The picture below broke a personal record for me. The elapsed time between seeing this picture and the first tear could be measured in nanoseconds. But that was one record broken, there were a few more. The parade of feelings and memories. Personal, familial, tribal and global all came streaming. Faces of the living and the dead. Faces of old an young, of happy and sad. Of friends and foes.
As I’m writing these words, it occurs to me that explanation is necessary. The blue and white Israeli flag, the tattooed hand of an old lady, and the chubby little hand of a baby. Many are familiar with chubby little hands. Less may be familiar with the Israeli flag. Few are familiar with old ladies with tattooed numbers on their hands.
When I was young, Israel was full of those. They weren’t so old back then, they had tattooed numbers on their hands, and it was said: those with the numbers on their hands. Having this number on the hand was the clearest, gruesome, chilling evidence that these people had something in common. They belonged to a certain club. Not the kind of club you might be thinking about. Not an upper class Golf club, not a Yacht club. Not even an exceptional fraternity or sorority, although one might claim that it was precisely that. These people spent time in the darkest places ever to have existed on this planet. And they lived to tell. They were the survivors of Hitler’s death camps.
The German, in their incredible effectiveness and order, kept records of every single person they ever de-humanized, and ultimately killed. Every person who entered the gates of the death camps was branded. Like cattle. They were branded with a serial number. When their turn came to be eliminated, the records could have been set straight, that this once human, professional, family person, Jew – is no longer. Mission accomplished.
But some, against all odds, survived. They rose from the ashes, they picked whatever was left of their humanity, dignity, of their families, of their former lives and former identities, and went to Israel. There, slowly, carefully, with a lot of help, patience and love, some of them were able to rebuild. To put together families, businesses, and a country. Imagine that.
I don’t have a clue who the people in the picture are. But the old hand, with the tattoo is my grandmother’s, and the chubby little hand is mine. The flag is my country’s. It’s irrelevant that my grandmother is no longer with us, and that I no longer am a baby. Both my grandmother and I have a strong connection to the land of Israel. The three elements in the picture are combined into one big evidence – we’re here to stay.
* The picture was taken by Karen Gillerman-Harel. The picture won the contest “Israel Sixtieth Birthday Flag”. All rights reserved to Karen Gillerman-Harel.
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