Shakla ve-Tarya – We Talk and Negotiate

The street is almost absurdly small. A few steps lead from the Syriac monastery toward Rehov Chabad. Yet those few steps contain a geography that cannot be measured in metres. This is the pitzele-ort of the poem: a tiny place into which histories, peoples, prayers and languages have somehow been squeezed without becoming one and the same. Here is my Yiddish poem on this special place.

שקלא־וטריא, מיר שמועסן און פֿאַרהאַנדלען

מזרח פֿון װאַנען? מערב פֿון װאַנעט?
אַ שמאַל אַספֿאַלט־גאַסל ליגט אין ירושלים,
קלענער פֿון אַ לאָך אין אַ טיכל, אַ טשיפּל ־
און כּל, כּלל, כּולאַ קװעטשט זיך אַרײַן אינעם פּיצעלע־אָרט.

Shakla ve-Tarya – We Talk and Negotiate

East from where? West from whence?
A narrow asphalt lane lies in Jerusalem,
smaller than a hole in a kerchief, a little chip —
and kol, klal, kula squeezes itself into that tiny place.

רחוב המנזר הסוריאני שטײט געשריבן אױף אַ שילדל,
ܫܘܩܐ ܕܕܝܪܐ ܕܣܘܪܝܝܐ ־ שוקאָ דדיראָ סוריאַיאָ זאָגט די גאַס מיט אַ נאָענט־אַנדערן מױל,
פֿון מאַרקוסן־קלױסטער ביז רחוב חב״ד גײען קױם עטלעכע טריט,
נאָר אונטער יעדן שפּור שלאָפֿן יאָרהונדערטער ־ און זײ װאָרטן.

Rehov HaMinzar HaSuryani stands written on a sign,
ܫܘܩܐ ܕܕܝܪܐ ܕܣܘܪܝܝܐ – Shuqo d-Dayro Suryoyo, says the street with a closely different mouth;
from St Mark’s Monastery to Rehov Chabad there are scarcely a few steps,
yet beneath every footprint centuries lie asleep – and they wait.

אינעם קלױסטער זינגט מען אַלטע צלותות פֿון משיחי־קריסטן,
לשון ארם, מאור־כשׂדים, חרן און ישורון לױפֿן אױף די ליפּן,
לשון פֿון תרגומים, מדרשים און פֿריערע שבֿטים הערט זיך אַריבער אַלע שלאַכטן און חורבנות ־
לעבעדיק, בעותנדיק, פֿרעגט ער, ענטפֿערט הײַנט אין ״ציון וירושלם״.

Inside the monastery they sing ancient tslotho of Messiah-Christians,
the tongue of Aram, Ur of the Chaldees, Haran and Jeshurun runs upon the lips,
a language of Targums, Midrashim and earlier tribes sounds across all the battles and destructions –
alive, beseeching, questioning, it asks and answers today in “Zion and Jerusalem.”

דער סוריאנישער מוכתר, אַ שנײַדער, האָט געהאַט זײַן קרמל דאָרט בדיוק בײַ דער גרענעץ צװישן די צװײ קרובֿע סבֿיבֿות,
האָט געשפּילט מיט פֿעדעם, נאָדלען, שטאָפֿן,
טײ אַלערלײַ מינים קיכלעך אױפֿן טיש ־
צוקערקעס אין דער קעשענע.

The Syriac mukhtar, a tailor, had his little realm there, right on the boundary between the two neighbouring quarters;
he played with threads, needles, fabrics,
tea and all kinds of little cakes on the table —
sweets in his pocket.

די אָטאָמאַנעס, די בריטן שױן אַװעק,
אַכט־און־פֿערציק און זיבן־און־זעכציק דורכגעגאַנגען,
די לאַבֿקע איז געבליבן אַ װײַט־קלײַנער קנופּ
אין אַ צעריסענער שטאָט.

The Ottomans, the British, already gone,
Forty-Eight and Sixty-Seven passed through;
the little shop remained an ever-smaller knot
in a torn city.

Jerusalem does not become meaningful because differences disappear. They remain. Syriac Christians pray in a language shaped by their own long ecclesial tradition; yeshiva students approach Aramaic through Gemara and Jewish learning; Hebrew lives again in the streets; Yiddish arrives carrying other geographies and catastrophes. Yet at the tailor’s table these languages could unexpectedly hear one another.

The Syriac mukhtar was a tailor. Threads, needles and cloth belonged to his trade; tea, cakes and sweets belonged to the table. Young yeshiva bochurim would bend over it, and I joined them. There was nothing ceremonial about the encounter. Nobody had organized a dialogue. A Syriac word was pronounced, a Gemara expression answered it, another familiar root appeared. Suddenly people separated by religious traditions discovered that some of their words were relatives.

