Category Archives: Judaism

Continuing a Discussion about Brit Milah

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Com­ment­ing in the dis­cus­sion on Alas about a post deal­ing with the cir­cum­ci­sion ban that has been pro­posed in San Fran­cisco, Ching­ona wrote the following:

Sec­ondly … and here I’m try­ing to put into words some­thing that I think is felt on a sub­con­scious and instinc­tual level (with addi­tional caveats that I can­not speak for every Jew every­where) … with all the blood that has been spilt to main­tain Judaism over the cen­turies, there is a feel­ing that one, as an indi­vid­ual, does not actu­ally have the right to just dis­pense with some­thing so fun­da­men­tal as this. For more sec­u­lar Jews, to not cir­cum­cise is to say that not only do you not care if your kids aren’t Jew­ish, but to actu­ally push them away from it. You might be a scofflaw in a hun­dred dif­fer­ent ways, but to not cir­cum­cise would be to renounce your cit­i­zen­ship. It’s the step too far. And to take that step is to spit on the mem­ory of every Jew who died for being Jewish.

Even as I write this, I imag­ine you laugh­ing at how ridicu­lous it sounds. Do other Jew­ish peo­ple on this thread think I’m exag­ger­at­ing? Like I said, I’m try­ing to put some­thing into words that is more felt than thought, and it’s entirely pos­si­ble that I’m over­stat­ing the mat­ter. But in my expe­ri­ence, it’s some­thing in the neigh­bor­hood of what I wrote above.

It reminded me of some­thing I wrote in my first Frag­ments of Evolv­ing Man­hood post, called A Full-Throated Protest Against Exis­tence and the World. (I should add I have not edited this excerpt to take into account Grace Annam’s gen­tle admo­ni­tion to remem­ber that “there are women who have the expe­ri­ence of hav­ing had a penis.”)

Even now, hav­ing rejected cir­cum­ci­sion in my own fam­ily, it’s hard to dis­miss the rit­ual merely as the patri­ar­chal mark­ing that, at its roots, it is. Because what­ever else that rit­ual might be, the his­tory of the oppres­sion of the Jews has made it also a sign of defi­ance, a bod­ily affir­ma­tion of Jew­ish (male) iden­tity and Jew­ish (male) worth in the face of enor­mous persecution.

I put the word male in paren­the­ses in the last sen­tence because, while cir­cum­ci­sion marks only men and is there­fore prob­lem­atic from the point of view of gen­der equal­ity within the Jew­ish tra­di­tion, I do not want to deny the courage that it took for Jew­ish moth­ers to con­tinue to allow their sons to be cir­cum­cised, or for Jew­ish women to con­tinue to value cir­cum­ci­sion as a reli­gious rit­ual, a phys­i­cal mark and as a metaphor for the rela­tion­ship between the Jews and their god at times when forc­ing a man to pull down his pants was one way that anti-semites would iden­tify appro­pri­ate tar­gets for their hatred and vio­lence. In Hasidic Tales of the Holo­caust, for exam­ple, Yaffa Eli­ach tells a story that, whether it is com­pletely true or only an embell­ished ver­sion of the truth, illus­trates pre­cisely what I mean. In the midst of a “children’s Aktion,” a mas­sacre of Jew­ish chil­dren, the tale goes, a Jew­ish woman demanded of a Nazi sol­dier, “Give me [your] pocket knife!”

She bent down and picked up something…a bun­dle of rags on the ground near the saw­dust. She unwrapped the bun­dle. Amidst the rags on a snow-white pil­low was a new­born babe, asleep. With a steady hand she opened the pocket knife and cir­cum­cised the baby. In a clear, intense voice she recited the bless­ing of the cir­cum­ci­sion. “Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Uni­verse, who has sanc­ti­fied us by thy com­mand­ments and hast com­manded us to per­form the circumcision.”

