Blessings in the Land

by Moshe Dann (May 2014)

stole my country,” Sarah said grimly, as she grated a thin layer of cheese over a steaming platter of spaghetti and meatballs. She shouted to her two children to shut off the rock music show they were watching on TV and come to the table.  Dimming the fancy chandelier lights that hung over the dining room table, she brushed a strand of hair from her forehead with the back of her hand and slumped in a chair. Her face and body retained a youthfulness that had matured into a lady of simple elegance and Israeli perseverance.

 “Danny’s at the office,” she smiled wearily. ”A big project; a new skyscraper in Tel Aviv. He’ll join us later, so let's eat! Wine. Golan,” she filled our wine glasses. “L’Chaim!” we clinked.

“Who 'stole’ your country? The Americans? The Orthodox? The PLO?” 

Materialism, I thought, noticing the large abstract painting that hung in the living room over a black leather-covered sofa, huge plants in corners and a woven fabric of subtle desert colors that reflected her gentle but definite taste. The political economy of angst.

This kid, I thought to myself, spaghetti sauce leaking out of his mouth, already a seasoned soldier.

Her children watched her silently, sharing her helplessness. Confused, they tried to balance between what they had experienced and what lay before them.

' don't want us here.'A phone call interrupted us. Sarah answered it, turning from the challenge of our conversation to the caller. Her face paled, mouth open, a gasp of silence, words sucked out of her.

Sarah looked at me helplessly.

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