Moriel Rothman-Zecher
Moriel Rothman-Zecher is an American-Israeli writer and activist. He was born in Jerusalem, raised in Ohio, and is back in Jerusalem. He blogs independently on www.TheLefternWall.com on issues of militarism, racism, occupation, violence, justice and peace.
Published 08/18/17
Published 08/18/17
Jerusalem Forest
I. Snarl
Many mornings my dog Silly
Department and I run for one
hour in the Jerusalem Forest.
Sometimes we encounter
other dogs and humans.
Silly is conflict averse.
(Let’s don’t talk about me quite yet).
Her black tail scoops
between her back legs
like a shy-stiff serpent
curling sleek and signaling
submission amidst the flamm-
able grass and imported pines
of the early modern Middle
Eastern morning.
A few months ago we found
a new route home: On our way
out we heard it —Silly’s ears perked
before mine — A hideous rasp
all spittle, sputum, fury and fur.
A German Shepherd (of course),
its brown and black body a blur,
hurtling toward us to hurt us, but ah:
A fence.
Could it slither under the fence
separating us? It could not.
Or maybe it could have, but
to do so it would have
almost surely hurt its back
and it wasn’t quite mad
enough for that so it just
shrieked as Silly and I ran by.
I liked the new route, and the dog
wasn’t going to get through the fence,
I knew, and yet each time I’d flinch
and cower when the barking commenced.
Then one day, before we reached
the Deutsche Dog’s gauntlet
I began to snarl myself.
And when the dog started barking
As it did--
As it would--
As it must--
dog and boy passing so close
to its home and all
I was already snarling at it.
And my heart didn’t jump
And I did not feel fearful
So from that day forward:
I kept snarling.
Then, another day
on a whim, I cooed to the dog, instead:
“Good boy, it’s OK, we love you.”
Silly looked at me quizzically, as if to say:
“We do?” The German Shepherd’s bark was
no less furious, but again I wasn’t scared.
Still, most days, I snarl rather than coo.
II. Kid
I love these woods.
I love the narrow hardened dirt pathways.
The frumpy quails that Silly chases without real menace, I know.
I love that they are almost empty, each morning, while behind us
Jerusalem is bustling awake, in all its fundamental brutality, not
a happy place, but at least it is a city in constant conversation
with darkness.
I love the mystic natural lanterns of glow,
the little pockets of glisten and tingle.
Sometimes I meet people, there in the woods:
Emilia, the elderly walker who wears a visor
and big headphones and a worried look.
Yitzhak, the father of a young man who was killed
on a hike, and whose heart cracks
so loudly when we meet
that I can barely look at him.
(I am around his son’s age).
There is Solomon, the Ethiopian
guard of the Holocaust
Memorial museum by the woods.
We great each other
each morning: “Have a great day!”
“Have an excellent one!”
He must get lonely, I think.
Or perhaps not.
Mostly, though, it is empty in the forest.
I love that it is empty.
And I don’t.
Three years ago,
a man and two boys grabbed
another boy who they didn’t know
but decided was an Enemy boy to them,
from off of the streets of Shuafat in the East
And they took him to these woods
which were empty
and lit him on fire
and beat him to death.
Sometimes I think about him
when I run but then quickly
I suffocate the sickening sadness
with a flash of Political Anger:
modern Middle Eastern mourning.
It’s easier to snarl than to coo.
I. Snarl
Many mornings my dog Silly
Department and I run for one
hour in the Jerusalem Forest.
Sometimes we encounter
other dogs and humans.
Silly is conflict averse.
(Let’s don’t talk about me quite yet).
Her black tail scoops
between her back legs
like a shy-stiff serpent
curling sleek and signaling
submission amidst the flamm-
able grass and imported pines
of the early modern Middle
Eastern morning.
A few months ago we found
a new route home: On our way
out we heard it —Silly’s ears perked
before mine — A hideous rasp
all spittle, sputum, fury and fur.
A German Shepherd (of course),
its brown and black body a blur,
hurtling toward us to hurt us, but ah:
A fence.
Could it slither under the fence
separating us? It could not.
Or maybe it could have, but
to do so it would have
almost surely hurt its back
and it wasn’t quite mad
enough for that so it just
shrieked as Silly and I ran by.
I liked the new route, and the dog
wasn’t going to get through the fence,
I knew, and yet each time I’d flinch
and cower when the barking commenced.
Then one day, before we reached
the Deutsche Dog’s gauntlet
I began to snarl myself.
And when the dog started barking
As it did--
As it would--
As it must--
dog and boy passing so close
to its home and all
I was already snarling at it.
And my heart didn’t jump
And I did not feel fearful
So from that day forward:
I kept snarling.
Then, another day
on a whim, I cooed to the dog, instead:
“Good boy, it’s OK, we love you.”
Silly looked at me quizzically, as if to say:
“We do?” The German Shepherd’s bark was
no less furious, but again I wasn’t scared.
Still, most days, I snarl rather than coo.
II. Kid
I love these woods.
I love the narrow hardened dirt pathways.
The frumpy quails that Silly chases without real menace, I know.
I love that they are almost empty, each morning, while behind us
Jerusalem is bustling awake, in all its fundamental brutality, not
a happy place, but at least it is a city in constant conversation
with darkness.
I love the mystic natural lanterns of glow,
the little pockets of glisten and tingle.
Sometimes I meet people, there in the woods:
Emilia, the elderly walker who wears a visor
and big headphones and a worried look.
Yitzhak, the father of a young man who was killed
on a hike, and whose heart cracks
so loudly when we meet
that I can barely look at him.
(I am around his son’s age).
There is Solomon, the Ethiopian
guard of the Holocaust
Memorial museum by the woods.
We great each other
each morning: “Have a great day!”
“Have an excellent one!”
He must get lonely, I think.
Or perhaps not.
Mostly, though, it is empty in the forest.
I love that it is empty.
And I don’t.
Three years ago,
a man and two boys grabbed
another boy who they didn’t know
but decided was an Enemy boy to them,
from off of the streets of Shuafat in the East
And they took him to these woods
which were empty
and lit him on fire
and beat him to death.
Sometimes I think about him
when I run but then quickly
I suffocate the sickening sadness
with a flash of Political Anger:
modern Middle Eastern mourning.
It’s easier to snarl than to coo.