She straight­ened her back, looked up to the heav­ens, and said, “God of the Uni­verse, you have given me a healthy child. I am return­ing to you a whole­some, kosher Jew.” She walked over to the Ger­man, gave him back his blood-stained knife, and handed him her baby on his snow-white pil­low. (152)

I am that boy; that boy was me. Had I been alive dur­ing the time of the Nazis, they would have tried to kill me pre­cisely for being “whole­some and kosher.” Yet while the vio­lence that mother did to her son absolutely pales in com­par­i­son to the vio­lence the Nazi intended to do to him, the story nonethe­less omits the boy’s pain, glosses over the blood that must have stained the pil­low, the mother’s hands and the German’s knife. It is that blood which haunts me, for my cir­cum­ci­sion is my con­nec­tion to that mother’s courage, to the courage of the men who cir­cum­cised and were cir­cum­cised at a time when a cut penis could have got­ten them killed.

It was not an easy thing for me to arrive at the point where, as a Jew­ish man, I could choose not to have my son cir­cum­cised and also not feel like I was betray­ing my com­mu­nity at a much, much deeper level than any rejec­tion of circumcision’s reli­gious sig­nif­i­cance might rep­re­sent for me. This is some­thing I might choose to write more about at a later time, but for now I will say that it had to do with let­ting go of a cer­tain kind of cul­tur­ally incul­cated anger and fear, with decid­ing that doing vio­lence to my son’s body – to the body of any Jew­ish infant born with a penis – in order to mark that body over and against the vio­lence that has been done to Jews through­out our his­tory was, in some sense, only a con­tin­u­a­tion of that violence.

Nonethe­less, I have tremen­dous respect for the feel­ings of peo­ple who con­tinue to see brit milah – we might as well call the cer­e­mony by its proper name – as a way of say­ing not only to the cir­cum­cised child, but to the his­tor­i­cally hos­tile world in which that child will grow up, “You are here, in this world, as a Jew; we are here in this world, as Jews, and we are not going any­where.“

Our Newest Superhero: Foreskin Man?

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I found a link to Fore­skin Man on The Good Man Project. To respond fully will require a more care­ful read­ing than I can give the comic now, but even pag­ing quickly through issue two reveals an awful lot that is prob­lem­atic in the way the char­ac­ters are drawn. The Good Man Project pointed to this image of the evil Jew­ish circumcisers:

But the depic­tion of women is also problematic:

The rou­tine cir­cum­ci­sion of infant boys, med­ical and oth­er­wise, is a prob­lem. Some­how I can’t see a comic like this being the way to address it.

Went to See Maz Jobrani Last Night

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I took my wife and my son for their birth­days, which are a day apart later this month, to see the Iranian-American comic Maz Jobrani last night at Town Hall. He is very tal­ented and very funny. One of the things he does to great effect is bring the audi­ence into dia­logue with him as part of his show, and so – since part of this agenda is quite explic­itly polit­i­cal, i.e., to use com­edy as a way of call­ing out and break­ing down stereo­types and other kinds of bar­ri­ers between dif­fer­ent kinds of peo­ple – he asks mem­bers of dif­fer­ent groups to iden­tify them­selves in the audi­ence: Ira­ni­ans (obvi­ously), white peo­ple, Arabs (mak­ing sure to spec­ify which coun­try they come from, to make the point, you know, that the Arab Mid­dle East is not all one coun­try), Jews, Lati­nos, etc. Per­haps my favorite joke of the evening resulted from this – not that it was the fun­ni­est, but it was my favorite.

He was talk­ing to some Pales­tin­ian women sit­ting in the front and then – I don’t remem­ber exactly who said what – iden­ti­fied some Jew­ish peo­ple sit­ting in the same row, more or less, but across the aisle. He asked them to wave at each other, which they did, and made the pre­dictable joke about the peace process start­ing right there as part of the Maz Jobrani show. There fol­lowed some other pat­ter and then he said, address­ing him­self to some­one else in the audi­ence, say­ing some­thing like, “See, now, we need to start with a wave. Can’t go too far too soon; there’s just too much dis­trust.” Then he turned to the Pales­tini­ans and said, “Please, now, don’t go throw­ing any­thing at them; I don’t know what you brought with you, but don’t throw it. Not tonight.” And then he turned to the Jews and said, “And don’t you go tak­ing her seat; it’s her seat. Okay?”

