LIESL JOBSON

Late on a chilly autumn afternoon we make our way up the granite stairs on the University of Cape Town campus. Jim’s brother and his wife await us. A small crowd has gathered for a Shabbos meal as dusk falls. Jim’s brother was a surgeon in Gaza. We can no longer ignore the texts he sends us showing the bombing of hospitals, the doctors under fire.

The city lights sparkle in the plains below the campus. Jews and Muslims, agnostics and Christians sit side by side. A tired child sleeps on his mother’s lap. A golden labrador thumps her tail, hoping for a tasty morsel to come her way.

South African Jews for a Free Palestine have invited the people of Cape Town to bring their readings, songs and poems to mingle and pray, to break bread. Folk unpack their bags and baskets, spreading folding chairs and cushions on the ground. Soon enough bread and biscuits, pretzels and potato crisps, humus and fruit, cheese and chocolate are laid on the cloth, casually arranged. The table overflows.

A young man wears a yarmulke resembling a slice of watermelon: emerald green border, bright white stripe, dark red fruit with hand embroidered black seeds. He starts reading the ancient liturgy for the sacred meal. Then he welcomes a Palestinian poet in long plain robes and a hijab. Her poem is a lament, mixing English and Arabic, full of yearning, full of grief. Her recitation is also an incantation for healing and hope. From the depths of despair her small voice resonates through the microphone, landing in everyone’s throat, catching long unwept tears.

Next up, a Khoi San community leader calls to his Bushman ancestors, the first people of this region. Their rock paintings of antelope and eland are still visible in caves dating back thousands of years. In a pale grey suit but he chants and sways an ancient dance of the earth. One long arm holds the microphone. The other extends palm down to those on the stairs. His dreads swing to the rhythm of his words. His dreads swing in a language now virtually extinct. He prays in the click songs of his decimated mother tongue. His incantation invokes the presence of the first people to be exterminated by the empire.

As the ceremony progresses, Josh comments on the tragic images from Gaza that flood our phones. “We have so much to mourn tonight,” he says, “ but deeper than that I think there’s something more we must mourn. When I look around here today I see a beautiful image of what Jerusalem could have been – a Jerusalem where we respect the indigeneity of the people on whose land we stand; a Jerusalem where do not just tolerate religious difference, but we embrace it, we welcome it, we break bread with people we disagree with. For all these losses I will now chant the Mourners’ Kaddish.”

The Mourners’ Kaddish is powerful and haunting, solemn and somber. Sorrow buckles my knees. Josh invites anyone else who wants to contribute to take the mic. I want to pray the Memorare but the immensity of grief and tenderness flowing through and around me means I don’t feel strong enough to stand.

It is almost completely dark when a young woman brings a basin of water to our party for the ritual washing of hands before the breaking of the bread. We are seated on the outer edge of the gathering and many have washed their hands in the bowl already.

I take the cup, pour the water of many hands three times over each of my hands. 
	Hail Mother Nature, your beloveds are listening… 
	blessed are you amongst all beings 
	and blessed is the fruit of your womb, all of life…”

My tears are in the water. 
My tears will wash the next person's hands. 
We receive vegetable soup in a flask.
We offer wine to our neighbours.
Our hands reach out to people who do not worship like we do. 
They reciprocate with grapes. 
The night lights are bright. 
Our eyes are moist. 
The sky is cold. 
Strawberries fill our mouths. 
We do not mourn alone.