Dining beneath the awning of the Jerusalem Café

Welcome back to 'The Life of H: Sarah, Reimagined,' Where today I share notes from a Jewish Poetry Conference and ask, 'What does it mean to be a Jewish poet today?'

Jul 11, 2024

The Jewish poetry conference nourished our souls in so many ways. But we longed for a plate of food that tasted of home.

It was the final day of a week-long Jewish Poetry Conference, where 36 Jewish poets, plus faculty and staff gathered to read, write, and study craft. We spanned the decades from our 20s to 80s and the religious spectrum from Hasidic to reconstructionist, to atheist, to alienated-from-the-tradition-all-together. Our political positions were equally diverse, nuanced, and at times, indefinable.

In short, we were living the old adage: Two Jews, three opinions. (Or in our case—multiply that by a minyan). But we weren’t there to argue or to persuade anyone of anything — not literature, liturgy, or politics. We nodded to our differences and celebrated our devotion to being Jewish and poets, despite the fact that the running joke of our week together was that none of us could define exactly what Jewish poetry even is.

During the conference our neshamot (our souls) were deeply nourished, but with one significant omission: The conference took place on the campus of a southern university, and we ate in a cafeteria where grits and biscuits were plentiful — but Jewish food was not. Which is why, on the final evening, a friend and I ventured into town to eat at the Jerusalem Café, where we could enjoy plates of the Middle Eastern foods we both love: hummus, falafel, grape leaves, and baba ganoush.

Despite the North Carolina heat and humidity, we chose to sit outside on the patio where we could take in the sights and sounds of the vibrant college town, rather than retreat to the air-conditioned dining room. Only one other outdoor table was occupied: Seated nearby was a couple, about our age, and their curly-haired dog (who settled happily beneath their table to enjoy the shade and catch any bits of pita or meat that fell to the ground).

We exchanged pleasantries and the couple, who were regulars here, peppered us with suggestions: We should order the mint tea, try the spinach pie, taste the shawarma.

They asked where we were visiting from (Massachusetts) and said that they are from Bethlehem. For an anxious moment I wondered if they had noticed the Jewish star dangling from my friend’s necklace, or if they had overheard our conversation laced with references to Jewish poets and memories of eating these same foods in Israel.

But those thoughts quickly passed. Why should it matter, I asked myself. Here we were, a couple from Palestine, and a couple of Jews, cousins on the near-branches of the ancestral tree, each seeking the comfort of the foods we call home.

And yet, I am aware of the complexity and conflict that lives between the words in that last sentence. Especially in the summer of 2024.

After all, I had come to the conference to soak in information and inspiration for my years-long poetry project that explores Sarah, Abraham, and Hagar’s story. Researching and writing these poems has become something of an obsession for me, as if by breathing life into each line, and stanza I might loosen the knots of misunderstanding that date back to that mythical moment in the texts when covenants of land and lineage were meted out to our ancestors. I write to reimagine their intent; to re-seed the plot with context; and perhaps to discover a new and life-sustaining path out from the entangling thicket we’ve become trapped in.

I want to exhale dusty old lines, then inhale to make space for grace; something like the ease I felt at the gathering of poets, where a multiplicity of Jewish writers lovingly shared tables and stages, not in spite of our differences, but by accepting that we had them, and by treating one another with compassion, even so. Couldn’t we widen that circle? And widen it again?

For now there we were: Two parties, seated beneath one awning, each with a plate of food assembled from the same field of ingredients, but laden with opposing narratives.

When we had cleaned our plates of every last olive and grain of rice, my friend and I requested our bill, signed credit card slips, and called for an Uber to take us back to campus. As we rose from our seats to leave, the man at the nearby table called out to us:

“Shalom!” he said.

And with that one word, he acknowledged what had not been said: Two Jews and two Palestinians, strangers to one another, had shared a meal on a small patch of sidewalk, beneath a red awning bearing the word Jerusalem, in peace and friendship.

“Salaam,” we answered.

The man grasped my hand in both of his. We looked into each other’s eyes. I hoped mine reflected the same well of kindness, care, empathy, and heartbreak, as his did.

We are praying for all who are suffering.

We fumbled out words with urgency, as if we were each boarding trains headed down opposite tracks —

We are praying too.

May this war end.

— as if this was our last chance to say all that had been left unsaid between us, forever.

May it end soon.

May we all live together in harmony.

My phone pinged to tell us our ride was approaching. We said goodbye with tears in our eyes, and our hearts filled with, if not hope exactly — something else that nourished us more than any plate of food could.

Back home now, a question that was posed at the conference lingers:

What is my role as a Jewish Poet in 2024?

To write every day, through all of it? To speak up? To speak out? To dig deeper and wonder wider? To expand my sphere of compassion by enlarging my perspective on the page and off? Not to preach, but to pray with my pen?

I will be pondering all of this for a long time. For now, I just wanted to tell you this small story, which took place beneath the awning at the Jerusalem Café.

Let’s write together

Register now for the summer Stay Home and Write online retreat.

In this low-cost Write-at-Home retreat, you’ll work on a big project or just get in the flow with daily writing prompts and virtual check-ins with a community of other writers.

A weekend retreat, Aug. 16-18, from 4 p.m. Friday through 4:30 p.m. Sunday. $75 regular price with generous sliding scale price options.

Learn more here.

Summer schedule:

This summer I’ll be traveling, teaching, and working on a deadline for my next project—so I’ll be publishing on a bi-weekly, rather than a weekly schedule.

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The Life of H