The audi­ence exploded with laugh­ter. It was not his fun­ni­est joke of the evening, but it was in some ways his most point­edly polit­i­cal, and he car­ried it off so lightly, so well, I was clap­ping as much in admi­ra­tion as I was in laugh­ter. It made me won­der what he would have done with us had we been sit­ting close enough: a Jew­ish Amer­i­can man, a Mus­lim Iran­ian woman and our son. It also reminded me, for some rea­son, of one of my favorite poems by the 12th cen­tury Iran­ian poet Saadi. Here it is in my tranlsation:

Every­one thinks his own think­ing is per­fect and that his child is the most beautiful.

I watched a Mus­lim and a Jew debate
and shook with laugh­ter at their child­ish­ness.
The Mus­lim swore, “If what I’ve done is wrong,
may God cause me to die a Jew.” The Jew
swore as well, “If what I’ve said is false,
I swear by the holy Torah that I will die
a Mus­lim, like you.” If tomor­row the earth
fell sud­denly void of all wis­dom
no one would admit that it was gone.

Fragments of Evolving Manhood: Do You Like Your Body 5

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“You don’t know who you are any­more!” We’ve just fin­ished eat­ing lunch and my grand­mother is sit­ting across from me at her din­ing room table. “All your trav­el­ing, your read­ing, explor­ing other cul­tures,” she purses her lips and looks down. Then she tilts her head ever so slightly to the right and nods a cou­ple of times, a ges­ture that usu­ally means she’s look­ing for a nicer way to say what she really wants to say. After a few sec­onds, she raises her face to me but can barely meet my eyes. “You’ve for­got­ten where you come from,” she says at last, her voice more sad than accusing.

I know what this is about — I told her last week that my wife and I have decided not to have our son cir­cum­cised — but I ask any­way. She knows I know, and I hear in her voice when she answers how much she resents my mak­ing her say it. Oddly, though, she does not try to make me feel guilty about deny­ing my Jew­ish her­itage or about mar­ry­ing a non-Jewish woman. Instead, she says, “You’re only ask­ing for trou­ble, you know. When he gets older he’s going to want to know why he’s not like you; he’s going to think you don’t want him to be like you; and what are you going to tell him when he asks you? Have you thought about that? What are you going to tell him?”

•

My two-and-a-half-year-old son, who’s been sit­ting with­out his dia­per on the car­pet in the liv­ing room, gets up and sits down next to me on the couch. “Dad,” he says, “my dool is soft.”

“Well, it’s sup­posed to be soft,” I tell him.

“No, it’s soft,” he says, his into­na­tion mak­ing clear that I didn’t under­stand him the first time.

“You don’t like it when it’s soft?” I ask, wait­ing to see what he does with the open­ing I’ve given him.

“No,” he answers with­out miss­ing a beat, “I want it to be big…like yours.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, “when you get big­ger, your dool will get big­ger to. Right now, it’s the just right size for—

Before I can fin­ish my sen­tence — “for your body” — my son looks up at me, his eyes widen­ing and his mouth curl­ing into a smile. “Dad,” he says, “come see my tools!” — my son is a bud­ding handy­man — “I need to fix the refrig­er­a­tor!” And as if the pre­vi­ous con­ver­sa­tion had not taken place, he grabs my hand and leads me off to his room, where we retrieve his plas­tic ham­mer and screw­driver so he can make sure the refrig­er­a­tor con­tin­ues to keep our food cold.