That is already shakla ve-tarya: taking and giving, questioning and answering, carrying an argument back and forth. Mai ta’ama? Mai nafka mina? Why? What difference does it make? The questions can be ancient without being exhausted.

Elul has begun its movement toward a new year, and the Sephardi and Mizrahi rhythm of Selichot is already sounding. Selichot, too, are a tremendous shakla ve-tarya. Perhaps this is why the pitzele-ort matters. Selichot do not make reality smaller; they restore proportion.

אַרמענער און סוריאנים זײַנען געפֿלױגן,
פֿילע האָבן דאָ געװױנט, זײַנען צוריקגעקומען, פֿאַרשװוּנדן ־
פֿון מערב יידן פֿון חורבן־משפּחות האָבן געבראַכט יידיש,
יונגע ישיבֿה־בחורים האָבן זיך אַרײַנגעבױגן איבערן שנײַדערס טיש ־

Armenians and Syriacs fled,
many had lived here, returned, disappeared –
from the West, Jews from families of the Destruction brought Yiddish;
young yeshiva boys bent over the tailor’s table –

פּלוצעם דערהערט מען גמרא־װערטער װי די קרובים לײענען
מיט זײערע אײגענע קולות.
אָט מילים פֿון תרגום דערקענען זיך אין יידישע זאַצן,
סוריאַנישע קלאַנגען פֿאַסן לשון־קודשדיקן ברידער,

suddenly one hears Gemara-words, as though relatives were reading them
in their own voices.
Here, words from the Targum recognize themselves in Yiddish sentences,
Syriac sounds grasp their brothers in the Holy Tongue;

ניט אַלץ צו פֿאַרשטײן ־ דאָך נאָך ביז הײַנט גערעדט,
מען שמועסט פֿאָרט מיט פּילפּול און מימרא ביזן עק װעלט.
מאי טעמא? מאי נפֿקא־מינא? ־ צוליב װאָס דען, און װאָס איז דער אונטערשײד?
״כּל שכן, על אחת כּמה וכמה ־ נו, ס׳איז אַ קל וחומר!

not everything can be understood – yet it is still spoken to this very day,
and one goes on talking, with pilpul and memra, to the end of the world.
Mai ta’ama? Mai nafka mina? – Why, then, and what difference does it make?
Kol sheken, al achat kama ve-khama – well, it is a kal va-chomer!

דער שנײַדער שנײַדט, דער בחור פֿרעגט, מען גיסט נאָך טײ,
און װי דורך צװײ טױזנט יאָר שמועסט מען, פּלױדערט מען צוזאַמען בײַם טיש.
און ס׳שפּאַצירן זיך פֿאָרבײַ אַפֿאַלאַשען,
עולים מיט װעלטן אױף די פּלײצעס און אין בױך,

The tailor cuts, the young scholar asks, more tea is poured,
and as through two thousand years, people talk and chatter together at the table.
And Falashas stroll past,
olim with worlds upon their shoulders and in their bellies,

אַנדערע שטאַמן פֿון מאָסקװע, קיעװ, מינסק, בוכאַרע צי טאַשקענט,
די אימפּעריע איז געפֿאַלן, די שפּראַך איז מיטגעקומען,
מיט אַ סך ביכער, מגילות, כּמעט גאָרנישט אין די הענט.
יעדער גײט אױף זײַן קאַדענץ, אױף באַשערטענע פֿאַסאָנען.

other tribes from Moscow, Kyiv, Minsk, Bukhara or Tashkent;
the empire has fallen, the language came along,
with many books, scrolls – almost nothing in their hands.
Each walks to his own cadence, along allotted ways.

That is why shakla ve-tarya seems more adequate than the comfortable word “dialogue.” It contains friction. A question can remain a question. Mai nafka mina? What difference does it make?

Selichot know this form of speech remarkably well. They are not a tranquil recital of conclusions. We address God with words that countless mouths have already pronounced because, at certain moments, our private vocabulary is simply insufficient.

This is especially striking now. We live among enormous words: war, nation, religion, security, destruction, victory, history. Such words describe realities that cannot be denied, but they can also crush the individual human voice beneath them.

Selichot do not make reality smaller; they restore proportion. They begin precisely there: not after those histories have been solved, but while human beings are still carrying them.

פֿון װײַט אין אַזיע, פֿון ביראָביראָבידזשאַן קומט דער דיאַלעקטן־אוצר
מיט אומפֿאַרגעסלעכע מוח־דרוקן.
יידיש קערט זיך כנחש צוריק ־ דרײדלט זיך ניט קײַנמאָל פֿאַרעלטערט,
טרעפֿט זיך מיטן אורלשון, נאָר אױף לעבעדיקע שפתיים.

From far away in Asia, from Birobidzhan comes the treasure of dialects
with unforgettable imprints upon the mind.
Yiddish returns ka-nachash, like a serpent — winding, never grown obsolete,
meeting the primal tongue, but upon living lips.

