Massachusetts 15, or Maybe Final Draft?
In My Image
I was teaching you how to distinguish
the weeds from the flowers, kneeling
over you in the dirt, watching your
face as you tugged
each stray plant from the ground. You
looked horrified, as if I was asking you
to tear babies from their mothers.
When I told you this, your voice cracked
as you asked, “But aren’t you?”
I know the pain of separation.
When I ask myself which part was the hardest,
I think of how I swallowed my tears
when I drew the line
between ocean and sky
and watched as the raindrops kissed them goodbye.
I couldn’t keep my hands
from shaking when I lifted South America out of Africa’s
arms and carried her across the water,
while she sobbed into my shoulder.
I still can’t watch the tide
as it rises towards the beckoning moon,
wishing only to hold her one more time.
When I was finished,
I told myself it was good, it was good, it was...good
even as I looked around with terrified eyes
at this strange and unfamiliar world.
My first real creation was that lie.
I couldn’t tell you this here.
This was the one place I thought
I’d done it perfectly. Every flower,
every tree, every stone was for you,
even before I knew you.
You were an accident.
An unexpected result of an
unexpected pleasure. After five miserable days,
I was ready to quit, but I found myself
with clay in my hands, like
an unspoken invitation to play awhile. So I did.
While I coated my hands in thick coats of cracking clay,
I began to think the way every potter does,
wondering what my creation would be able to hold.
I kneaded poetry into your veins,
as vital as the beat I pounded into your heart,
and the tongue I molded into your mouth,
and on your shoulders, I wedged the burden I needed to share.
I couldn’t be responsible
for every distinction,
so I taught you how to pull weeds from flowers,
but you learned to cry for the weeds on your own.
I tried to teach you:
you, too, are a creator.
And: without you, nothing matters.
It’s taken me so long to realize
how much I missed our lessons in the garden,
and you have every right to ignore me
but
I offer you this: you were right – about the weeds.
Come home.
2/12/2008
2/09/2008
Massachusetts 14, or Poem Re-Drafted
Letter to Adam
Letter to Adam
Do you remember the talks
we used to have in the garden?
I was teaching you how to distinguish
the weeds from the flowers, kneeling
over you in the dirt, watching your
face as you tugged
each stray plant from the ground. You
looked terrified, as if I were asking you
to choose between your children.
When I told you this, your voice cracked
as you asked, “But aren’t you?”
I know
the pain of separation.
When I ask myself which part was the hardest, I think of
how I swallowed my tears
when I drew the line between
ocean and sky and watched
as the raindrops kissed them goodbye.
I think about how I couldn’t keep my hands
from shaking when I lifted South America out of Africa’s
arms and carried her across the water
while she sobbed into my shoulder.
I still can’t watch the tide rise
towards the full moon, with the hope
of holding her one more time.
When I was finished, I told myself it was good
again and again – an incantation
to ward off the destruction I’d caused.
My first real creation was that first lie.
I couldn’t tell you this here.
This was the one place I thought
I’d done it perfectly. Every flower,
every tree, every stone was for you,
even before I knew you.
You were an accident.
An unexpected result of an
unexpected pleasure. After five days,
I was spent. I don’t know what
angel put the clay in my hands,
but it seemed
like an invitation to play. So I did.
As I worked, I began to think the way every potter does,
wondering what my creations will
be able to hold as I’m forming them.
Halfway through, I knew you would hold the things
I couldn’t give anyone else, but
I also gave you the burden I needed to share.
I made you responsible
for every distinction:
whether pulling weeds from flowers,
or deciding when a revolution is less dangerous
than obedience.
Because you, too, are a creator.
You, not I, decide what matters.
It’s taken me so long to realize
how much I missed our talks in the garden,
and you have every right to ignore me
but
I offer you this: you were right – about the weeds.
2/07/2008
Massachusetts 13, or Poem Draft
Comments welcome, as usual.
G-d's Letter of Apology
Comments welcome, as usual.
G-d's Letter of Apology
Do you remember the talks
we used to have in the garden?
I was teaching you how to distinguish
the weeds from the flowers, kneeling
over you in the dirt, watching your
face as you tugged
each stray plant from the ground. You
looked terrified, as if I were asking you
to make some impossible choice.
When I told you this, your voice cracked
as you asked, “But aren’t you?”
I know
the pain of separation.