As we’re walk­ing, I laugh at myself, for I of course saw in my son’s desire for a penis as a big as mine a small moment of cri­sis, a fore­shad­ow­ing of all the ways in which he will try to mea­sure up to me and find him­self want­ing. Yet who knows what he really meant by what he said? And even assum­ing he meant exactly what he said, who knows what sig­nif­i­cance, pre­cisely, he attaches to the notion of big or what he thinks it says about me that my penis is big­ger than his, or about him that his is smaller? I remem­ber how the other day when were watch­ing tele­vi­sion, my son made a point of lay­ing on his side in as close an approx­i­ma­tion to my pos­ture as he could achieve and how he insisted that I notice him, “Dad! Look! I’m sit­ting just like you are!” Or how he takes his laptop-like alphabet-teaching-computer-game and sets it up so he can sit like I sit at my com­puter and type. More and more he wants to be like me, to do the things I do, and so it could be that his com­ment about his penis had noth­ing to do with any of the phal­lic anx­i­ety I could not help but hear in his words. Maybe he was just acknowl­edg­ing that while he can sit or type like I do, he can­not bring his body into con­gru­ence with mine.

My grandmother’s ques­tion and accu­sa­tion comes back to me—What will you tell him when he asks why he’s not cir­cum­cised and you are? He’s going to think you didn’t want him to be like you!—and I won­der not so much what I will tell him, but whether I will ever be able to know pre­cisely what he means by ask­ing.

Church in Florida to Host “International Burn the Quran Day” to Commemorate the September 11 Attacks

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The poet Kazim Ali posted this to his Face­book page, say­ing that he thought it “had to be a myth,” and that is what it sounds like at first, but the Dove World Out­reach Cen­ter is indeed invit­ing peo­ple to burn a Quran on Sep­tem­ber 11, 2010. It’s easy to dis­miss this as quack­ery, as not worth giv­ing the atten­tion that it got through CNN’s cov­er­age, but the truth is that if we don’t pay atten­tion to it, if we don’t call it out for what it is – and it’s grat­i­fy­ing to see that the Face­book page protest­ing the event has close to twice as many fans as the Face­book page announc­ing the event – it will spread. More than that, though, it will become – it already has become, actu­ally, and this is kind of fright­en­ing – part of the way per­cep­tions of Islam are framed by our national rhetoric. Here’s the video:

Rick Sanchez, I think, proves him­self to be a par­tic­u­larly inept inter­viewer here – I don’t watch him, so I don’t know if he’s usu­ally bet­ter than this – but one of the things that dis­turbs me about the way he tries to respond to Terry Jones, Dove World Outreach’s pas­tor, is his but-there–are–moderate-muslims-out-there tone, as if those “mod­er­ate Muslims” – and more about that phrase in a moment – are some­how the excep­tion to the rule. Or as if they are, you know, out there, but really well hid­den, and so you have to know the secret code or some­thing to get them to reveal them­selves. Equally trou­bling to me, though, is the way the phrase “mod­er­ate Mus­lims” has taken on the same descrip­tive weight and author­ity as, say, Ortho­dox Jew or Evan­gel­i­cal Chris­t­ian, as if “mod­er­ate” were some­how actu­ally a sect of Islam. Well-meaning as it may be, the phrase actu­ally con­tributes to rather than decon­structs the way in which Islam is being defined as a pro­foundly hos­tile theologically-informed, we-want-to-rule-the-world polit­i­cal stance towards the West, broadly speak­ing, and the United States in par­tic­u­lar, rather than as a reli­gion. This is to me – and I’d be inter­ested to hear what other peo­ple think of this – very sim­i­lar to the way in which the anti­se­mitic rhetoric of Europe framed Judaism from the 18th cen­tury, and cer­tainly the 19th cen­tury on, and it is cer­tainly one of the under­ly­ing assump­tions – i.e., that the Jews want to rule the world – of the “World Zion­ist Con­spir­acy” theories.

