May his memory be a lesson 🕯
18.12.1944 - 1.7.2013
18.12.1944 - 1.7.2013
May his memory be a lesson.
That dash between those dates, represents the life of my dad.
A life that could never be squeezed into a particular box.
And a life that ended after a few weeks of suffering in a God-forsaken hospital in Jerusalem.
I had the blessing and the curse of being my father's daughter.
If you only look at these photos, you'd think we had a tender and intimate relationship.
We did not.
My father taught me about the duality of man.
He was both the lion and the lamb.
To me he was mostly the lion.
The week leading up to my dad taking his last breath, was harrowing. Especially the last few hours.
But it also healed me.
And the father shaped wound in my heart no longer contracts.
I had the honour of being my dad's death doula. And the one to whisper the words he needed to hear, as he wrestled his way from this dimension.
My dad never made peace with having a human experience. He was at his core, a mystic. And it sounds harsh, but he would have been better suited in a cave in the mountains, than in a crowded apartment in Jerusalem with a wife and six kids.
Although according to him, his biggest regret was not having twelve children. "Like the 12 tribes of Jacob" (said in a strong Brooklyn accent)
My dad is now buried in Jerusalem.
I will return to visit, when Pa|estine is free.
