1. Switching closets from winter to summer, seeing as I failed to do so before Passover;
2. Work for client X, due tomorrow; DONE
3. Work for client Y, due tomorrow;
4. Several technical and networking tasks involved in getting this site more spider-worthy, way overdue.

And yet. (This beloved two-word sentence is a Nicole Krauss-ism, which I have been widely borrowing, even in my everyday speech.) There is a familiar pit in my stomach that tells me I must put something down on paper. So to speak.

It’s a pit that reminds me of other pits, that makes me 16 again, and 26, all the years joined by a common physiological sense of being carried by an idea or a feeling, literally hungry for something to write. Medical science will tell you that the pit is the work of the vagus (yes, pronounced like the city in Nevada) nerve in my abdomen, which has translated the meandering chemicals of emotion from my brain into an ache of sorts.

This is all well and good but I think it’s more about the weather.

Today in Israel is what Winnie the Pooh would call a very, very blustery day. It is hot as an oven (not like a sauna) and cloudy in an overwhelming way, as if there’s a huge fire a few miles back, blowing in, or maybe a tornado. The weather is upon us. The electricity went out for a few minutes about an hour ago, and my neighbors called me from vacation to go remove whatever was blowing against their alarm sensors, which kept becoming alarmed. (I brought the pruning shears just in case I needed to fend off an actual intruder, but ended up trimming their errant roses.)

This, in short, is a desert storm (aka sandstorm), or Khamsin (Arabic); in Hebrew it’s called a Sharav, which is my favorite term for it. It is not at all uncommon to have one of these at the beginning of May, as spring turns to summer – - and I’m guessing there’s a meteorological explanation for that.

But what I know is that later on the skies will be yellowish-orange (or bright, eerie, end-of-days white) as the sun sets, as if the world was finally imploding from the economic crisis and the swine flu (Happy Windsday, Piglet!) and the Iranian menace; as if the pit in my stomach was finally expanding to envelop all of you.

I also know that I had better keep all of the windows closed if I don’t want a fine layer of orange dust all over the beds and sinks and floors.

I know that I feel longing and upheaval although it is not clear for what. And that what happens in vagus stays in vagus.

Check out a poem I wrote back in my roaring 20′s. (Suburbia still hasn’t managed to kill it for us):

Sharav (Desert Storm)

Can you show me beauty?
Nights so thick
the air suspends
the future in its teeth
ripping fleshy suburbs
from the bones of lazy poets
lovers kissing extra,
with their noses – -
slow hands;
an urgency in it
the stars are hazy fuzzy
drunken dots of fate so far away
they bear no witness
to the rhythmic frenzy
on neighborhood streets
Just tonight:
the stodgy oaks are palm trees
and boxy sidewalks turn to sand.

- SKE, March 1998

PS -By the time my host came back up in time to load this post, written yesterday, the skies have partially cleared, the wind has calmed, and the air is cool. Such is the nature of storms, I guess.

Grandma Esther & Grandpa Al, about 2 years after her liberation from Auschwitz.

My amazing grandmother, Esther Klein, is turning 91 next month. She was in her mid-twenties when she was liberated by the Swedish Red Cross from an aimless, endless transport, after having spent several nearly lethal winter weeks in Ravensbrueck. Before that, she’d “worked” for several months in Auschwitz, after having lived for a very short time, along with her elderly parents, in a temporary tent city near her hometown of Seredna, constructed right along the railroad tracks, the better for the Jews to wait for their “ride.”

Before that, Esther Herskovitz was a bright, active young woman with bad hay fever, living near the Czech border in a small town in a big house with an orchard and a vineyard and a large, warm family, all of which have since vanished, literally, into thin air. Except the allergies… and my grandmother.

Even nearly 70 years later, it is hard for her to watch the programming for Holocaust Remembrance Day. She told me last night: “It was bad for me to watch people running. I thought I could handle it by now…”

Still, my grandmother talks about it. She tells us stories and gives interviews (like for Spielberg’s project over a decade ago) and does not keep secrets. She lost sisters, brothers (there were 11 siblings before the war, from which only three, Esther and her brothers, Shalom -who left Europe before the war – and Joseph emerged), nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, cousins, and her parents. Those came with her into Auschwitz but not out. But she has never lost her sense of humor or her dignity or her ingenuity or her sense of morality and purpose. Those came out of the wreck just fine.

