As a Yiddish language learner in adulthood, I originally began translating my grandfather Solomon Simon’s books in order to read them. A rough translation of Medines Yisroel and Erets Yisroel existed at least six years ago, when I used it to apply (unsuccessfully) for a translation fellowship. I also ran the book by a publisher or two, but they were not interested. So it sat.
Then, the horrific terrorist killings and kidnappings in Israel, followed by the predictable horrific response by Israel’s government and military. At Cornell, where I teach an Elementary Yiddish class, Jewish students were subjected to public, graphic death threats and my students were concerned enough that I temporarily moved our class meetings to an undisclosed location. Now there is famine in Gaza and international bodies have been urgently calling for a cease fire for months, while on the streets of Western democracies, demonstators shout, “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.” One hundred hostages are still being held, if they are still alive.
I took on the task of editing (as it turned out, fully re-translating) my earlier rough effort, at first just in order to stay sane. It was my way of not dwelling on the massive, unspeakable suffering in Israel and Gaza without altogether turning away. But I also wanted to share the book with others because I saw, and still see, a kind of murderous certainty all around me, among Zionists and anti-Zionists alike. I felt that my grandfather’s ambivalence could hearten those of us who do not have simple answers now.
There are many things I could attempt to highlight or clarify, but I will keep it short and sweet. I believe the challenge on the last page still rings out. If we want a different kind of Yiddishkayt, it is on us to build it here, where we live. If we want more democracy, what is the condition of our democracy here? If we want justice for the dispossessed and equality for minority citizens, what are we doing about that here? If we want a spiritually rich Judaism that is not just a holiday observance or two, tacked onto an otherwise assimilated American daily life, who is stopping us? Nor is Yiddish completely gone. And, if state power is not a satisfactory or sufficient solution to antisemitism, what are our alternative strategies?
Though he leaves us with his disquiet about American Judaism, with these big ideas and challenges, for me the greatest power of the book is not there, but in the “little people” he touts in his introduction. The crowd filing past Herzl’s coffin, a woman staffing a theater ticket booth, immigrant children, an indignant bus driver and a proud holocaust survivor in her tiny kitchen, an orthodox father who pushes against the condescension of the ruling secularists, a bereaved mother, de-comissioned soldiers, kibutzniks, dancing their trays of flatware over to a pregnant friend, and more: They become part of us who have read this book. We are as blind about our future as they were about theirs. They were hopeful and they were willing to talk. Maybe a little of that can rub off on me. On a good day. Thank you, dear reader, for your attention.
Many thanks are due many people, but two in particular come to the fore. Thank you to Itamar Haritan, who helped me correct a few of my many Hebrew mistakes and whose pleasure in and admiration of this book helped me see it anew; and to my mother Miriam Forman who was there with the author nearly 75 years ago, and who has been here with me every step of my journey into the Yiddish language and the world it has opened.
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The Nation State and the Promised Land 