This piece is part of our Witnessing series, which shares pieces from Israeli authors and authors in Israel, as well as the experiences of Jewish writers around the globe in the aftermath of October 7th.
It is critical to understand history not just through the books that will be written later, but also through the first-hand testimonies and real-time accounting of events as they occur. At Jewish Book Council, we understand the value of these written testimonials and of sharing these individual experiences. It’s more important now than ever to give space to these voices and narratives.
In collaboration with the Jewish Book Council, JBI is recording these pieces to increase the accessibility of these accounts for individuals who are blind, have low vision or are print disabled.
At the Jerusalem Café
in the diaspora of Asheville, North Carolina,
a man sitting outdoors two tables over
stares at me with a small smile.
All the other diners have disappeared
inside to escape the heavy humid heat.
My water glass sweats in front of me.
My damp curls stick to my cheek.
The man continues to stare.
“Do you speak Arabic?” he finally calls.
I squint into his unblinking eyes.
No one has ever asked me this before.
Do you speak Spanish? Do you speak Italian?
I have heard many times
but never Do you speak Arabic?
His face is so open with hope,
I am almost sorry to disappoint him.
“No,” I reply but the man does not care
for my answer. “No?” He tilts his head
and studies me, a puzzle to figure out.
“You are not Arabic?” He gives me a chance
to change my mind. “No,” I repeat, my hand
flying to the six-pointed star hanging by a thread
around my neck. “I am Jewish.” I say, my face
heating up from the sun which has turned the corner
and is now beating down on us both.
“Ah!” His smile broadens. “I am from Bethlehem.”
“Ah!” I smile as well. “I have been there.
It is beautiful.” We beam at each other
until our food arrives and we both lift triangles
of pita bread to dig in, he scooping up hummus,
me dipping into baba ghanoush.
I finish first, pay my bill, stand, and stop
at his table. “I speak one word of Arabic,”
I tell him. “Salaam.” I offer my hand which he takes,
his dark eyes growing moist. “Shalom,” he says
and my dark eyes fill, too. “Peace,” we break
out in unison. “Peace, peace, peace.” He stands,
squeezes my hand and together we bow our heads
in prayer, a gentle breeze out of nowhere blessing us both.
The views and opinions expressed above are those of the author, based on their observations and experiences.
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Lesléa Newman has created 85 books for readers of all ages including the memoirs-in-verse, I Carry My Mother and I Wish My Father; the novel-in-verse, October Mourning: A Song for Matthew Shepard; the short story collection, A Letter to Harvey Milk, and the children’s books, The Babka Sisters; Welcoming Elijah: A Passover Tale With A Tail; Ketzel, The Cat Who Composed; and Joyful Song: A Naming Story. Her literary award include two National Jewish Book Awards, the Sydney Taylor Body-of-Work Award, a National Endowment for the Arts Poetry Fellowship, and the Massachusetts Book Award. From 2008 — 2010, she served as the poet laureate of Northampton, MA.
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