One Hundred Philistine Foreskins Read online

  Two of Ima Temima’s bodyguards, from the loyal Bnei Zeruya contingent, soon arrived with a hospital stretcher and bore Zippi off to her designated room attached to her clinic on the staff side of the hospital ward, where she continues the healing process. Blessed be God, day by day.

  The missile that had been hurled over the southern wall and that had struck our dear Zippi on the head and landed on the ground with a dull thud was revealed, upon inspection, to be a dead goat. This discovery only served to increase the fright of some of our people, provoking even more of those challenged by a lack of commitment and self-esteem to begin scraping the walls in a desperate effort to flee, though not a soul would have prevented them, God forbid, from following their passion simply by walking out through the gate—we are pro-choice as a matter of principle and policy. The animal-rights supporters and vegetarians among us, with whom I include myself, were horrified by this shocking cruelty and disrespect to the remains of an innocent life created by the Almighty on the sixth day, just a little before He created man, and, as an afterthought, woman. If some mentally challenged individual has something against us, why did he have to take it out on the carcass of a poor goat? Why couldn’t he have thrown something else to make his point—a trash bag stuffed with used condoms or tampons, for example, or a toilet seat?

  Some of the more right-wing-inclined witnesses to this event that morning ventured that this goat-o-gram was a threatening message from Arabs living nearby, in East Jerusalem or Abu Tor, or even farther away, in Judea and Samaria where their flocks can be observed grazing on the terraced hills that belong to us, the Jewish people—our birthright, they emphatically declared; it was a signature act of the Arab mentality that needed to be understood for the sake of survival, they insisted—zero regard for human or animal life. There were also those who insisted that this dead goat special delivery was a spiteful act of hostility on the part of the ultra-Orthodox, a hideous warning to us as women for daring to overstep our bounds. It was nothing less than a scapegoat, they declared, laden with the filth of our sins, like the he-goat chosen by lottery that the high priest dispatched on Yom Kippur day with a man designated specifically for this task, to a desolate place where it was cast off a rugged cliff straight to Azazel, to the realm of demons and Djinns, of the anti-God. It followed, then, that those who had flung the scapegoat into our precincts regarded us as the polluted and sin-stained denizens and worshippers of Azazel.

  For this reason, because of the possibility that the gruesome present we received that morning involved a priestly rite, our own high priestess, Aish-Zara, was summoned for a consultation. She arrived as quickly as was humanly possible on her two canes, supported by some of her subordinate priestesses, one of whom, a woman practically a senior citizen, I realized for the first time, was in an advanced stage of pregnancy. (I ask her forgiveness here in these pages—it was simply crude ageism on my part to mistake the forthcoming miracle of life for a watermelon-sized uterine fibroid.) Without touching it directly lest she be defiled by death, Aish-Zara leaned forward on her canes and proceeded at once to examine the goat. There was no discernible red woolen string tied to the head of this goat as would have been done with a scapegoat in the days of the Holy Temple, may it be rebuilt speedily and in our time. Nevertheless, on the principle of ruling more stringently in indeterminate situations when there is doubt regarding a commandment originating in the Written Law itself, and in the event that perhaps the red string might have slipped off as the animal was soaring over the wall into our premises, the high priestess Aish-Zara passed her canes to two of her acolytes and raised her hands over the head of our dead goat to recite the words that the high priest would have intoned over the scapegoat before sending it to its doom in the wilderness, after confessing the mad and malicious sins of the people: Please, HaShem, they have erred, they have been iniquitous, they have willfully sinned, I beg of You, please, forgive them.

  As the bystanders clustering around the dead goat, in imitation of the example of Aish-Zara, prostrated themselves and fell on their faces crying out, “Blessed is the name of His glorious kingdom forever and ever,” Ima Temima’s son Paltiel, by her first husband Haim Ba’al-Teshuva, accompanied by Cozbi, the other treasured personal attendant of our holy mother, came rushing over, cutting through the crowd that gave way to them as was their due to survey with their own eyes the source of the commotion. They had hastily thrown bathrobes over their bodies, their faces were still puffed and dented by sleep, and on their feet were slippers—Cozbi’s were lustrous red synthetic-satin backless stiletto heels with fuzzy pink pom-poms, which added even further to the disconnect between her impressive height and that of Paltiel, who, even in situations that are not comparative, can be described as vertically challenged. (There is no offense intended here, heaven forbid; with regard to this physical attribute, Ima Temima has requested that I note in these pages that Paltiel resembled our ancestors who were privileged to live during the periods of the First and Second Temple based on the scientific evidence of low-ceilinged domiciles unearthed by archaeologists.)

