It was after one of these adventures that make you wish you’ll have grandchildren so you can tell them the story. We sat around an iron stove in a Bedouin tent and tired didn’t even start to describe the state of my muscles and mind. Amos felt it was the perfect time for a Hebrew lesson.
Amos is a great teacher; the kind who knows and experienced so many things that he spills over and finds joy in handing on knowledge. Still, we had to adjust to each other as character-wise two universes collided. I am not the kind of person who bursts out in song or screams from the top of my lungs just like that. Actually, I am not the kind of person who talks a lot. I can go a day without saying a word and not even realizing it.
You reach me through my head, even when I am tired. And Amos did that night when he started to teach me a poem:
על החלון פרח עציף
כל היום הגנה יציף
כל חבריו שם בגן
הוא לבדו עומד כאן.
For all non-Hebrew speakers, this is the story of a flower that stands at the window from where it can see the garden with its friends which it can not reach, never. This flower became for me the symbol for longing and the window turned into the bars separating us from what we crave.
What grows in the garden behind my window?
[Here I stop and hesitate. I have clear lines in my head, could list what I wish for most on the fingers of my hand. But am I right to ask for it?]
success with the product of my talents,
recognition for what I am and do,
When I finally decide to scream, I want people to listen. I want to scream: ‘Look at me, look at my art, look at my words! I am unique, I am amazing. I am.’ I wished the words wouldn’t trail off at the window…