און לפעמים מוז מען פֿון טיש אױפֿשטײן,
די גאַס רופֿט װײַטער, שאָרכט כלערלײַ װאָרצלען,
דער װעג איז ניט פֿאַרטיק ־ די פֿיס אַװאַנסירן, אױף צונג־ציפּקעס,
דער מרן תּאַ ־ צי דער מרן אתא? װער באַגרײַפֿט װאָס געשעט?

And lif’amim, sometimes one must rise from the table;
the street calls onward, rustling with roots of every kind,
the road is unfinished – the feet advance upon tongue-tips;
Maran tha – or Maran atha? Who understands what is happening?

אין אָדער אַװעק פֿון דער הײַם גופֿא פֿאַרשפּרײַט זיך די נסיעה.
מזרח פֿון װאַנען? מערב פֿון װאַנעט? די שאלה בלײַבט אױפֿן טראַקט,
מאי כּולי האי? װאוּ באַטראַכט מען אַ חידוש?
צו מארס אדום־אדם איז נאָך אַ ברוק,

Into, or away from, the homeland itself the journey spreads.
East from where? West from whence? The question remains upon the route;
Mai kulei hai? Where does one contemplate a chiddush?
To Mars, red-adam, there is still a bridge.

The journey of a language rarely follows the straight line drawn on a map. Yiddish can travel eastward through Europe and the Soviet world, reach Birobidzhan near the Chinese border, and return westward – or is it eastward? – to Jerusalem. Syriac and Aramaic have travelled through other histories. What appears ancient may suddenly speak from living lips; what is called modern may carry very old words inside it.

The Eastern Christian calendar also enters this late-summer landscape with its own movement. According to the Julian rhythm, the season passes through Transfiguration, Mor Elias, the Cross and toward the Dormition. These are not Jewish feasts disguised in another vocabulary, nor should they be made artificially equivalent to Elul.

Dormition introduces the image of sleep just where the poem says that centuries “lie asleep beneath every footprint – and they wait.” Selichot, from another tradition and with another purpose, suddenly address the sleeper: בן אדם, מה לך נרדם? – Son of man, why are you sleeping?

The proximity is striking. The Syriac shunotho – ܫܲܢܵܝܵܐ, Dormition or falling asleep, can even sound across the street toward shantho – ܫܢܬܐ, year. They need not be etymologically identified for the ear to notice the encounter. Lashon nofel al lashon: languages touch, echo, occasionally mishear one another, and thereby open another question.

Transfiguration offers another image of proportion. The world is not discarded and replaced by another world; what is already present is perceived through another light. Selichot likewise do not abolish the harsh dimensions of the present. War remains war, loss remains loss, wounds do not disappear because prayers are recited.

But scale can change.

One can ask forgiveness, or discover that forgiveness is still difficult. The Cross, in the Eastern calendar, adds its own severe reminder that breakability cannot simply be bypassed.

דער מענטש שלעפּט זיך אַרום: מאי טעמא, פֿון װאַנען־װאוּהין?
פֿון דעם שמאַלן סוריאנישן גאַסל מאַרשירט מען װײַטער װי די מאַפּע דערלױבט.
דער עולם קטן איז קורץ־קצר, צערעכלעך ־ ברײַטער װי אַלץ זעבאַרע,
ס׳מעסט זיך ניט אין צײַטן, דיסטאַנצן, נאָר װי לשון נופל על לשון,

The human being drags himself onward: Mai ta’ama? From where – to where?
From that narrow Syriac lane one marches farther, as far as the map allows.
The olam katan, the little world, is brief and brittle – wider than all that can be seen;
it is measured neither in times nor distances, but as lashon nofel al lashon,

עס שטעלט זיך דורך קװעטש, דרוק, טראָפּ… אַהין־אַהין.

it sets itself through squeeze, pressure, stress… onward, onward.

Humanity can enlarge its maps without necessarily enlarging its understanding. We can transmit voices across continents, watch distant places in real time and imagine journeys beyond the earth.

This may explain why the olam katan at the end of the poem is both so fragile and so wide. The small world of one person is “brief and brittle,” exposed to pressure, displacement and loss. Yet responsibility also begins there. History cannot ask forgiveness. An empire cannot regret. A slogan cannot reconcile. Eventually there must be a voice, an ear, a remembered face, perhaps a table.

The Thirteen Attributes of Mercy are repeated because our own words are often insufficient. Eastern Christian prayers do something comparable within their own inheritance: received words are repeated not because nothing has changed, but because the human voice still needs a language in which to stand before God.

Selichot, Dormition, Transfiguration or the Cross can remain distinct and nevertheless be heard  and listened at times within a few meters of one another.

The poem began by asking: East from where? West from whence? It cannot answer the question, and should not. Even Mars would merely enlarge the map.

Direction requires something more than distance.