It’s also worth not­ing that Jones and his group also declared August 2 “No Homo Mayor” day, a day to protest Gainesville’s openly gay mayor. Both groups – Mus­lims and homo­sex­u­als – are god­less accord­ing to Jones, a logic sim­i­lar to the one that cre­ated the asso­ci­a­tion between being Jew­ish and homo­sex­u­al­ity, to men­tion being com­mu­nist, Jew­ish and homo­sex­ual, that was an impor­tant point of anti­se­mitic rhetoric in this coun­try dur­ing 50s, 60s and even 70s.

It’s easy to dis­miss Terry Jones and his church as a bunch of nuts, espe­cially when his argu­ments for why Islam is a devil’s reli­gion, as quoted in the text accom­pa­ny­ing the Rick Sanchez video, include doozies like this:

“I mean ask your­self, have you ever really seen a really happy Mus­lim? As they’re on the way to Mecca? As they gather together in the mosque on the floor? Does it look like a real reli­gion of joy?” Jones asks in one of his YouTube posts.

“No, to me it looks like a reli­gion of the devil.”

The prob­lem is that Jones and com­pany are only giv­ing expres­sion to the log­i­cal con­clu­sion of what an awful lot of peo­ple in the United State., con­sciously or not, already believe. The term Islam­o­pho­bia may be rel­a­tively new, but the (often racial­ized and racial­iz­ing) hatred of Mus­lims has a long his­tory in this coun­try – and that is some­thing I will per­haps write about in another post – a his­tory that pre­dates the Sep­tem­ber 11th attacks not by decades, but by cen­turies, and its assump­tions, its images, its rhetoric is/has been as much a part of our cul­ture as the assump­tions, images, rhetoric of, say, racism.

I am not an alarmist, though I do think there is a com­par­i­son to be made between the way in which anti­se­mitic rhetoric was deployed so as to make the Nazi’s cam­paign against the Jews and the way Islam­o­pho­bic rhetoric has been more and more mak­ing its way into our pub­lic dis­course. Indeed, I think this com­par­i­son would prob­a­bly work with the rhetoric of any geno­ci­dal cam­paign, though I do not think and I am not imply­ing that this is the begin­ning of some kind of anti-Muslim gov­ern­ment action. Rather, I think, plain and sim­ple, that those com­par­isons should make clear to us how imper­a­tive it is not to let the actions and the rhetoric of peo­ple like Terry Jones go unan­swered.

Fragments of Evolving Manhood: A Full-Throated Protest Against Existence and the World

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I have writ­ten before about the book of per­sonal essays deal­ing with man­hood, mas­culin­ity and male sex­u­al­ity that I tried, unsuc­cess­fully (even with the help of an agent) to get pub­lished in the 1980s. Evolv­ing Man­hood was the work­ing title, though my agent pre­ferred and used my sec­ond choice–What Kind of a Man Are You Any­way?–because she thought it might sell bet­ter. When my agent finally dropped me because it was clear that no one was going to buy the man­u­script – which I may one day make the sub­ject of a whole other essay – I put the mate­r­ial aside and went back to work­ing on my poetry, and then I was com­mis­sioned to do the trans­la­tions of Per­sian lit­er­a­ture that I am still work­ing on, with the result that Evolv­ing Man­hood receded into the back­ground of my writ­ing life, and this makes me sad, not only because I worked damned hard on those essays, but also because I think some of the writ­ing has held up pretty well, even though it is, some of it, 20 years old, and because I think the ques­tions I was try­ing to explore are still pro­foundly rel­e­vant. More, I am sad­dened by the fact that the odds are over­whelm­ingly against my return­ing to this mate­r­ial in any sub­stan­tial way. Time, both in the sense of what my com­mit­ments are now, per­sonal and pro­fes­sional, and of my dis­tance from what I wrote back then, is work­ing against me.

