the working world, their son in the army—the husband said to me, “I think we should talk to the PLO, and I really think we should get out of the territories.”
I said, “Oh?” (I’m in another person’s country, after all.)
And he said, “I never would have said anything like this two years ago, but I say it now because I don’t like what’s happening to my son and his friends. That’s the main thing. Not just that they’re in danger, but I don’t like what’s happening to them.”
Well, we spoke a little further, and I was saying to him, “You’re in danger, Israel is in great danger, and maybe the Diaspora is a kind of backup world for Jews,” and so forth. And he looked at me and he said, “Ah, but who said that the Jews have to continue?”
Well, I was hit, stunned by that remark. And I was brought back to that day in my childhood when my mother spoke to my father at the kitchen table. Although it was a totally different sentence, it was one that I would not forget. He said to me, “Who says that we have to continue?” And such an idea had never occurred to me.
So I said to this man in Israel, this Israeli, and I spoke from the Diaspora, I said, “We have to.” And now, two years later, I wonder, Yes, but how …
Now I just want to end with a short poem, which is about generations:
In my family
people who are 82 are very different
from people who are 92.
The 82-year-old people grew up
The year was 1914
This is what they knew World War I
War World War War
That’s why when they speak to the grandchild
they say poor little one
The 92-year-old people grew up
The year was 1905
They went to prison
They went into exile
They said ah soon
That’s why when they speak to the grandchild
they say first there will be revolution
then there will be revolution then once more
then the earth itself will turn and turn
and cry out Oh I have been made sick
Then you my little buds
will flower and save it.
—December 1988
II / Continuing
People, students particularly, tell me that Vietnam happened a long time ago. In the meantime, I have become old myself. Therefore it doesn’t seem as long ago as some fairly recent events.
Unless one is a journalist or a soldier or a battered civilian, an American doesn’t often have the opportunity to be present at a war. Of course, in the last couple of years interested men and women have visited, reported, and even entertained the wars in the Balkans. Several writers went to Hanoi before I did. A couple of them wrote books. Some were surprised later on that the Vietnamese did not turn out to be the absolutely intelligent reasonable people they seemed to be while being bombed.
But certainly the Vietnamese were naïve. They really believed—having fought beside the Allies as guerrillas during the Second World War, against the Vichy French; having witnessed in their Socialist youth the way the American Marshall Plan raised up defeated Germany—and having seen the financial if bossy way the Japanese were helped after their defeat—well, the Vietnamese assumed that the United States, once the war was over, would surely want to offer a little restitution, at least maybe make a few repairs to a hospital or a school, or send over some prostheses for the broken kids they didn’t adopt.
Instead, an embargo was begun. The war continued with economic assaults. If some early friends of Vietnam at war became disillusioned with Vietnam after the war, I want to suggest that the Vietnamese became embittered first.
In any event, I could hardly believe my extraordinary fortune in having been asked in 1969 to go to North Vietnam. I had been working against the war for about eight years by then. To see for myself! To understand! Of course, when you go to a foreign country where you don’t know the language, you certainly can’t see or hear too much
I said, “Oh?” (I’m in another person’s country, after all.)
And he said, “I never would have said anything like this two years ago, but I say it now because I don’t like what’s happening to my son and his friends. That’s the main thing. Not just that they’re in danger, but I don’t like what’s happening to them.”
Well, we spoke a little further, and I was saying to him, “You’re in danger, Israel is in great danger, and maybe the Diaspora is a kind of backup world for Jews,” and so forth. And he looked at me and he said, “Ah, but who said that the Jews have to continue?”
Well, I was hit, stunned by that remark. And I was brought back to that day in my childhood when my mother spoke to my father at the kitchen table. Although it was a totally different sentence, it was one that I would not forget. He said to me, “Who says that we have to continue?” And such an idea had never occurred to me.
So I said to this man in Israel, this Israeli, and I spoke from the Diaspora, I said, “We have to.” And now, two years later, I wonder, Yes, but how …
Now I just want to end with a short poem, which is about generations:
In my family
people who are 82 are very different
from people who are 92.
The 82-year-old people grew up
The year was 1914
This is what they knew World War I
War World War War
That’s why when they speak to the grandchild
they say poor little one
The 92-year-old people grew up
The year was 1905
They went to prison
They went into exile
They said ah soon
That’s why when they speak to the grandchild
they say first there will be revolution
then there will be revolution then once more
then the earth itself will turn and turn
and cry out Oh I have been made sick
Then you my little buds
will flower and save it.
—December 1988
II / Continuing
People, students particularly, tell me that Vietnam happened a long time ago. In the meantime, I have become old myself. Therefore it doesn’t seem as long ago as some fairly recent events.
Unless one is a journalist or a soldier or a battered civilian, an American doesn’t often have the opportunity to be present at a war. Of course, in the last couple of years interested men and women have visited, reported, and even entertained the wars in the Balkans. Several writers went to Hanoi before I did. A couple of them wrote books. Some were surprised later on that the Vietnamese did not turn out to be the absolutely intelligent reasonable people they seemed to be while being bombed.
But certainly the Vietnamese were naïve. They really believed—having fought beside the Allies as guerrillas during the Second World War, against the Vichy French; having witnessed in their Socialist youth the way the American Marshall Plan raised up defeated Germany—and having seen the financial if bossy way the Japanese were helped after their defeat—well, the Vietnamese assumed that the United States, once the war was over, would surely want to offer a little restitution, at least maybe make a few repairs to a hospital or a school, or send over some prostheses for the broken kids they didn’t adopt.
Instead, an embargo was begun. The war continued with economic assaults. If some early friends of Vietnam at war became disillusioned with Vietnam after the war, I want to suggest that the Vietnamese became embittered first.
In any event, I could hardly believe my extraordinary fortune in having been asked in 1969 to go to North Vietnam. I had been working against the war for about eight years by then. To see for myself! To understand! Of course, when you go to a foreign country where you don’t know the language, you certainly can’t see or hear too much
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