When I ask myself which part was the hardest, I think of
how I swallowed my tears
when I drew the line between
ocean and sky and watched
as the raindrops kissed them goodbye.
I think about how I couldn’t keep my hands
from shaking when I lifted South America from Africa’s
arms and carried her across the water
while she sobbed into my shoulder.
I still can’t bear to watch the tide rise
towards the full moon, with the hope
of holding her once more.
I couldn’t tell you this here.
This was the one place I thought
I’d done it perfectly. Every flower,
every tree, every stone was for you,
even before I knew you, when you
were just wet clay under my palms.
You were an accident.
An unexpected result of an
unexpected pleasure. After five days,
I was spent; I found myself
with clay in my hands, and was too tired
to do anything but play. So I did.
I found myself thinking the way every potter does,
wondering what my creations will
be able to hold as I’m forming them.
I knew you would hold the things
I couldn’t give anyone else:
love, betrayal, poetry, but
I also gave you the burden I needed to share.
I made you responsible
for every distinction:
whether pulling weeds from flowers,
or deciding when obedience is more
dangerous than chaos,
or the difference between the pleasures
of sun warmth on your back
and wet clay under your fingers.
The first secret
is that you, too, are a creator.
The second is a confession:
that without you, none of the other things matter.
how much I missed our talks in the garden,
and you have every right to ignore me
but
I offer you this: you were right – about the weeds.
Come home.
12/30/2007
New York 2, or A Piece Of History I Have Not Learned
In Prague, they say the turning point was heralded by the jangling of key rings. On Nov. 25, 1989, Czech students staged a massive protest in Prague Stadium, in an attempt to oust the Soviet Communist government and spread a message of anti-Communist revolution through the only free medium available - open air. Thousands upon thousands of students and actors crammed into a space less than half the size of the Washington Mall and shouted anti-Communist slogans. Someone had the idea to take out their ring of keys and jangle them, perhaps after their voice went hoarse, but soon, the entire stadium was transformed by the sound of five hundred thousand rattling keys.
Two days later, the Communists were out.
In my semester of studying Central Europe while in Central Europe, I heard a number of incredible stories about revolution. The Czech Republic and the majority of the surrounding countries were forcibly made part of the Soviet Union, including Poland, East Germany, and Hungary. Each of these aforementioned countries has a unique story about their liberation from the Soviets, and each is immortalized in Timothy Garton Ash's excellent-if-flawed book The Magic Lantern: The Revolution of '89 Witnessed in Warsaw, Budapest, Berlin and Prague.
Ash's book was required reading for my Secular History of Central Europe course (not to be confused with the Jewish History of Central Europe course), and it was useful, accessible, and enjoyable. However, Ash was an on-the-ground journalist at the time of his writings, and his scope is understandably narrow. And, until now, I hadn't thought to ponder the other countries that declared independence from the Soviet rule.
For example, it had not occurred to me to think about Estonia.
The link that is posted at the top of this entry, I found by accident on a friend's blog. It's a link to a movie trailer, a documentary by Americans James Trusty and Maureen Castle Trusty, called The Singing Revolution. The first blurb on the movie's website reads:
I'm too tired to end this entry gracefully, but I'll leave you all with a question to ponder:
If 500,000 people with key rings, or a million people willing to sing together can end a government's reign in multiple countries, then how much would it take to stop a war? End Bush's administration? Reconsider a destructive policy? Make the smallest positive change in the world?
If they could do it...
In Prague, they say the turning point was heralded by the jangling of key rings. On Nov. 25, 1989, Czech students staged a massive protest in Prague Stadium, in an attempt to oust the Soviet Communist government and spread a message of anti-Communist revolution through the only free medium available - open air. Thousands upon thousands of students and actors crammed into a space less than half the size of the Washington Mall and shouted anti-Communist slogans. Someone had the idea to take out their ring of keys and jangle them, perhaps after their voice went hoarse, but soon, the entire stadium was transformed by the sound of five hundred thousand rattling keys.
Two days later, the Communists were out.
In my semester of studying Central Europe while in Central Europe, I heard a number of incredible stories about revolution. The Czech Republic and the majority of the surrounding countries were forcibly made part of the Soviet Union, including Poland, East Germany, and Hungary. Each of these aforementioned countries has a unique story about their liberation from the Soviets, and each is immortalized in Timothy Garton Ash's excellent-if-flawed book The Magic Lantern: The Revolution of '89 Witnessed in Warsaw, Budapest, Berlin and Prague.
