Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
QUEENIE SLADE OF SAVYON LODGE PASSES ON – JANUARY 2009
QUEENIE SLADE OF SAVYON LODGE PASSES ON – JANUARY 2009
(by Rabbi Moshe Silberhaft of the African Jewish Congress - source
http://www.africanjewishcongress.com/zimfeb132009.htm )
In a society plagued by crushing poverty, political violence and rapidly declining standards of health care Savyon Lodge, the Jewish aged home in Bulawayo, is a rare oasis of stability. Here, residents can depend on at least the basic services being provided for them – food and shelter, medication, water and electricity and physical security.
To an increasing extent, Savyon Lodge’s running costs are being met through donations from the wider Jewish Diaspora. But it is not only money that has enabled the institution to maintain its high standards under such difficult circumstances. The selfless, and largely unheralded, dedication of various individuals associated with it has been equally crucial to its success.
One such individual was the late Queenie Slade, long-serving secretary of Savyon Lodge who passed away at the beginning of this year. Those who worked closely with her over the years, including Bulawayo residents Brian Sher, Hylton Solomon and Eric Block and Rabbi Moshe Silberhaft, Spiritual Leader to the African Jewish Congress, all paid tribute to a true “Woman of Worth”, one who had always gone well beyond the call of duty in serving her organisation and the community as a whole.
Slade was buried at Bulawayo’s Jewish Cemetery in Donovan Road on 14 January. In his eulogy, Block remarked that that much of the credit for Savyon Lodge’s worldwide renown and repute as “a real home for Jewish senior citizens” had to be attributed to Queenie Slade.
“For Queenie there was absolutely nothing more important than the wellbeing, comfort and happiness for all at Savyon Lodge. So great was this dedication and motivation that, on many occasions, she said that she would never leave Savyon Lodge, never cease managing it to the best of her abilities, so long as there was even one resident there” he said.
Prior to joining the staff of Savyon Lodge, Slade managed the Baobab Hotel in Hwange, doing so with such success that the then Tourism Board recognized her as Hotel Manager of the Year. She also managed the now defunct Matabeleland Turf Club and Ascot Race Course.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Gabi Elkaim's diary from Zim - 5th May 2009
A euphoric exhaustion encircles me... but I must get this out before I
collapse into the corpse-like slumber I fell into last night, and no
doubt will discover tonight.
Today is Tuesday. We intended to leave Bulawayo on Sunday, to come to
HIFA, the Harare International Festival of the Arts, Africa’s largest
arts festival, which is this year celebrating its 10th year of being,
the theme is Enligh10ment. But having just returned from the hills of
Matopos on Saturday, from a 3-day music and meditation retreat called
Resonance, the post-mortem of the retreat was still underway on
Sunday, and so it was decided that Monday would be the day for our
departure, 2pm to be exact. Of course my lift arrived to pick me up
at 2:30pm, and we were off... until I discovered I’d forgotten my cell
phone at home. And so we turned around. And then finally, we were
off... and we trundled down the pot-holed streets of Bulawayo on the
Harare Road, passing a Portland Cement factory, and a brick factory
whose beautiful round oven like buildings looked to me like an
architectural marvel... or at least one that could be a photographer’s
dream.
But 5 minutes later, I snapped out of my visual daydream as we
were stopped by the police who claimed we were going 127km/hour in a
120 zone. Merv claimed this was not so. The police requested 20
dollars, saying that had it been 125, it would’ve been fine, but that
those extra 2km required payment. Merv refused. The cop retreated,
and finally off we went. 4 and something smooth and unproblematic
hours. Until of course we were just passed Lake Mcklewayne, and the
car, with its deceptive fuel indicator that insisted we still had over
a quarter of a tank, ran out of fuel.
I laughed it off and took a nap, relieved that we had just arrived
within cell phone signal, about 40 or so minutes from Harare... so we
pushed the car into the long grass and waited in the darkness, with
only the light of a waning moon and a universe of stars above us.
