Translated to english: Shirley Ganor
NE’EMA
Ne’ema was a simple woman, who grew from the muddy earth of the Jewish quarter, and stood upon it with two legs strong and quick, hurrying to run to the focus of the storm of body and soul. You could see her at the head of the procession after the dead, invading the dust, tearing her hair, getting excited with sweeping devotion, lending her voice to chants that even Job could have been inspired by, splitting heavenly and earthly worlds, and that same voice rolling every stone from the wells of tears of tough men, even more so from the women following her. While the deceased was getting ready for eternal rest under clods of fresh earth, heaped at the feet of those accompanying, Ne’ema would kneel and turn to him in an intimate monologue describing his life – deeds, patching and painting as needed, asking-answering, forgetting and forgiving in the name of the crowd, straightening facts, and paving the way for him to Paradise and then to the Next World, and those standing around her were silent after her. So she would draw out and work the sorrow in order to leave the soul cleansed and purified from pain. As the sun set, you would see her again carrying out the commandment of bringing a bride and groom to the covenant of marriage, dancing and swinging at the head of the procession that stretched out behind her like “the pied piper”, and she shining in the primal light, clapping hands, stamping feet, the sound of her silvery bracelets drowned in the commotion “clll … lsh”, ringing out and enveloping the quarter, shaking the drowsy homes of their inhabitants to the focus of the excitement and joy, rising and echoing over the rooftops, and the wind carrying it like the sounds of bells somewhere in Jerusalem. On the Sabbaths of the “groom” and the “father of a son” we floated around Neema. From the starting position we followed her movements with the tension of a cat, because we knew, in just another moment, candies of all colors and flavors would come flying over our heads from her quick hands. The abundance of candies would fall on us like the first and last rains, and we, who were in charge of grabbing and collecting, filled our laps in order to show off before the children and bring the loot to our mothers who were sitting in the women’s section and watching our childish excitement with a smile, all proud with the determination of their children. Neema extracted the maximum from these events. From her point of view, the event ended when the excitement reached its climax, and she didn’t stay around to pick up the remains. She knew when to enter every position, without prior preparation, to innovate, to lead the crowd, to get it excited, and at the peak moments, before the storm abated, to let go and be swallowed up in the crowd like a leader who counts on his followers to know how to continue the path he has chosen, and from there on to the next climb. The vitality, the giving, the maximum identification and leadership that she produced in these events, free of charge, did not leave the residents of the quarter apathetic towards her, and they compensated her with great appreciation and her prestige shown before all.
As the time passed, the quarter emptied of its inhabitants and each person went on his way in order to “build and be built” in the Promised Land. The years passed and went into oblivion and with it the images, sounds and odors of that Jewish quarter in the folds of the fertile belly of Baghdad. Also the colorful image of Neema went and faded in my memory until that day when I happened to receive an invitation to an event of a women’s organization which was being held in one of the hotels on the shores of Tel Aviv. The hotel rose proudly over the remnants of the sands of little Tel Aviv, celebrating in its many lights the victory of modernization over nostalgia. Women gathered and came in their best finery, their hair bearing the stamp of the beauty parlor. They sat, they broke into chatter of closeness and common destiny. A mixture of odors and cigarette smoke rose as incense to the Lord, who drew them all together under one roof. A pleasant voice emerged from the loudspeaker and encompassed the hall: “Ladies and Gentlemen, Good evening! We have a long evening ahead of us with various activities and I hope you will enjoy”. The speaker was a well dressed woman, like the women who filled the hall, but her voice and something in her movements took me back in time to different images that floated before me, and among them the special image of Neema stood out. That is indeed Neema! “The voice is the voice of Jacob and the hands are the hands of Essau”, I thought.
The Neema managing the events of the women’s organization was not the same Neema that carried the sorrow of the mourners on her bent shoulders, and beating on her chest in ecstasy. The woman on the stage broadcast elegance with hair arranged perfectly and shining motions in the light of the stage, smiling pleasantly to the crowd. No doubt that her ability for empathy, understanding the feelings of others, ability to identify with others and her natural warmth were the qualities that guided her through the maze of adapting to the new society where there was no room for elements from exile. With her sharpened senses she absorbed the reality she was brought into in the fifties, and understood apparently, that if she wished to be accepted into this society, she must shed the signs of a foreigner, be wise and be yourself at home and an Israeli outside. Remove from yourself the land of your birth and wear the striped cloak of your homeland. With the strength of adaptation of a camellia, Neema absorbed the differences between the land of her birth and her homeland.
During the recess I approached her. She stood in the center of a group of women and carried on a conversation as a teacher with her students. They looked up to her wondering and asking. I stood opposite her, concentrating on the changes that took place within her. Ho Neema, embalmed deer!
As I turned to leave, I reached hesitatingly towards her. “Excuse me”, I said, “do you remember me… from years ago … there…”. She responded to me with a broad smile, which was permanently on her lips like a uniform, looked at me with alert eyes trying to remember. Suddenly her face lit up, and for a moment she was again the Neema that I knew, showering abundant vivaciousness. She hugged me and kissed me and the language of the Arab-Jewish Baghdad woman emerged from her throat: “Is it really you? How much you have changed! Where were those happy days? You should know those days will never return”, she wiped a tear. “And how is your mother? Please send her my regards – okay? Send her kisses from Neema”. She hugged and kissed me warmly, stood up straight, wiped another tear, smiled in every direction as if apologizing for the time that she took from this hall to another world, went up to the podium and opened: “Ladies, we are coming to the second part of the evening. We will begin with a piano concerto…”. I left the hall and the sound of the piano followed me outside.
The smell of the sea hurried to wrap cold arms around me. Piano! Tag and another tag in the rhythmic count joining to the statement of planned emotion and pounding in the hearts of subdued people. No more spontaneous celebrations that the body serves as a sound box, it only touches you and you contribute one of your own. Would celebration ever again shake the body of Neema? As the violins that were hung on the reeds play no longer. The notes of the piano that escaped from the packed hall, are those the pearls of the west on the smashing waves of the Mediterranean…
הסיפור בעברית התפרסם ב- אפיריון, 72, 20-21, 2002
השבמחקהסיפור בעברית התפרסם גם בפעם הראשונה ב- אפיריון 55, 38-39, 1998-1999
השבמחק