Ash's book was required reading for my Secular History of Central Europe course (not to be confused with the Jewish History of Central Europe course), and it was useful, accessible, and enjoyable. However, Ash was an on-the-ground journalist at the time of his writings, and his scope is understandably narrow. And, until now, I hadn't thought to ponder the other countries that declared independence from the Soviet rule.
For example, it had not occurred to me to think about Estonia.
The link that is posted at the top of this entry, I found by accident on a friend's blog. It's a link to a movie trailer, a documentary by Americans James Trusty and Maureen Castle Trusty, called The Singing Revolution. The first blurb on the movie's website reads:
Most people don’t think about singing when they think about revolution. But song was the weapon of choice when Estonians sought to free themselves from decades of Soviet occupation. "The Singing Revolution" is an inspiring account of one nation’s dramatic rebirth. It is the story of humankind’s irrepressible drive for freedom and self-determination.
I'm too tired to end this entry gracefully, but I'll leave you all with a question to ponder:
If 500,000 people with key rings, or a million people willing to sing together can end a government's reign in multiple countries, then how much would it take to stop a war? End Bush's administration? Reconsider a destructive policy? Make the smallest positive change in the world?
If they could do it...
12/15/2007
Massachusetts 12, or Another Draft
In answer to a question on my last entry: no, I didn't write the poem thirteen years ago, the date is only to set the poem in context. Maybe this draft will fix that.
After the Assassination
"[The Israeli children are mourning publicly, because] they feel that he was their hope that they wouldn't have to fight in the army when they grow up” Yitzhak Rabin's grandson, Yonatan Ben-Artzi Philosof, November, 1995
It then occurred to me
that I had not yet taught my child
to pray,
as though I assumed God’s ear
extended to
her open mouth
for the moment
of her wordless years,
(when she and I
could not know
each others’ languages)
before
grief
could bring her
to my shoulder, begging me
to challenge death in her name – nobody goes away forever, right, Ima?
Instead, I whisper,
We say, Baruch HaDayan Emet
and we remember what he taught us…
teach her the words –
the bricks we use
in an attempt to build bridges
that will reach as far
as the cries of speechless children in the street.
*Blessed is the True Judge (Jewish/Hebrew blessing said in the presence of mourners)
In answer to a question on my last entry: no, I didn't write the poem thirteen years ago, the date is only to set the poem in context. Maybe this draft will fix that.
After the Assassination
"[The Israeli children are mourning publicly, because] they feel that he was their hope that they wouldn't have to fight in the army when they grow up” Yitzhak Rabin's grandson, Yonatan Ben-Artzi Philosof, November, 1995
It then occurred to me
that I had not yet taught my child
to pray,
as though I assumed God’s ear
extended to
her open mouth
for the moment
of her wordless years,
(when she and I
could not know
each others’ languages)
before
grief
could bring her
to my shoulder, begging me
to challenge death in her name – nobody goes away forever, right, Ima?
Instead, I whisper,
We say, Baruch HaDayan Emet
and we remember what he taught us…
teach her the words –
the bricks we use
in an attempt to build bridges
that will reach as far
as the cries of speechless children in the street.
*Blessed is the True Judge (Jewish/Hebrew blessing said in the presence of mourners)
12/03/2007
Massachusetts 11, or She Lives! And Writes Short Poems!
After the Assassination of Yitzhak Rabin, November 4, 1995
"[The Israeli children are mourning publicly, because] they feel that he was their hope that they wouldn't have to fight in the army when they grow up”
~ Rabin's grandson Yonatan Ben-Artzi Philosof
It then occurred to me
that I had not yet taught my child
to pray,
as though the grace of God’s ear
was extended towards
children’s open mouths
for the moment of their
wordless years,
before
bereavement
would bring them
to bargain, or beg
for faith in something
new.
After the Assassination of Yitzhak Rabin, November 4, 1995
"[The Israeli children are mourning publicly, because] they feel that he was their hope that they wouldn't have to fight in the army when they grow up”
~ Rabin's grandson Yonatan Ben-Artzi Philosof
It then occurred to me
that I had not yet taught my child
to pray,
as though the grace of God’s ear
was extended towards
children’s open mouths
for the moment of their
wordless years,
before
bereavement
would bring them
to bargain, or beg
for faith in something
new.
