I (Wish I Could) Write Hebrew

I miss speaking Hebrew now that I am back. I had just gotten the hang of it, moving beyond what Rebecca rightly called my "Buddhist" mastery of the language (being able to speak only in the present and about one singular thing at a time) to ... *gasp* ... the past tense! No longer did I have to plan out every single question I wanted to ask a bus driver, no longer did I cringe in dismay when people would ask me for directions or the time. Finally it was coming together, conversation and also reading. I would just practice all the time, on the bus or walking through town--that sign says "falafel", I would think with delight, that billboard says "Wednesday". I felt so victorious.

Now I am back in Berkeley and we speak English here, English with a bit of Hebrew when context calls for it ("Afo ha farmers' market?") and so it was a delightful surprise when the arduous task of cleaning out a box I'd left behind in Mark and Rebecca's extra bedroom led me to find this poem that Deborah shared with me last summer at camp.

I Write Hebrew
--Salman Masalha, translated by Vivian Eden

I write in the Hebrew language
which is not my mother tongue, to
lose myself in the world. He who doesn't
get lost, will never find the whole.
Because everyone has the same
toes. Left big toe
by right heel.

And sometimes I write Hebrew
to cool the blood that spurts
endlessly from my heart. It's always like that.
There are many treasures
in the coffer I have built in my chest.
But the colours of the night that was spread
over exposed walls, peel
without ever knowing what
all this wonder is.

And I write Hebrew, to
get lost in my words, and also to find
a bit of interest for my footsteps.
I have not stopped walking. Many paths
have I travelled. Engraved by my hands.
I shall take my feet in hand
and meet many people. And make them all
my friends. Who is foreign? Who far, who
near?
There is no strangeness in the ways of the
world.
Because strangeness, mostly,
lies in mans heart.