  Cozbi gave the rapidly putrefying and bloated carcass one quick look and announced, “I know goat. She is goat of cheese-maker from Silwan, Ishmael, very cute guy. She is lady goat. See titties? All dried up.” Cozbi went on to explain that the cheese-maker was morbidly superstitious about burying his dead goats in his own pastures lest the bad karma of death curdle the milk of the rest of the flock, and so it was his practice to get rid of the evidence by loading the remains into his truck and dumping them somewhere in West Jerusalem, preferably one of the more posh neighborhoods such as Baka or Talbieh. It was Cozbi’s opinion that the appearance this morning of the cheesemaker’s dead goat on the very valuable real estate of our “leper” colony in the heart of Jerusalem was either sheer coincidence or else something akin to an instant message from the cheesemaker meant for her, a friendly way of just saying hi and reminding her of old times. She did not go on to elaborate, but suggested instead that it would be best to stop making such a fuss over rotting goat flesh or read any deeper meaning into its emanation, either earthly or heavenly, but to bury it at once and forget about it.

  “She already stink,” Cozbi said, with great refinement pinching the wings of her nostrils between two exceptionally long ebony-lacquered fingernails. “Get Bnei Zeruya to bury her in garden. She will turn into hummus—make desert bloom.”

  Later that day, when a suitable interval arrived in which to inform our holy mother of the events of the morning, Ima Temima plunged into a discourse with eyes closed, as if in private meditation, on the vision of the minor prophet Zekharia of the original flying saucer—a woman representing wickedness packed into a tub of some sort pressed down with a leaden weight being borne by two other women with wings like the wings of a stork soaring on the wind to deposit their load in the land of Shinar, home of the tower of Babel, scene of one of humankind’s first rebellions against God. “Welcome to Bavel. I am Tema Bavli, your official guide.” Our holy mother opened her eyes and added, “The flying goat is the one kid that father bought for two zuzim. We sing her praises at the close of the Pesakh Seder. She is the herald of our redemption. Had Gadya!”

  HALLELUJAH! Every soul sings the praises of HaShem. I am thrilled to record that our beloved teacher and the illuminator of our souls, HaRav Temima Ba’alatOv, shlita, our holy mother, Ima Temima, was blessed with the strength by the merciful Master of the Universe to preside over our Passover Seder on the night of the fourteenth of Nisan, four days after our arrival at the “leper” colony.

  Mattresses bedecked with brilliantly colored cloths were carried down to the great hall on the first floor, the chosen venue for our Seder, and arranged in a ring for the purpose of allowing us to recline as free women liberated from slavery. Three mattresses were piled one on top of the other for Ima Temima, as befitted the lofty position of our holy teacher. I hasten to note here that the strictures in the Written Law regarding the malignant eruption of plague inside
the walls of a house or in any of its furnishings were waived with regard to our mattresses; the “lepers” who had slept upon them for so many years along with their secretions and seepages, the drools and droppings and discharges of all their bodily fluids from all of their orifices, had been exorcised, their mattresses had been purified by the clean and healing air of our holy city of Jerusalem. Nevertheless, when, in the feebleness of my faith, I expressed upon our arrival some concern about contagion or contamination that might have been absorbed by these mattresses (“hazmats,” I called them, in the poverty of my faith), Ima Temima reassured me in scientific terms that we were well-vaccinated and well-immunized by the Creator of the Universe since we as women have all already been stricken.