11/09/2007
Massachusetts 9, or Remember, Remember, the 10th of November
Today is November 10. Sixty-nine years ago, this was the date of Kristallnacht, the night when Nazi soldiers broke into Jewish homes, businesses and synagogues, stole their goods, and destroyed whatever they couldn't carry. They left graffiti like a final wad of spit on the broken windows.
Tonight, a group of neo-Nazi activists are marching through the Jewish Quarter of Prague, known as Josefov. They claim that the purpose of their march is to protest the deployment of Czech troops into Iraq.
Tonight, the various Jewish communities across Prague and the surrounding towns gathered, staging several counter-protests to the march. I haven't yet heard anything about how it all went, but more pre-march details can be found over at Max's blog.
Today is November 10. Sixty-nine years ago, this was the date of Kristallnacht, the night when Nazi soldiers broke into Jewish homes, businesses and synagogues, stole their goods, and destroyed whatever they couldn't carry. They left graffiti like a final wad of spit on the broken windows.
Tonight, a group of neo-Nazi activists are marching through the Jewish Quarter of Prague, known as Josefov. They claim that the purpose of their march is to protest the deployment of Czech troops into Iraq.
Tonight, the various Jewish communities across Prague and the surrounding towns gathered, staging several counter-protests to the march. I haven't yet heard anything about how it all went, but more pre-march details can be found over at Max's blog.
10/13/2007
Massachusetts 8, or To Everyone Who Has Ever Wondered Why I Tried to Learn Yiddish
"But what [Yiddish] really does have, he thought—what you don't know it has, because it isn't in any Woody Allen movies—is a world of the dead built into it, a true fear of heaven, an automatic need to invoke the presence of God whenever saying anything good or bad about anyone or anything, an absolute trust that the other world, if one could call it that, is not separate from this one, that eternity is always breathing over your shoulder, waiting to see if you will notice."
~Dara Horn, The World To Come
"But what [Yiddish] really does have, he thought—what you don't know it has, because it isn't in any Woody Allen movies—is a world of the dead built into it, a true fear of heaven, an automatic need to invoke the presence of God whenever saying anything good or bad about anyone or anything, an absolute trust that the other world, if one could call it that, is not separate from this one, that eternity is always breathing over your shoulder, waiting to see if you will notice."
~Dara Horn, The World To Come
10/06/2007
New York 1, or A Story About A Road Trip, And A Vice
My partner and I drove to my parents' lake house from western Massachusetts to upstate New York last night. Usually, this is a pretty stressful drive that involves heavy traffic on large highways, at least one wrong turn, and a lot of exhaustion. I wish I could take on some of the driving, but right now I can only drive a standard within the safe (and stall-friendly) confines of an empty parking lot.
So there I was, sitting in front of a Mapquest rendering of Western Mass, and looking desperately for a way to avoid some of the deadlier stretches of interstate. And there it was - a small state highway that snaked almost parallel to the road I was avoiding that would take us clear into New York. Huzzah! I told my partner of said Modified Travel Plans, and he happily agreed.
The road did not disappoint - it was a stunningly beautiful drive as we climbed and wound through the Berkshires at sunset. We crested huge hills that left us with views of the entire valley, drove by countless rivers and farms, and ran through a cross-section of quaint rural Western Mass towns (where the only entertainment seemed to be the gas station and the VFW). And, most importantly - we never stopped moving. I believe that this is the most crucial secret to a good road trip. Traffic does no good for anyone's peace.
We crossed into New York right on time, and stopped at a gas station for a stretch break. I walked into the convenience store immediately headed for the colorful scratch lottery tickets. I was in New York.
I turned 18 in New York, and had been 18 for several days before I mentioned to one of my younger cousins that I hadn't yet celebrated all my newfound freedoms. There was no one to vote for, I wasn't interested in buying cigarettes or pornography, but Gil suggested I take him to the supermarket and buy lottery tickets.
We did, and won $20 off of the ten tickets we bought, and spent the rest of the summer buying scratch tickets with whatever we won from that. We finally ran out of money sometime a few months later, but in memory of that summer, I always buy a couple of scratch tickets whenever I'm in New York.
This time, as my partner and I sat across from each other in a gas station store booth, keys in hand with three scratch tickets between us, I felt myself grinning. After all, what's a terrific road trip without a little nostalgia?
