I sit alone in my room. The early-morning sunlight from the east-facing window filters in through the blinds. Half the room is lit, half is dark. I ensconce myself in the dark half of the room, surrounded by a notebook, open to a blank page, the numbers of the questions already written down in anticipation the previous day; a laptop, open to the draft that would eventually become this very post; and a trusty black pen whose precious ink is steadily and unavoidably running out. I am ready. The time has come and I dial the number into my phone. My mother's brother answers the phone. We exchange the pleasantries and smalltalk characteristic of a conversation with a relative you haven't spoken to in months. Turns out he's having another baby and he's bought a house. But all of the is irrelevant. We rocket into business. I had told him previously not to read the poem ahead of time so that his first impressions can be fresh and unadulterated from further reflection. I wait as he silently reads the poem, and we begin with the questions.
"What do you think of the poem? What is your initial reaction?" A short pause. "It's very evocative. It's very strong. I've heard of this massacre of Sabra and Shatila... very arresting." My pen sprints over the paper, desperately trying to keep up with the words spilling from my uncle's mouth, scratching and ripping paper in its singular urgent purpose. Documenting his complex answers will not get easier.
Finally I manage to transcribe his answer. "What specifically do you notice about the poem?" There is another pause, longer, and filled not with the absence of an answer but with a search for the correct terms to describe his answer. "It seems to be written... 'all they ever wanted to do was come home safe' ... the soldiers, they're not culpable... blameworthy..." His answer betrays a certain theme of innocence of the carriers out of atrocities in the name of their bosses and leaders, they are only 'following orders'.
After a long pause distinguishable from total silence only by the sounds of frenzied scribbling, I ask my third question, "Are you confused by anything in the poem?" There is another pause. This one is a search for an answer, as he struggles to come to a suitable expression of his thoughts in response to a question so devoid of one. "Let's see... no, I guess I'm not confused because I know the story... it's very context-specific... the poet writes for people who know the story." His answer carries a resounding note of accuracy, as Ravikovitch wrote this piece in direct response and analysis to an event, meaningful understanding of the piece can only be achieved by those familiar with the event.
My next question comes after yet another arduous silence. "What do you think of the poem in terms of the irony of Jewish soldiers massacring Arabs versus the holocaust?" "What do you mean?" I clarify, "as in, what do you think of the irony of the massacre and killing of the Jewish by German soldiers during the holocaust, against the acts committed by the Israeli (Jewish) military and people affiliated and aided by the Israeli military during the massacre?" His answer comes with almost a note of relief, of clarification and a respite from his confusion, "So they enabled it or encouraged it, which is obviously bad... You know that didn't even occur to me... I'm not sure that it makes me think about the holocaust... I don't think the Israelis aren't able to avoid atrocities... the state enables evil... I think that's capable of evil... the military acts as an arm for a state... to increase its sphere of evil influence." One can see his beliefs that they are exempt of guilt as they are forced as individuals to commit the acts and wishes of their evil state, losing their own individual innocence in the process, which is ironically a parallel to the holocaust he neglects to draw.
My pen struggles to stay synchronous with my uncle's grand introspections. "What do you think about the symbolism of babies?" This answer is almost instant: the relaively new father of two feels strongly about the young of his species, "I thnk that for me, it's the most arresting thing you can picture... people is bad but babies is so much worse... I took it quite literally, though, so I'm not sure I quite saw much symbolism there." This answer attests to the fact that this piece holds great power and meaning even at a literal level, but also retains layers and layers deeper and deeper that add to the entirety of its message.
I ask my final question before I finish writing, as I have become all too aware of the silences that follow each question, though I am the one responsible for them. "What do you think about the relevance that the author Ravikovitch is a lifelong resident of Tel Aviv and refers to the babies as 'our sweet soldiers'?" He answers again with a pause to organize his contemplation. His answer does not disappoint. "It's clear that the author's identity is very important... first person possessive 'our'... how can they be both things at once, the victimly babies and the terrible violent perpetrators... I think she felt sympathy to the soldiers... You could say the same thing about German soldiers in the holocaust... quite a disturbing little poem though, no question about it." He is not wrong.
I give him my thanks and we hang up. The paper that lies in front of me enveloped in frenzied scribbles and rips in the thin sheet. The trusty pen is running out of ink and is noticeably on its last legs. Its life would end later that day to a calculus assignment. In front of me lies a rich vein of knowledge, caked in experience and wisdom. It is worth its weight in gold. It is a worthy sacrifice for the pen. The light from the window creeps ever closer to my post. I sit again alone in my room.