  Everyone arrived to the Seder dressed in their best finery. Ima Temima, in full glory and selfhood, veiled as always like a bride being led to the altar, was robed in a majestic white satin kittel of surpassing elegance, in compliance with the injunction to glorify a mitzvah. In my white Bedouin dress embroidered with blue thread that I had purchased from a nonprofit organization promoting the handiwork of indigent Palestinian women, I was honored to recline on the mattress at Ima Temima’s right that I had covered with a madras cloth over the organic micro-toxin super protection pad. Aish-Zara, in high priestess regalia, including an azure robe with its border of little tinkling bells and pomegranate globes stitched to the hem and a band wrapped around her forehead with the words HOLY TO GOD inscribed upon it reclined on her mattress at Ima Temima’s left. (It is permissible, I am assured by Ima Temima, to note the resemblance between the priestly headband and the hippie headbands so many of us, in our foolishness, tied around our heads a lifetime ago to keep our brains from exploding.) Rizpa, in a dress adorned with Yemenite embroideries, the work of master seamstresses, and Cozbi, in an Armani number with a Russian lapdog, a white Pomeranian she called Abramovich, in her cleavage for warmth, and Jimmy Choo shoes, all gifts from Paltiel, were in attendance.

  There were no children present in accordance with Ima Temima’s express orders handed down prior to our departure for the “leper” colony. “We are finished with sacrificing children,” Ima Temima had declared as a teaching. This absence of children, however, led to a minor though unfortunately public sibling-rivalry incident early in the proceedings as to who would be honored with the asking of the so-called Four Questions. As the youngest offspring of Ima Temima, Zippi, our circumcision engineer and primary health care provider, claimed this right by custom and tradition. For his part, as the sole surviving child from Ima Temima’s only legally sanctioned marriage, Paltiel, our chief operating officer who runs the business that contributes so much to the maintenance of our organization, insisted that the honor be accorded to him. Zippi stamped her foot and pouted with her full lips with which she performs the oral meziza ritual, sucking up the blood of the circumcision insult, while Paltiel’s face flashed red as an open wound and he raised his arm as if to strike. Thank God, before the matter could escalate, Ima Temima settled it as the mothers of all mothers do. “Children, you must share,” Ima Temima said, adding as a teaching that sharing does not come naturally to the human animal, it goes against the grain, and therefore must be taught, though, regretfully, it is a lesson that girls learn only too well.

  Ima Temima then assigned the Four Questions to Zippi, who belted them out in gospel fashion, riffing on the tune of the emancipated slaves of America, “Glory, Glory Hallelujah,” The Battle Hymn of the Republic, bringing the entire congregation to its feet, swaying and dancing rapturously. Paltiel, in compensation, was accorded the role of the Wise Son of the Four Sons, but because on this night that was so different from all other nights the Four Sons had undergone gender-reassignment therapy and were transformed into the Four Daughters, and also, it may be assumed (with no offense intended), not to be outshone by his half sister Zippi, Paltiel delivered his lines in a shrill falsetto at full screech, which, Ima Temima has permitted me to note in these pages, some in our congregation regarded as a disrespectful caricature and mockery of the naked voice of a woman. Later, in reviewing this matter, Ima Temima recalled the story of how, in order to cure a prince who would not come out from under the table where he sat gobbling because he was convinced he was a turkey, the holy Rav Nakhman of Bratslav crawled under the table and gobbled along with him, declaring that he was a turkey too. Ha’maivina tavin—She who understands, will understand.

  On the great white cloths that had been spread on the floor to serve as our Seder table inside our ring of reclining mattresses, tea candles floated in glass bowls filled with saltwater—flickering eyes in pools of tears. Though the effect was otherworldly, entrancing, trippy, I raised my woman’s naked voice with utmost respect to caution against fire hazard, especially at those mystical heights when the holiness would become too much for us, and we would helplessly be seized by the need to worship through dance. Ima Temima only said, HaShem ya’azor—and indeed, during the exultation of the Dayenu, at the verse: If he had just given us their money and not split the sea, that would have been enough for us, the hair of EliEli, one of my prophetesses, a luxuriant cascade (and, I might add, an excess of vanity like a shampoo commercial that I have been after her for some time now to bring under control), began to sizzle and fry as she was swinging it about in all its shining splendor and burst into light like the burning bush as she was transported to another spiritual realm. And God did come to our aid, exactly as our holy mother had foreseen, so that we were able to quickly smother the flames with someone’s poncho, the only residue of the mishap a smell like singed chicken feathers lingering through the night.