We made it to my parents house in good time, where we made kiddush on the dock and stargazed for awhile. As we ate bites of sourdough challah and drank some ridiculously good wine, I was reminded of a song we used to sing at camp, adapted from an old spiritual:
I've got peace like a river
I've got peace like a river
I've got peace like a river in my soul
And it flows like a river
and it flows like a river
I've got peace like a river in my soul
I've got joy like a mountain
I've got joy like a mountain
I've got joy like a mountain in my soul
And it rests like a mountain
and it rests like a mountain
and it rests like a mountain in my soul
My partner and I drove to my parents' lake house from western Massachusetts to upstate New York last night. Usually, this is a pretty stressful drive that involves heavy traffic on large highways, at least one wrong turn, and a lot of exhaustion. I wish I could take on some of the driving, but right now I can only drive a standard within the safe (and stall-friendly) confines of an empty parking lot.
So there I was, sitting in front of a Mapquest rendering of Western Mass, and looking desperately for a way to avoid some of the deadlier stretches of interstate. And there it was - a small state highway that snaked almost parallel to the road I was avoiding that would take us clear into New York. Huzzah! I told my partner of said Modified Travel Plans, and he happily agreed.
The road did not disappoint - it was a stunningly beautiful drive as we climbed and wound through the Berkshires at sunset. We crested huge hills that left us with views of the entire valley, drove by countless rivers and farms, and ran through a cross-section of quaint rural Western Mass towns (where the only entertainment seemed to be the gas station and the VFW). And, most importantly - we never stopped moving. I believe that this is the most crucial secret to a good road trip. Traffic does no good for anyone's peace.
We crossed into New York right on time, and stopped at a gas station for a stretch break. I walked into the convenience store immediately headed for the colorful scratch lottery tickets. I was in New York.
I turned 18 in New York, and had been 18 for several days before I mentioned to one of my younger cousins that I hadn't yet celebrated all my newfound freedoms. There was no one to vote for, I wasn't interested in buying cigarettes or pornography, but Gil suggested I take him to the supermarket and buy lottery tickets.
We did, and won $20 off of the ten tickets we bought, and spent the rest of the summer buying scratch tickets with whatever we won from that. We finally ran out of money sometime a few months later, but in memory of that summer, I always buy a couple of scratch tickets whenever I'm in New York.
This time, as my partner and I sat across from each other in a gas station store booth, keys in hand with three scratch tickets between us, I felt myself grinning. After all, what's a terrific road trip without a little nostalgia?
We made it to my parents house in good time, where we made kiddush on the dock and stargazed for awhile. As we ate bites of sourdough challah and drank some ridiculously good wine, I was reminded of a song we used to sing at camp, adapted from an old spiritual:
I've got peace like a river
I've got peace like a river
I've got peace like a river in my soul
And it flows like a river
and it flows like a river
I've got peace like a river in my soul
I've got joy like a mountain
I've got joy like a mountain
I've got joy like a mountain in my soul
And it rests like a mountain
and it rests like a mountain
and it rests like a mountain in my soul
9/15/2007
Massachusetts 8, or Ramadan Mubarek
Sa'alam Aleikum and Ramadan Mubarek to all those out there fasting during these still-long days.
This year at school Rosh Hashanah services, the rabbi worked a controversial twist into his d'var torah, or sermon. He praised the efforts towards alliance, reconciliation and peace between Arabs and Jews, but claimed that the Jews - on our campus - are the ones making all the gestures, all the efforts at outreach. Every year, our Hillel prepares an Iftar - a fast-breaking meal - for the students in Al-Iman, the Muslim group on campus. There's usually some dialogue, and even singing. Sometimes, Hillelians will fast for that day in solidarity with Al-Imaners.
Not all Arabs are Muslim, of course, but he framed it in such a political context - referring to the groups as "the children of Sarah and Hagar" that he could've easily substituted "Muslim" for "Arab." And although the connotation changes, one could still use "Jew" as a counter for each. "Jews and Muslims" has a very different ring to it than "Jews and Arabs", but both still make sense.
"In Morocco," the rabbi said, "a Muslim country, the Muslim neighbors of the Jews would prepare them a celebratory meal to celebrate the end of Pesach, Passover. It would feature the things which Jews weren't allowed to eat during Pesach - most notably, leavened bread. Where is such a gesture for us, here? Where is our meal?"
I was furious to hear these words. I don't help cook an Iftar meal hoping for something in return. That strikes me as both selfish and insincere. A gesture is simply that: something to which there is no expected counter-movement. Had the chaplain of Al-Iman said something to the same effect, I would've been angry, maybe ashamed. And neither of those emotions are solid foundations for peace.
