Chapter 5: My Pit

They say everyone digs their own pit…TN9 later you'll understand why. Every afternoon, when the shade of our terebinths reached the door of the barn, my mother, exactly like all the other mothers, would shout for me.
The run from Rachel's tomb to our house took two shouts. You realize the clock hadn't been invented yet, and the notion of a "two-minute sprint" hadn't yet arrived in the world. Right?

What I'm trying to say is that usually I'd get there during the second shout. It's important to note that if Mother had to call me more than three or four times, she'd get angry and threaten to tell Father.

I loved my mother, but I never understood why, after so many long hours, when evening fell and Father came back from the field, and even though I had finished my tasks, she would tell him I'd messed up. Why???

After all, she knew he would beat me to 'improve' my hearing.
She knew he would stop beating me only when he tired.
She knew I would end up with split lips, aching ribs, and a mouth streaming blood.

It always ended the same way.

A sad ritual. I wash my swollen lips. Mother touches, gently embraces the red welts, and I lie down to sleep, weeping into my filthy sheep's wool. Mother would stand by me for a moment, swaying side to side. Hesitating, and suddenly lying down beside me and holding me. Whispering that she's sorry she told him. Promising it's the last time. Weeping along with me.

Mother cried twice. Once for my pain, and a second time for her own short memory.

That's exactly how you dig yourself your own pit. The more you dig, the deeper the pit, and the chance of climbing out grows more and more remote. And the worst thing is to be a girl growing up with the kind of mother who digs herself a pit and falls into it again and again.

Mother tried to teach me many things and put great effort into it. But as you already know, parents, yours too, can say so much, but the most effective learning happens through our very watching of them. In your world it's called 'learning by personal example.'

I would fall asleep in pain, promising myself that never, never would I be like her. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. And understand why I made a point of saying it to myself.

Looking back? I understood I didn't want to be like her. I swore to be different. And there's one moment when you think you've pulled it off, and then, after many years, you suddenly discover that not only have you become like her, the pit you dug yourself is much, much deeper.

My mother was from the tribe of Ephraim. She was an anomaly in the landscape of the tribe of Judah. No one in the tribe had anything bad to say about her, but by the same measure, no one ever cheered her on either.

Father deliberately chose a woman from the tribe of Ephraim. There was nothing wrong with that, but in our time it was still considered a novel event. Marrying a woman from another tribe heightened the suspicion and the fear of losing ownership of the land-holdings. As you'll come to understand, my father did the unthinkable, and this was only the beginning.

We lived on the northern border of the tribe of Judah, and the distance to the tribe of Ephraim wasn't especially great; only the small, vulnerable tribe of Benjamin separated us. We'll come back to these two tribes later on.

I don't know whether my father loved my mother. I never saw him smile at her or say a kind word to her. I never saw them together.

Father married Mother because he admired all the men and leaders of the tribe of Ephraim. Just like his clever scheme of planting the vineyards to dodge military service, he chose his wife and the mother of his children with care. He bet on the tribe of Ephraim, a safe bet. And who doesn't want to be part of Joshua son of Nun's stardust?

On the rare occasions when Mother's relatives came to stay, we would scurry about like mice, making every effort to honor them with our tastiest dishes. These were rare moments when Father was smiling and happy.

He would sit with them on the mat in the shigTN10, the family's hospitality room, where they reclined. In simple words, in your frame of reference? They sat on the couch in front of the TV with the sports channel in the background, except that Father was playing the part of the TV.

And after they finished eating, Father would extol and sing, in the holy tongue that most people didn't quite understand:

"And when Joseph saw that his father was laying his right hand upon the head of Ephraim, it displeased him… And Joseph said unto his father: 'Not so, my father, for this is the first-born; put thy right hand upon his head.' And his father refused, and said: 'I know it, my son, I know it; he also shall become a people, and he also shall be great; howbeit his younger brother shall be greater than he, and his seed shall become a multitude of nations.'"