An hour or so later, help did arrive. I climbed into bed last night,
dead to the world, ignorant and unsuspicious of what today would
bring.
And what a day! I’m not sure where to start to recount the magic that
interrupted us so unapologetically. It all began this morning, when I
realized I’d left my camera battery in Bulawayo, and after letting go
of my irritation with myself, I had decided that my words would have
to illustrate these few days. So we headed to the gardens outside the
National Gallery where a young artist described his pieces to me, a
representative of the Times. A board canvas, a soccer pitch painted
on, bottle-tops signifying players, with Morgan and Mugabe on the same
team, playing at Differences Aside Stadium. Mbeki as the ref. The
Linesmen are the UN and the AU, whilst the coaches are John 15:12 and
15:17. One the sidelines stand Matthew 22:39 and Mark 12:31. “Treat
others”, the artist tells me, “as you yourself wish to be treated. It
is time for a new Zimbabwe, for us all to play together.”
We return to the National Gallery to explore the permanent
collection, with great abstracts by the late Marshall Baron and
others. Upstairs, we discover a colourful room of African drums, next
to which a wall stands full of loud African paintings, and bizarrely,
one lone Renoir sketch!!! We return to Aviv’s family’s shop...
giggling at the peculiarities that are the treasures of our decrepit
country. After returning from lunch at Nando’s – Aviv insists it’s
better in Zim – we stand at the entrance way of the shop, where a
woman walks in with a baby on her back. The baby, pressed comfortably
against her mother, in a way that only a child who’s experienced that
can understand, wears a pair of lens-less tortoiseshell sunglasses,
skewed to the side of her little face.
In the afternoon, we head to the Delta Gallery Foundation, whose walls
are filled with great big colourful paintings, benign in theme, until
one looks a little closer, and sees the shades of national politics in
its layers. Derek Huggins runs the gallery. A tall and distinguished
older man, with slicked-back long white hair and a short white beard
to match, he stands by the fireplace, a cigarette hanging from his
lips, a tortoiseshell cat weaves itself around his feet. We discuss
the art on the walls, and finally writing. He shows me a book he
wrote, swearing that he’s not making a marketing pitch. I ask him how
much for the book, he takes it from me and leads me to a dark little
nook of an office whose walls are covered in books and paintings, and
wooden window frames, and has that musty smell of cigarettes and art
and better days and worse. With his handsome fingers, he elegantly
lifts a fountain pen and opens a bottle of black ink. He writes, “For
Gabrielle, A good encounter, All good wishes for your writing. Do
it,” after which he signs his name, and presses an ink blotter against
his words: an item I have never seen before, “the good old fashioned
way” he claims. He hands me the book. “A gift,” he says, to inspire
me. Little does he know, I’m already inspired.
Aviv and I head to a shop called the Treasure Trove, a dusty shop full
of stale antique books, torn couches piled on top of each other, and
walls lined with antique spoons, bone china, silver boxes and a whisky
flask which has been initialled and dated. Aviv buys an old trunk
whose sides still reveal the name of its original owner. He then
drops me at the ballet. After the ballet, I head into the supermarket
where I find a packet of Things, a childhood snack that seems to exist
no longer in Bulawayo. The day becomes dark and I need to get back
into town to see the last show that I had booked for today, the
official opening show of HIFA entitled “out of the darkness, into the
light.” Unsure of where to find a taxi, a man at the internet cafe
walks me to the main road, where I board a minibus for 5 rand. I
arrive in town and walk to the venue, initially alone and nervous, but
within seconds, the hoards of people indicate the entrance to the
venue. Within minutes of entering, I hear my name being called, only
to find a group of Bulawayo friends seated on the ground in an ideal
spot, picnic laid out. The show begins. A dozen women enter the
stage in long violet robes with gold birds emblazoned on to them, and
headpieces to match.
