On the occasion of Uri Grossman’s death
About five years ago I had the good fortune of hearing
David Grossman, the Israeli writer, speak at an event in San Francisco.
Grossman related the following anecdote: he was travelling on a bus in
Israel and heard an excerpt from his novel See Under: Love being
read aloud on a radio programme that was playing over the bus’ speakers.
In this excerpt the mother of the protagonist is briefly described as
having a block of wood tied to one of her feet. Grossman himself claimed
he couldn’t recall what this block of wood was doing tied to her foot so
when he got home he opened a copy of the novel he had written some years
earlier to find the answer. What he discovered was that this woman, his
creation, was quite short and that in order to reach the pedal of her
sewing machine she needed this block of wood tied to the end of her leg.
Grossman ended the anecdote by recalling how pleased he was with himself
as a writer and a person in that moment. He saw this minor detail in his
novel as little more than a sign of a certain empathetic generosity on his
part. Somehow, in a manner that was neither preachy nor sanctimonious,
Grossman ended the talk by encouraging us, as writers and thinkers and
above all human beings, to be aware of those who need these blocks so that
we might find a way to provide them.
I’m reminded of this anecdote often when I read and teach
Grossman’s work. Though this isn’t the type of thing that one can easily
say when writing scholarship or even when working with a group of
undergrads, I think Grossman is simply the most empathetic writer I’ve
ever read. There is an acute sensitivity in his writing, a sensitivity for
characters that clearly are not stand-ins for himself, which amazes and
invigorates and even overwhelms me as a reader. This empathy runs across
Grossman’s work in an astounding range of genres. It is painfully evident
in his 1991 novel, The Book of Intimate Grammar, where he carefully
explores the tormented inner world of a similarly sensitive young
adolescent who ultimately cannot survive in the aggressive and almost
brutal world of 1960s Israel. In his numerous books for children, a more
optimistic Grossman again and again demonstrates his profound awareness of
what it means to live as a child with a limited understanding of the adult
world.
And of course there are Grossman’s important, almost
heroic, works of non-fiction in which he unapologetically puts before his
often reluctant Jewish-Israeli audience nuanced portraits of the
Palestinian and Arab other that see them and demand they be seen as
nothing less than fully human. The last paragraph of Grossman’s 1987
The Yellow Wind which, not long before the outbreak of the first
Palestinian Intifada, implored Israelis to address the inequities and
injustices inherent in their occupation of the West Bank and Gaza Strip,
in many ways sums up what I see as motivating Grossman’s writing in
general:
Albert Camus said that this passage from speech to moral
action has a name. "To become human." During the last weeks, and seeing
what I saw, I wondered more than once how many times during the last 20
years I had been worthy of being called human and how many people among
the millions participating in this drama are worthy of it.
And so the news comes yesterday that one of Grossman’s
sons, Uri, was killed in Lebanon just two days after Grossman, along with
the Israeli writers Amos Oz and AB Yehoshua, held a press conference
urging the prime minister to reach a ceasefire agreement rather than
expand Israeli military operations in Lebanon. In a long conflict with too
many ironic, poignant and purely tragic stories, this is the first one I
can’t get past. Few if any in this conflict deserve what they’ve gotten
but how is one to come to terms with a father burying his son when this
father has so courageously articulated the price of this conflict, who has
done so in a manner far exceeding simple progressive liberal clichés, who
has turned this pursuit into a sort of devastating poetry, who has managed
to remind us again and again the need to be human in this conflict that
obliterates both humanity and human beings? With everything ongoing – the
weary diplomacy conducted in the absence of any trust, the inevitable talk
over possible early elections in Israel, the dizzyingly complicated
analysis of who gained and who lost and where things stand now, the bitter
accusations of who is to blame and who must be called to account and
finally, the isolated and not so isolated lethal shots that will be fired
from both directions despite the ceasefire – it will be at once tempting
and convenient to merely open tomorrow’s newspaper to survey the latest
bewildering developments of this nearly 100-year-old conflict.
But maybe now’s the time to stop, to really stop and think
about how each death on every side draws a ring around itself to include
another dozen or so people, family members and lifelong friends, who never
fully recover from their mourning. Maybe now’s the time to realise, if
you’re willing to do the horribly simple math, that for some time now
every Palestinian and every Israeli has likely found him or herself, and
in many cases more than once, drawn reluctantly into someone’s now
obliterated circle, leaving a conflict between two nations of mourners. I
don’t know what exactly thinking and feeling these things will accomplish,
perhaps such an exercise is just another instance of futile idealism.
All I know is yesterday the person who least needed to
have that ring drawn around him to know and feel what it must be like to
live in desolate space of someone’s permanent absence now finds himself on
the inside, his wondrously humane empathy suddenly beside the point. n
(Todd Hasak-Lowy is author of the short story collection
The Task of This Translator.)
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