Guest writer: Kayla Rothman-Zecher
My fingertips trace years of color. Years of black outlines to words which tell stories. Some serious, some trivial. Like: “I eat cheese” or, “I love Dave”. But, as my fingers trace, I am surprised I think that “I eat cheese”, or “I love Dave”, are trivial at all…This wall in all its glory, is short. This wall in all its glory, a story, a history that trails along the canal of Berlin. Symbolizing something. Symbolizing a time, a little while gone by. “I eat cheese”, “I love Dave.”
This wall keeps growing. This wall cuts and slices. Through homes and through nations. This wall still keeps others out. This wall still exists. This wall grows in Palestine. This wall grows tall and strong and scary in my home.
Dave, your wall is less colorful now. Younger than the part you are sprawled across.
The wall, in Palestine, a tall and mighty one. Grows, creating a perpendicular monster, flat screened TV, forever on a channel I would rather not be watching. Perpendicular to this land that has been deemed holy. Holy for holy wars, holy for god and his chosen people, holy to host and remember a rich history of kings and prophets.
Dave, the wall runs a most uncomfortable juxtaposition across our hill tops. Holy and TV.
If I could wail at our wall and stuff notes in its tight crevices, mine would say, “does this end with me? Or, will you be here for my children to watch too?” If our wall was a zoning committee, my submission of request of zoning changes would say, “have you heard of going around and not through?” If our wall was an army, I would ask, “was that a proportional response? If our wall was in fact just me. I would say, “Kayla, stop living in fear. Write many “I love you Daves and I love Cheeses, and Kayla, help the earth grow up around the wall. On both the East and the West. So that when the children play catch with fire, at least allow them to see eachother’s faces. And everything that sits there in their eyes.
Maybe, Dave, we can lay our wall on its side.
We can tap dance across the misshapen squares scribbled in moments of confusion in moments of history. But, tap dance, only. When this wall falls to its side. When the TV is turned off. When it goes under ground and does not surface elsewhere. When this wall ends.