Their voices penetrate the audience with a
certain immediacy that seems to me, can only happen in Zimbabwe.
Another smaller stage is closer to us. This is where the dancers and
actors perform their dramatically political piece. They remove a
covering under which lie Mugabe and his cronies, who struggle to
stand, but eventually succeed as they tussle over large bags of money
filled with Zimbabwe dollars. The “elders” light a fire beside the
stage, and tie Mugabe and his cronies to a pole near the audience. A
woman, dressed in white, crowned by her marital veil, cries for her
husband who has been abducted. She recites a poem to the sound of the
drums, baby on back and searches for him through the elephant skulls
that cover the stage. The vocalists move smoothly, effortlessly, into
Yassou N’Dour’s “Seven Seconds.” The audience cries, moved not only
by the story, but also by the visuals, by the sounds, by the
sensations of such a powerful piece. At last she finds him. The
dancing begins. Traditional herbs are burned. Mugabe and his cronies
are brought on to the stage. The bags representing their large
bellies and the wealth stolen from our nation are violently sliced off
them with a large knife. They struggle, but at last are thrown into a
smoky hole in the ground, leaving only Mugabe to stab open the wealth
bags, in which he plants flowers and seedlings for a new Zimbabwe.
The dancing continues, the fireworks begin. Another song:
“The higher you build your barriers,
The taller I will become.
The further you take my rights away,
The faster I will run...
...The more you refuse to hear my voice,
The louder I will sing.
Something inside so strong,
I know that I can make it”
Justice.
The energy continues to build, and the hearts of the audience are open
to such an extent, no thought can interrupt the feeling of presence.
In the dark, I scribble down some words:
My soul is accompanied by the shakers,
My heart beats to the sound of the African drums.
The nyanga dances bringing forth Justice.
The seeds of the Future are planted.
A grasshopper is drawn to the light on his back:
He crawls up the yellow fabric of new beginnings.
The sweat of power, energy, movement, excitement is drawn from his brow.
The beat quietens.
He hums a soft song,
In a throaty African voice penetrating outwards from deep within.
She smiles the smile of love,
Her dreadlocks tied back by a band of shells as she spits the holy water.
A spectacle,
Fireworks overhead almost within reach of my fingertips
The Future so nearby.
The darkness of the night illuminates the colours.
And my entire being joins the rhythm
of the dancers, the do’ers
Songs uplifting, reflecting on the Times
On Justice.
collapse into the corpse-like slumber I fell into last night, and no
doubt will discover tonight.
Today is Tuesday. We intended to leave Bulawayo on Sunday, to come to
HIFA, the Harare International Festival of the Arts, Africa’s largest
arts festival, which is this year celebrating its 10th year of being,
the theme is Enligh10ment. But having just returned from the hills of
Matopos on Saturday, from a 3-day music and meditation retreat called
Resonance, the post-mortem of the retreat was still underway on
Sunday, and so it was decided that Monday would be the day for our
departure, 2pm to be exact. Of course my lift arrived to pick me up
at 2:30pm, and we were off... until I discovered I’d forgotten my cell
phone at home. And so we turned around. And then finally, we were
off... and we trundled down the pot-holed streets of Bulawayo on the
Harare Road, passing a Portland Cement factory, and a brick factory
whose beautiful round oven like buildings looked to me like an
architectural marvel... or at least one that could be a photographer’s
dream.
But 5 minutes later, I snapped out of my visual daydream as we
were stopped by the police who claimed we were going 127km/hour in a
120 zone. Merv claimed this was not so. The police requested 20
dollars, saying that had it been 125, it would’ve been fine, but that
those extra 2km required payment. Merv refused. The cop retreated,
and finally off we went. 4 and something smooth and unproblematic
hours. Until of course we were just passed Lake Mcklewayne, and the
car, with its deceptive fuel indicator that insisted we still had over
a quarter of a tank, ran out of fuel.
