There is a summer festival going on in Jerusalem, right outside my home. No particular reason, but the city is celebrating. Perhaps just being alive. And yet I have felt destined to watch from the window, a prisoner behind bars. How do Israelis go on living? It has been said that to understand a nation, look at its art. In this case, I'd like to defer to the words of a boy, who once upon a time left me mystified as we sat on a hill in the dorms and he recited them to me:
Give me one more minute before I die
Allow me to breathe one more time
I am not asking a lot from you G-d
I am asking for one more minute, one more moment of life.
It's not that I've had a spectacular life
But during moments like these, things seem to change
Definitions of good and bad become meaningless
Different measurements of life seem ridiculous.
What is a moment in life, you ask
But a moment for a dying man is an entire lifetime
A minute is 60 seconds of pleasure from the smallest things
A moment is the time during which an infant's innocence is still seen
This moment will last until the end of time
This moment is my entire life
Because time is the theory of relativity
It is a concept that is hard to define, but it defines me
He had written this poem across the strap of his gun while guarding his base one night during his army service. He was 18 years old. Once released from service, he returned his gun, along with the poem, but the words remained. Filled with the spontaneity of a child and the wisdom of an adult, he was again tempted yet frightened for the world to see and so, as the clouds hovered above him, he scrawled these same words across an empty basketball court, knowing that the rain was soon to wash the chalk away. Even today, an entire nation echoes them, and only now, four years later, am I finally beginning to comprehend.
How can we explain to the world that all we are asking for is to survive? How do I respond to accusing e-mails, that I too have a right to an existence? Why must I justify my right to laughter? And why must an 18-year old boy beg for one more moment when his whole life should lie ahead of him? Why should he fear judgment by revealing this wish? The questions formed a chain around my throat, denying me even the shallowest breaths of life.
Stepping onto my balcony, I watch as the crowd spills through the narrow streets that only a few weeks ago fear had left deserted. I hear the murmur of a collective conversation and inhale the tantalizing scent of cotton candy blending with the perfume of summer. I sense the happiness wafting up to my apartment, spreading faster than contagion, pulling me toward the scene. I realize that it has been too long since we have smiled.
I look closer at the faces passing by, and hear the poem being whispered into my ears. It is passed from father to daughter as he takes her hand, leading her into the fanfare. It is recited in every baby's gurgle, and reflected in the sparkle of every child's eyes. They are all grateful, for we have all been granted one more day, one more moment, one more breath.
Time might actually define us. One moment might be all we have. But living in Israel means more than carrying the burden of that realization. It means working harder, playing harder and loving harder because of that realization, a lesson that the world could stand to learn.
There will always be those who do not understand and for them, I will never cease explaining. There will always be those who will accuse, and because of them I will never cease educating and being educated. There will always be those against true peace, and with them I will never cease communicating. But tonight I have been liberated, by the words of a boy who taught me the meaning of one moment. I will now close my computer, step outside, breathe in the fresh air and join the crowds. I will finally start living.
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(Shannon Bratt, a Hebrew University student, is the Israel
correspondent for the CIJR-sponsored, student-written
and student-produced Dateline: Middle East magazine.)