Because that is a choice. An extraordinary choice. She and the overwhelming majority of her fellow survivors moved on, brought up children the best they could, educated them (how many children of survivors do you know who are slackers? According to my father, that wasn’t an option on the menu for his generation…), and became among the more productive members of any society they joined. “I didn’t realize what remarkable people we were,” laughs my grandma, “….not just one or two… all of us. At least we didn’t waste whatever talent we had.”

They did not teach their children to hate, but, as my grandmother puts it, “to be somebody in the world. Hate doesn’t help anybody. It just spoils everything.”

Tell that to the Pilgrims of Victimhood at Durban II in Geneva. Mass suffering of nations and races is an old scourge of humanity. It is tragic and it is worth discussing, as a world community. Preferably, grand scale human rights abuses should not be a cause to be championed by people who actually abuse their own people (like, say, Ahmadinejad) while getting very upset that others, elsewhere are being mistreated.

But I digress. The politics of blame and the Free Pass for Generations of Rage granted to the underdog (again, as long as he is not your underdog) by the third world, otherwise known these days as the UN, is not helping anyone. Except the leaders of those oppressive countries, who are pulling off some pretty nifty diversionary tactics for the benefit of their abused masses.

What if they were to instead tell people to become doctors to heal each other, lawyers to fight for their causes in the world’s courts, or film directors, to bring their stories to light? Why give your sons a gun, a black mask, and a suicide belt, when you could give him, instead, a hug and a ticket to study in Dubai? Why build bombs when you could have built a university, a hospital, or a hi-tech park? Why dig smuggling tunnels when you could instead build a subway system to take you to see relatives in Cairo? Why is there no Palestinian or Somali or Pakistani version of the JNF or Hadassah? There would certainly be enough Euros in aid and Saudi oil dollars coming in to fund them, if anyone local cared to organize those efforts, instead of blaming You-Know-Jew (again!) for all of the earth’s problems.

Because you have been oppressed. Because you are poor. Because you’ve had relatives killed. Are not good reasons. Not since the 40′s. Not since ever, really.

To me, these sound like the Bad Childhood Defense that pops up like a fungus in the American legal system when the guy on trial has nothing else to explain away his depravity. As if everyone who had a funny uncle or a mother who loved Jack Daniels more than Daddy couldn’t help it if he took some liberties with the neighborhood’s kids. Where is the sense of moral responsibility that most of us carry, whatever else we went through? Isn’t this the whole point of a legal system?

And – by the way – since when is this a “conservative” idea? Isn’t rising above and making the most of one’s circumstances supposed to be a spiritual, Eastern, fundamentally liberal concept? And yet… somehow many yoga-soaked leftists have pushed away the idea of responsibility, of moral culpability – both on an individual and national level – even though responsibility for the self and for one’s own spiritual development, as well as responsibility for the other, are at the core of humanitarian philosophy. Compassion has become confused with eliminating all expectations of anyone who has suffered. Again: Isn’t this the whole point of being a nation? To rise above your challenges and own them as part of your heritage, while taking pride in how far you’ve come?

I don’t know of any Holocaust survivors who entered a café in Germany or Poland circa 1946 or 1996 or 2006 and blew themselves up to liberate their family’s land or business stolen by the Nazis. Nor do I know of any Holocaust remembrance conferences where the chief subject is hating Hitler and his SS and the German and Polish and Hungarian people who kept quiet. The subject is remembering the dead and the lost. And how we’ve moved on. Grown, beyond survival. Celebrating the fact that Hitler ultimately failed miserably, precisely because he did not manage to infect his victims with the thing that drove him: Hate.

My grandmother was poor when she arrived in the US. And oppressed. She had almost no one left in the world and hasn’t smelled a thing since the day they told her what that smoke was coming out of the chimneys back in Auschwitz. (The one who told her, a week or so into her stay, was a drunk guard, with a gruff laugh, who she struggled not to believe, until it was heinously clear he had spoken the truth.)

Obviously, however, she had read the “welcome sign” on the gate. It said, horribly: Work makes you free. So she worked… on herself. On remembering her dead but forgetting about revenge or about stewing in what she’d lost. She worked on raising a moral, productive, educated family. On “living her best life.” She worked 12 hour days alongside my grandfather to feed their kids when there was no one alive to call for a loan. (She had been fairly well-to-do back in Seredna.)

And she is free. Free of hate. And free to see her grandchildren and great-grandchildren flourish in free countries. Marinating oneself or one’s nationhood in suffering, even if it is legitimate and documented, is not the way to gain freedom. That is the way to stay oppressed forever. Encouraging growth and forward movement is – and has always been – the only way out of a national or individual hole.

I would set up a meeting for Ahmadinejad to learn something from my Grandma. But he says she doesn’t exist.