe that if a Jewish child is sacred, so too is a Palestinian child, (many of whom are the descendants of the ancient Jewish tribes.) I am not a Zionist, because I understand that Hitler’s policy of lebensraum (living space, the policy of removing “impure races” so that there would be more room for Germans) is a form of genocide and a precursor to atrocities that we could wish were beyond imagination, and the Israeli policy of “transfer” is merely another word for this injustice. I am not a Zionist because I honor my heritage and to do so, requires that I not dishonor the heritage or lives of others in the name of my ancestry. I am not a Zionist because I believe in universal human rights and do not believe that the establishment of one more elite leadership based on nationalism, will bring about a more just world. I believe with all my being that an injustice to one is an injustice to all, that when one is oppressed, with each drop of blood that is shed, with each aspiration that is quashed, each of us is diminished in our capacities, each of us becomes more unsafe.

Israel, and the people of Israel, cannot find peace in armaments. Israel is now the fourth strongest army in the world, and by far the most dangerous state for a Jew to live in. Daily brutality against Palestinians, the denial of life, land, water, education, mobility, work and a future to millions of Palestinian children in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip, along with diminished rights to those Palestinians living within Israel, and with the refusal to address the inequities in Israel’s right of return policies, will only result in the same desperation that besieged those brave fighters in the Warsaw Ghetto, who, with their own lives, defended the ghetto against the Nazis longer than all of the rest of Poland.

The most important holiday in my home, is Passover, the celebration of liberation from slavery. I gather with me, a pantheon of local human rights activists who come from all over the world. It might surprise you, David, that among my diverse guests are many Arabs, both Moslem and Christians, including Egyptians, Lebanese and Palestinians, who join me as we crowd into my small living room. We pray together, sing, dance, discuss freedom, justice and tell the story of Passover. We compare our different traditions, marvel at the similarities, and truly love each other, aware of the possibilities represented in the gathering in my home one night a year. The children run around and find the afikomen, and while I do prepare a feast, everyone else also brings a dish and we have a glorious banquet while never forgetting that only through our work together can we find a solution to the conflicts that would otherwise tear up apart.

Perhaps my dreams of a world with justice and equality, free from military and political hegemony, are naïve, but belief in a military future has certainly failed the test of practicality and assuredly threatens all life on this planet. The more brutal a regime, the more desperate the opposition. The United States, colonialism (including Zionism) and neocolonialism have created for us and for all of our children, a world so tenuous, so fragile, that even for the most privileged, hope for the future seems futile. Perhaps there is no other path, and the present conflicts will destroy us all, but I cast my lot with the peacemakers, those Palestinians, Israelis and internationals who stand down tanks in the streets of Rafah, the volunteers of the International Solidarity Movement who declare with their lives the importance of a better world, the Israeli soldiers who have served years in Israeli prisons for their refusal to serve in the Israeli army, with Mordechai Vanunu, who rots after 18 years in total isolation in Israeli prison for breaking the silence about the Israeli war machine and nuclear weaponry. It may be an exercise in futility, but the company I keep exceeds by far the joy I could have in a life of consumer pleasure, or the futility and bleakness that comes from supporting an enormous war machine. Love and fear cannot be held in the same breath, and the wider the circle, the greater the possibilities.

Martin Luther King Jr., stated; ““I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become reality. I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.” It isn’t hatred of myself or my people that draws me to this work, but a profound hope, and on a good day a tenuous faith that a better world is not only possible but a necessity.

With prayers for peace with justice, and above all else, love,
Emma Rosenthal