So, since I don’t want what I think is worth keep­ing to dis­ap­pear into my fil­ing cab­i­net for­ever, I have decided that I will start a series called Frag­ments from Evolv­ing Man­hood made up of just what the title says, though the posts may be edited if I think it is nec­es­sary. I decided to make this the first one because it is Passover, a hol­i­day that, broadly speak­ing, is (or should be) about social jus­tice but that is also about what it means to be Jew­ish in a world where being Jew­ish can get you killed.

***

A Full-Throated Protest Against Exis­tence and the World

As a Jew­ish man, like it or not, my iden­tity within the Jew­ish com­mu­nity as both a man and a Jew is defined by the fact of my cir­cum­ci­sion. Even though I am Jew­ish first because my mother is Jew­ish, at least accord­ing to the tra­di­tion accepted by most of the Jew­ish com­mu­ni­ties in the world, I entered God’s covenant with Abra­ham, became fully a mem­ber of my own peo­ple, only after my fore­skin was removed, and for the first fif­teen or so years of my life, I roman­ti­cized the moment of that cut­ting. Imag­in­ing a blood­less cer­e­mony sat­u­rated with self-conscious majesty, I saw my boy’s body wrapped warmly and securely in a blan­ket, held peace­fully at ease in the lap of my Uncle Max, smil­ing drunk on the wine-soaked cloth I’d been given to suck on to dull the (as it was explained to me by my grand­mother) very small pain I would feel. Prayers were uttered over my flesh, and after the cut­ting was done, my mem­ber­ship in the covenant, not to men­tion into the com­mu­nity of Jew­ish man­hood, was cel­e­brated with food and drink. I pic­tured myself being passed lov­ingly among the guests, cud­dled and cod­dled as they talked about the man I would grow up to be.

When I turned six­teen, how­ever, I wit­nessed an actual brit milah, or cir­cum­ci­sion cer­e­mony. The house was full of peo­ple. I could see in the room beyond the room where I min­gled with the other guests the feast that had been laid out for after the cut­ting. Peo­ple were chat­ting, jok­ing, shak­ing hands with old friends, and mak­ing new acquain­tances, but when the mohel—the man who per­forms Jew­ish cir­cum­ci­sions — arrived, the atmos­phere became imme­di­ately seri­ous. As he shook hands with the boy’s father and with those other men who would par­tic­i­pate in the cer­e­mony, the women left and the room grew quiet. The boy, bun­dled tightly in a blan­ket, was brought in and placed in the hands of the man who had been cho­sen for the honor of hold­ing the child while the pre­lim­i­nary prayers were recited. Then, the boy was given to the sandek, the man upon whom had been bestowed the priv­i­lege of hold­ing the infant in his lap when the cut­ting was actu­ally done. My view was blocked as the older men crowded around so they could see, but I knew when the cut came because that lit­tle boy howled. A full-throated protest against exis­tence and the world, his scream filled my ears, the room, the entire house with his pain.

The men smiled and laughed as if they did not hear the child’s voice. Above his wail­ing, they shouted mazel tov! — congratulations! — and shook hands with each other and with those who had par­tic­i­pated in the cer­e­mony. Some of them even began to sing. The boy’s scream­ing did not stop. I was taken to meet the child’s father. He smiled at me proudly, grip­ping my hand and, as his still shriek­ing son was car­ried from the room, steered me into the din­ing area where peo­ple were begin­ning to eat. This was not the peace­ful cer­e­mony I had imag­ined. This was hypocrisy, the sanc­ti­fi­ca­tion and cel­e­bra­tion through denial of the pain of the boy who’d just been cut, and also of the pain I had felt, and of the pain of every man in that house. I felt mocked, betrayed, and tremen­dously angry, but I had no words to express what I was feel­ing. Even now, hav­ing rejected cir­cum­ci­sion in my own fam­ily, it’s hard to dis­miss the rit­ual merely as the patri­ar­chal mark­ing that, at its roots, it is. Because what­ever else that rit­ual might be, the his­tory of the oppres­sion of the Jews has made it also a sign of defi­ance, a bod­ily affir­ma­tion of Jew­ish (male) iden­tity and Jew­ish (male) worth in the face of enor­mous persecution.