Then there was the problem with the word Arabs versus references to Muslims. There is no student organization solely for the support and gathering of students who identify as Arabic. Thus, there's no way that the "Arab students" could make a cohesive gesture towards the Jewish student community. Muslims, on the other hand, could, through Al-Iman, but who the hell are you to demand such a gesture?
I should mention that there is peace between Al-Iman and Hillel, and has been for as long as I've been here.
Rabbi, it is neither our right nor our responsibility to demand gestures of peace or outreach from the Muslim community - especially not at this moment in history. It is far more dangerous to be an out Muslim in the US than it is to be an out Jew. This might not be true in other parts of the world, but it is here. This time, in this moment, we have more security, more safety, more acceptance. It is our job to reach out, take risks, make the first steps towards peace. And it is our responsibility to accept whatever response we get with kindness and understanding, unless such a response is violent.
But, for us, at this Hillel, violence has never - thank G-d - been the case.
So where, rabbi, is your kindness, your understanding?
How dare you demand an offering, like a god?
Edit, 9/15: I learned today that Al-Iman has offered several times to make a holiday meal for Hillel over the past several years, and that the rabbi was unaware of their offers. The reason none of these meals have happened have had to do with a lack of space, or an inconvenient holiday time (like Passover, at which point Hillel would have to de-Pesach the Kosher Kitchen in order for Al-Iman to make a non-Pesach meal).
Sa'alam Aleikum and Ramadan Mubarek to all those out there fasting during these still-long days.
This year at school Rosh Hashanah services, the rabbi worked a controversial twist into his d'var torah, or sermon. He praised the efforts towards alliance, reconciliation and peace between Arabs and Jews, but claimed that the Jews - on our campus - are the ones making all the gestures, all the efforts at outreach. Every year, our Hillel prepares an Iftar - a fast-breaking meal - for the students in Al-Iman, the Muslim group on campus. There's usually some dialogue, and even singing. Sometimes, Hillelians will fast for that day in solidarity with Al-Imaners.
Not all Arabs are Muslim, of course, but he framed it in such a political context - referring to the groups as "the children of Sarah and Hagar" that he could've easily substituted "Muslim" for "Arab." And although the connotation changes, one could still use "Jew" as a counter for each. "Jews and Muslims" has a very different ring to it than "Jews and Arabs", but both still make sense.
"In Morocco," the rabbi said, "a Muslim country, the Muslim neighbors of the Jews would prepare them a celebratory meal to celebrate the end of Pesach, Passover. It would feature the things which Jews weren't allowed to eat during Pesach - most notably, leavened bread. Where is such a gesture for us, here? Where is our meal?"
I was furious to hear these words. I don't help cook an Iftar meal hoping for something in return. That strikes me as both selfish and insincere. A gesture is simply that: something to which there is no expected counter-movement. Had the chaplain of Al-Iman said something to the same effect, I would've been angry, maybe ashamed. And neither of those emotions are solid foundations for peace.
Then there was the problem with the word Arabs versus references to Muslims. There is no student organization solely for the support and gathering of students who identify as Arabic. Thus, there's no way that the "Arab students" could make a cohesive gesture towards the Jewish student community. Muslims, on the other hand, could, through Al-Iman, but who the hell are you to demand such a gesture?
I should mention that there is peace between Al-Iman and Hillel, and has been for as long as I've been here.
Rabbi, it is neither our right nor our responsibility to demand gestures of peace or outreach from the Muslim community - especially not at this moment in history. It is far more dangerous to be an out Muslim in the US than it is to be an out Jew. This might not be true in other parts of the world, but it is here. This time, in this moment, we have more security, more safety, more acceptance. It is our job to reach out, take risks, make the first steps towards peace. And it is our responsibility to accept whatever response we get with kindness and understanding, unless such a response is violent.
But, for us, at this Hillel, violence has never - thank G-d - been the case.
So where, rabbi, is your kindness, your understanding?
How dare you demand an offering, like a god?
Edit, 9/15: I learned today that Al-Iman has offered several times to make a holiday meal for Hillel over the past several years, and that the rabbi was unaware of their offers. The reason none of these meals have happened have had to do with a lack of space, or an inconvenient holiday time (like Passover, at which point Hillel would have to de-Pesach the Kosher Kitchen in order for Al-Iman to make a non-Pesach meal).
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