And in that very same breath, Father filled his mouth with the fatty meat of the tasty ram that, until a few hours earlier, answered to the name 'Horn-Caught,' and wandered innocently in our garden and was always getting his horns tangled in its dry branches.

Father explained to everyone around him, at length and for about the tenth time, that Jacob our father chose to favor Ephraim, the younger brother, over his firstborn brother Manasseh, and blessed him 'first' and even 'more.' And then, to prove this blessing works, he stood up, closed his eyes, and in a broken, weeping voice, as if his dead lay before him, began to keen: "And Ephraim their father mourned many days, and his brethren came to comfort him." Father opened one eye to see whether he was managing to move the guests.

He was not!

And then he opened the other eye and simply explained to everyone that Ephraim was the perfect father who loved his children more than anything. And he changed the subject and mentioned that we conquered the land thanks to the leadership of Joshua son of Nun, of blessed memory, from the tribe of Ephraim.

Father sighed and put on the face of a veteran who had known Joshua son of Nun personally, but he hadn't. Ages had passed since then, and I'm not sure my father had ever even visited Joshua son of Nun's tomb… but that was his thing. He did everything just to impress those around him, and since no one played along, Father tried to bolster his claim about the importance of the tribe of Ephraim.

He talked about the growing wealth of the Hillel family from Ephraim, (who even are they?) no one had heard their name yet (yet), and Father said: "It's worth learning from them, because the Hillel family has a growing number of children and ass-colts, and they can reach…" He took a breath to build the drama and said: "…and I'm not exaggerating…"

And another long moment of silence to build the drama: "…to forty sons and thirty sons' sons, that rode on threescore and ten ass colts… if not more!!!!"

The guests tried hard not to crack up laughing.
My father always exaggerates.

At moments like these no one is really listening to him, and there were those whose suppressed laughter made them shift uncomfortably so as not to wound the host's honor.

I'm sure you don't grasp the level of wealth my father was talking about. To simplify what my father said back then in your frame of reference: my father was talking about a crazy oligarch who can afford to buy every child and every grandchild he has, the most expensive four-wheel-drive vehicle on the market, with a convertible top.

How many people do you know who would lavish a car like that on every child and grandchild of theirs? And how many people do you know who can buy 70 such luxury SUVs???

The guests squirmed uncomfortably on their cushions. Their eyes darted from side to side, and according to the custom of the place they were careful not to interrupt the master of the house while he spoke, lest they fail to honor him in his own home.

They felt uneasy, because the kind words Father heaped on the tribe of Ephraim, their family roots were true but not always accurate. When it was their turn to speak, the eldest among them stood up and, in a quiet, confident voice, tried to explain that none of them was related in any family way to the Hillel clan.

'That's all we need,' muttered another. They tried to say that the Hillel clan is an example of business success, that they are wealthy people, and that on the national level they have great potential to act for the peace of all the tribes of Israel, but the ways they expressed their wealth were less acceptable.

Besides, in any case this family isn't exactly from the tribe of Ephraim, because they only lived there, temporarily, and they said no more, because they were careful not to add details so as not to wound the honor of the Hillel clan. Or maybe they were afraid of them?

On the other hand… they tried to say… that they would be much happier to talk about other interesting figures who deserved to be encouraged to lead and to judge over us. And they added that one should 'think outside the pen'TN11, which, in your frame of reference, is like 'thinking outside the box.'

They mentioned the great void left by Moses and Joshua. They wanted to raise the thought, or to consider, that the problem of the tribes of Israel lies in the male leadership, because you cannot ignore Sarah's influence on Abraham, or the critical contribution of Miriam, the sister of Aaron.

And then, very cautiously, they said that one should examine the matter and allow interesting women with potential to enter the leadership… and then, in a single moment, and without coordinating in advance, they all broke into song.

Listen!
It was the most beautiful song I ever heard.
Though it's not an ancient song; it was written only recently.