I put the word male in paren­the­ses in the last sen­tence because, while cir­cum­ci­sion marks only men and is there­fore prob­lem­atic from the point of view of gen­der equal­ity within the Jew­ish tra­di­tion, I do not want to deny the courage that it took for Jew­ish moth­ers to con­tinue to allow their sons to be cir­cum­cised, or for Jew­ish women to con­tinue to value cir­cum­ci­sion as a reli­gious rit­ual, a phys­i­cal mark and as a metaphor for the rela­tion­ship between the Jews and their god at times when forc­ing a man to pull down his pants was one way that anti-semites would iden­tify appro­pri­ate tar­gets for their hatred and vio­lence. In Hasidic Tales of the Holo­caust, for exam­ple, Yaffa Eli­ach tells a story that, whether it is com­pletely true or only an embell­ished ver­sion of the truth, illus­trates pre­cisely what I mean. In the midst of a “children’s Aktion,” a mas­sacre of Jew­ish chil­dren, the tale goes, a Jew­ish woman demanded of a Nazi sol­dier, “Give me [your] pocket knife!”

She bent down and picked up something…a bun­dle of rags on the ground near the saw­dust. She unwrapped the bun­dle. Amidst the rags on a snow-white pil­low was a new­born babe, asleep. With a steady hand she opened the pocket knife and cir­cum­cised the baby. In a clear, intense voice she recited the bless­ing of the cir­cum­ci­sion. “Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Uni­verse, who has sanc­ti­fied us by thy com­mand­ments and hast com­manded us to per­form the circumcision.”

She straight­ened her back, looked up to the heav­ens, and said, “God of the Uni­verse, you have given me a healthy child. I am return­ing to you a whole­some, kosher Jew.” She walked over to the Ger­man, gave him back his blood-stained knife, and handed him her baby on his snow-white pil­low. (152)

I am that boy; that boy was me. Had I been alive dur­ing the time of the Nazis, they would have tried to kill me pre­cisely for being “whole­some and kosher.” Yet while the vio­lence that mother did to her son absolutely pales in com­par­i­son to the vio­lence the Nazi intended to do to him, the story nonethe­less omits the boy’s pain, glosses over the blood that must have stained the pil­low, the mother’s hands and the German’s knife. It is that blood which haunts me, for my cir­cum­ci­sion is my con­nec­tion to that mother’s courage, to the courage of the men who cir­cum­cised and were cir­cum­cised at a time when a cut penis could have got­ten them killed. Yet that blood is also about the mak­ing of men, and as long as the mak­ing of men requires such blood­shed, man­hood will con­tinue to require the spilling of blood as its proof.

“The Myths of Liberal Zionism,” by Yitzhak Laor — I want to read this book

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Writ­ing in the Jan­u­ary issue of Harper’s Mag­a­zine, Joshua Cohen wrote this at the end of his review of Laor’s book:

It often seems that the Israeli-Palestinian con­flict is just […] a tex­tual prob­lem. If so, then the mud­dle of mean­ing that must be ana­lyzed lies in pars­ing not Pales­tin­ian from Israeli, but “Israeli” from “Jew.” Only once those epi­thets have been dis­sev­ered can some sort of dia­logue begin, between two polit­i­cal enti­ties and not between two (or three) reli­gions or Peo­ples. Until then, “Israel” will con­tinue to be vil­i­fied as a word that means some­thing other than what it should, while all crit­ics of Israel will be accused of anti-Semitism.

It is not clear to me from the review how much of this is Cohen, how much of this is Laor and how much of it is Cohen putting into his own words what he agrees with in Laor’s book, but any book that leads to this kind of think­ing, to ask­ing these kinds of ques­tions, whether I ulti­mately agree with the book or not, is a book worth read­ing. Now, if there were only 36 hours or more in a day. Sigh.