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England, why did you let my father come to you, build his life in you, make me in you.
Why did his neighbours in Vienna not stop their children when they came to beat him up? Why did they close their eyes and ears to the sound of my grandparents being shot by the side of the road?
Why did you let us get comfortable?
We never were though, not really. My father never talked about it, that was enough.
We never were though, not really. My father never talked about it, that was enough.
I never told him about the boys who followed me home from school chanting ‘six million wasn’t enough’.
I’m so glad he isn’t here. He would have driven us to Israel, down the roads he helped build in 1948.
I’m so glad he isn’t here. He would have driven us to Israel, down the roads he helped build in 1948.
When I was 18, the boy who chanted ‘six million wasn’t enough’ apologised. He was really sorry. He’d said it when he was 13. He was ashamed at 18. I’m happy for him.
It happened again when I was 50, different gang this time. The number six million was in question. A desire to obliterate our stubborn existence breathing itself back to life through earnest speeches about love, kindness and human rights.
Many of them were my own. I’ve turned my back on the ones who never apologised or said anything. Some are angry with me for reminding them of who they are and turned away first. They never felt the shame at age 18, so it’s not surprising.
The chanting goes on – same tune different people. But here I am, and look.