What do I mean when I say 'the most beautiful song' in your frame of reference? This song would top all the charts and become the ultimate soundtrack for every viral TikTok post. No question.

The guests, without exception, knew the words.
We, the hosts, listened in wonder.
They sang together wondrously.
An unexplained harmony.
Our house filled with light.
Never. Never! have you heard such a wondrous prayer-song.

On the one hand, its structure resembled the immortal song 'the Song of the Sea' of Moses Rabbenu, but its rhythm was like Miriam's dance, and the whole of it sounded like a plea, a wish.

And the moment they began to sing, out of nowhere and with no explanation, I started to dance and leap.

"Then sang the people of Israel: On that day they shall seek a prophetess."

Wow. Even Father got up from his seat. For a moment I thought he meant to honor the guests with a dance, and they went on…

"When men let grow their hair in Israel, When the people offer themselves willingly, Bless ye the LORD…"

Meanwhile Father strode hurriedly to the back of the tent-camp and crossed the partition into the women's tent and…
…slapped me the slap of my life.

The guests, unaware of the drama, kept singing:

"Hear, O ye kings; give ear, O ye princes;"

"You will not dance for me here like Miriam the prophetess. You hear me?" he said, and went back to his seat.

The slap landed flat on my ear and I could no longer hear a thing. Not kings, not princes, not my father. I fell backward and lost consciousness. I think I woke when they were singing:

"…Awake, awake, prophetess; Awake, awake, utter a song; Arise, judge, and lead thy captivity captive…"

My mother leaned over me.
Her face said it all.
She was so ashamed to be seen like this in front of the women of her family.
The gap was unbearable.

She was so humiliated, while they were so proud of the men of the tribe of Ephraim. She was married to a small, piss-ant male from the tribe of Judah, and they were married to amazing men who drew inspiration from their great-grandmother, the powerful woman named Asenath the daughter of Poti-phera priest of On.

Mother was beside herself with grief. Her friends 'got to' see how my father treated her. There was no hiding. Mother's guests saw how Father nearly killed me. How Father nearly killed her daughter.

Today I understand two things:

The first: my father was a stupid chauvinist. His fear of women was so great, and also justified. Because in the depths of his heart he knew that, after all, the first time he stood before the kind of woman destined to come to the people of Israel, Deborah the prophetess, say, she would send Yael the wife of Heber the Kenite, who would not only take off his head, she'd also tear off his …

He knew it, but he managed to repress it so deeply, like all the other chauvinists. And that's the only reason they're chauvinists.

The second thing I learned: my mother wanted everything to look all right. It mattered to her that things be all right, but that was only her second priority. In her world, and maybe in your own mother's world too, I don't know, it mattered that everything look all right on the outside.

Sometimes mothers are tempted to set their priorities the other way around. They prefer appearance over what is really happening. I don't understand why mothers want things to 'look all right on the outside.' Maybe it's part of a mechanism that helped them put off coping with the real problems.

As I've already said, it's like going on digging the pit, the one that will only get harder and harder to climb out of later on.

I apologize that I have to share with you moments when I experienced violence in my life. But it's part of my story. Make no mistake. That slap hurt so much. I lost consciousness. But the greater pain, the one I cannot forget to this day, after three thousand years, was seeing my mother's humiliated face in front of all her friends, the women of her family.

Do you understand what I'm talking about? I'm in pain and I'm about to burst. The good people vanish first. Can you explain to me where the wonderful people of the tribe of Ephraim disappeared to? Where are these good people? After all, what does a person need? One Deborah the prophetess and one Joshua the leader. And everything works out. No?

All right. I need to pull myself together for a moment. I need a moment to myself. I really don't want to scatter, and I have no wish to waste your time. If you're still listening to me, I truly thank you. And if not for my honor, then at least for the honor of my humiliated mother.