  It is true that Ima Temima has on occasion commented that we tend to go overboard with candles to manipulate emotion, in Shoah commemorations for example; it is a form of idolatry, Ima Temima has taught, we must reject the intervention of votives, they are the arousal and aphrodisiacal toys of the goyim in their dark caves and naves prostrating themselves in adoration of blood and the agony of sacrificed sons. But with respect to the candlelight at our Seder, Ima Temima was laid-back and mellow, calling it “an elegant touch.” To give credit where it is due, the candles were an expression of the good taste of our dearest Zippi to whom I, too, was like a mother when we all lived together as gatherers in the wilderness under the protection of our hunter-in-chief, the late Abba Kadosh, a’h, our dominant male figure.

  I am enjoined to move on to the heart of the matter and achieve closure, but with the full knowledge of the Omnipresent, and with the full knowledge of Ima Temima, I have been given permission to digress yet again, for the sake of moral instruction, by relating one further incident that occurred early in our Seder. As we were lifting the cover off the matzah to expose our bread of affliction and raising our Seder plate like an offering in open invitation to all who are in need to come into our “leper” colony and eat, both Aish-Zara and I, almost simultaneously, noticed that our beloved Ima Temima was in considerable distress, twisting on the elevated pile of mattresses that was like a royal divan as if seeking a more comfortable position to ease a sharp pain. Naturally, I rose at once to the assistance of our holy mother—and thank God, our crisis management rapid-response intervention soon led to the discovery of a dried chickpea under the bottommost mattress of the thick pile of three upon which Ima Temima was reclining, which, the moment it was removed, brought instant relief. Ima Temima was our princess and that was the pea.

  “Kitniyot alert!” someone yelled out, no doubt a stickler Ashkenazi member of our congregation for whom legumes are prohibited on the Passover with almost the same force as the five grains of leaven specified in the Torah. Immediately, Rizpa, our domestic management associate, came forward and stood trembling before Ima Temima, as if to take her rightful punishment like a well-drilled soldier for this dishonorable lapse in housekeeping. That is what we all assumed was the explanation for Rizpa’s coming forward, until we discovered, to our astonishment, that she was confessing that it had been she who had deliberately conceal
ed that single little dried chickpea under the mound of mattresses reserved for our holy mother in order to give expression to her Sephardi heritage, in which legumes are permitted on Passover; it had been a private subversive act of identity politics on Rizpa’s part, she had never expected it to be discovered, she had not counted on the ultrafine supernatural antennae, the sensitivity of a spirit such as Ima Temima. Now she was overcome with shame, begging forgiveness for causing even a moment’s discomfort to our precious mother—that had never been her intention, God forbid.

  “Kitniyot, shmitniyot!” Ima Temima said, flipping a hand to illustrate how trivial the concern was.

  As if a spigot had been turned on full force, fat tears began pouring unchecked down Rizpa’s leathery brown cheeks, surprisingly large and copious for such a tiny woman, as if her entire body were nothing but a sack filled with gallons of tears. “Even some of our rabbis have called the kitniyot ban a stupid law,” Ima Temima went on. “Those are their very words—quote-unquote, ‘stupid law.’” But Rizpa would not be comforted; by now she was letting out great racking sobs, her whole body shuddering.

  “Come to me, my holy, holy Rizpa, come lie down beside me, mommy,” Ima Temima said, clearing a space on the mattress for the bereft little woman, who curled up like a lost kitten beside our beloved mother burying her face in the maternal warmth and wept and wept as Ima Temima stroked her head and murmured over and over until her spirit was restored, “You are so good, my holy, holy Rizpa, you have worked so hard, you have suffered so much, how you have suffered, we owe you so much, forgive us for not recognizing you, forgive us for taking the labor of another woman for granted, we should know better, forgive our ingratitude, mommy.”