It's important you know that I'm not lingering on this story for no reason. There's a connection. From the little I've understood: humiliated mothers are the perfect recipe for raising and rearing exploited girls. And exploited girls are often also raped, in the least expected place, by the least expected person. We'll get to that soon.

A deep breath, and we go on?

So here it is. My tasks were simple and repeated themselves day after day.

First task, I cleaned the gederaTN12 (the pen). I really don't know how to say gedera in your Hebrew. And if I didn't explain it to you already: picture a small area fenced with really, really thorny shrubs, with an entrance that can be blocked. Every night we'd shut the sheep and goats (last time I say that the word mikneh is much more beautiful) inside the pen to keep the wild animals from attacking them.

Second task, to bring a fresh pile of hay into the center of the pen.

Third task, and the hardest, after I finished the first two tasks, to go to the water cisternTN13 and draw water in three rounds of two jugs each.

First round, two jugs of water, for the mikneh, which would soon come back thirsty from pasture. Second round, two jugs of water, for the kitchen work. And the last round, two jugs of water to wash Father's feet when he returned from the vineyards or the olive groves, depending on the season, and also, if any water was left, for my older brothers before they got back home from the grazing grounds.

Mother called, I'd come running and carry out the pen tasks, and right afterward I'd come and take the water jugs to the young kids.

There are three challenges in drawing water.
Do you know the biggest challenge in drawing water?
Not to break the clay jugs.

In my particular case, breaking a clay jug would have been the equivalent of drafting the final version of a suicide note.

The second challenge was getting into the line of water-drawers by the well. The inexperienced children would get stuck at the back, and the later the round in which you drew water, the murkier the water you drew.

The last challenge was the race of the watering rounds. First round to fill the trough for the mikneh, second round water for the kitchen cooking, and the third and hardest round was to reach the entrance of the house before Father's filthy feet got there.

This is the water cistern we drew from. With joint effort, four families of the tribe of Judah, the holders of the land-holdings east of Rachel's tomb, dug and maintained this water cistern. It was our lifeline.

The first round, water for the goats and sheep, I'd do at a run.
Second round, water for the kitchen, at a brisk walk.
The last round, water to wash Father's feet, was the most exhausting. I was already worn out, and I'd be content if I managed to finish it without a muscle cramp.

In the hot summer it was much harder. If Father came back early from the vineyards and the two jugs of water from the third round weren't ready at the entrance of the tent-camp, I'd be punished by spending the night inside the pen with the mikneh and without dinner.

Don't be shocked.
It wasn't so terrible.
People like me discover that once you get used to the smell, then 'being surrounded by goats and sheep' is much safer than the company of human beings.

You ask why the water went first to the mikneh, and only then to the kitchen, and only then to washing feet? It's because of the quality of the water in the cistern. The later in the day the water was drawn, the more the sludge rose and stirred, and the murkier the water became.

Once you understand that, you understand that the first water goes to our most important source of livelihood and food, the mikneh, and only then water for drinking, and finally, water for washing feet.

And one more thing: I wasn't the only one sent to draw water. All the families sent all the children at more or less the same time to draw water, and we stood in line to draw. Needless to say, there were often arguments and even fistfights.

My life had prepared me for these scuffles, and I usually won. A child exposed to violence at home doesn't keep it to himself. There's no vacuum in this world. Because someone who takes beatings 'speaks' the same 'language' with those around him when he has to cope with difficulties.

In my world, the difficulty might be a quarrel over the line for drawing water at the well, or in the line for the drinking fountain at 'school,' if it's so important to you to fit the events of my life into your frame of reference.

You see, already around the well, or in the talks beside Rachel's tomb, I saw myself as a future leader. I wanted to be the beloved leader the people of Ephraim had longed for. Today I understand that I was, all in all, an aggressive and violent girl with big dreams and even bigger trouble communicating.

I didn't understand it back then, because I had nothing to compare it to, and my behavior seemed to me the most normal, or 'the most appropriate,' as I try to speak to you in the even more modern and careful language you're used to.