I laughed it off and took a nap, relieved that we had just arrived
within cell phone signal, about 40 or so minutes from Harare... so we
pushed the car into the long grass and waited in the darkness, with
only the light of a waning moon and a universe of stars above us.
An hour or so later, help did arrive. I climbed into bed last night,
dead to the world, ignorant and unsuspicious of what today would
bring.
And what a day! I’m not sure where to start to recount the magic that
interrupted us so unapologetically. It all began this morning, when I
realized I’d left my camera battery in Bulawayo, and after letting go
of my irritation with myself, I had decided that my words would have
to illustrate these few days. So we headed to the gardens outside the
National Gallery where a young artist described his pieces to me, a
representative of the Times. A board canvas, a soccer pitch painted
on, bottle-tops signifying players, with Morgan and Mugabe on the same
team, playing at Differences Aside Stadium. Mbeki as the ref. The
Linesmen are the UN and the AU, whilst the coaches are John 15:12 and
15:17. One the sidelines stand Matthew 22:39 and Mark 12:31. “Treat
others”, the artist tells me, “as you yourself wish to be treated. It
is time for a new Zimbabwe, for us all to play together.”
We return to the National Gallery to explore the permanent
collection, with great abstracts by the late Marshall Baron and
others. Upstairs, we discover a colourful room of African drums, next
to which a wall stands full of loud African paintings, and bizarrely,
one lone Renoir sketch!!! We return to Aviv’s family’s shop...
giggling at the peculiarities that are the treasures of our decrepit
country. After returning from lunch at Nando’s – Aviv insists it’s
better in Zim – we stand at the entrance way of the shop, where a
woman walks in with a baby on her back. The baby, pressed comfortably
against her mother, in a way that only a child who’s experienced that
can understand, wears a pair of lens-less tortoiseshell sunglasses,
skewed to the side of her little face.
In the afternoon, we head to the Delta Gallery Foundation, whose walls
are filled with great big colourful paintings, benign in theme, until
one looks a little closer, and sees the shades of national politics in
its layers. Derek Huggins runs the gallery. A tall and distinguished
older man, with slicked-back long white hair and a short white beard
to match, he stands by the fireplace, a cigarette hanging from his
lips, a tortoiseshell cat weaves itself around his feet. We discuss
the art on the walls, and finally writing. He shows me a book he
wrote, swearing that he’s not making a marketing pitch. I ask him how
much for the book, he takes it from me and leads me to a dark little
nook of an office whose walls are covered in books and paintings, and
wooden window frames, and has that musty smell of cigarettes and art
and better days and worse. With his handsome fingers, he elegantly
lifts a fountain pen and opens a bottle of black ink. He writes, “For
Gabrielle, A good encounter, All good wishes for your writing. Do
it,” after which he signs his name, and presses an ink blotter against
his words: an item I have never seen before, “the good old fashioned
way” he claims. He hands me the book. “A gift,” he says, to inspire
me. Little does he know, I’m already inspired.
Aviv and I head to a shop called the Treasure Trove, a dusty shop full
of stale antique books, torn couches piled on top of each other, and
walls lined with antique spoons, bone china, silver boxes and a whisky
flask which has been initialled and dated. Aviv buys an old trunk
whose sides still reveal the name of its original owner. He then
drops me at the ballet. After the ballet, I head into the supermarket
where I find a packet of Things, a childhood snack that seems to exist
no longer in Bulawayo. The day becomes dark and I need to get back
into town to see the last show that I had booked for today, the
official opening show of HIFA entitled “out of the darkness, into the
light.” Unsure of where to find a taxi, a man at the internet cafe
walks me to the main road, where I board a minibus for 5 rand. I
arrive in town and walk to the venue, initially alone and nervous, but
within seconds, the hoards of people indicate the entrance to the
venue. Within minutes of entering, I hear my name being called, only
to find a group of Bulawayo friends seated on the ground in an ideal
spot, picnic laid out. The show begins. A dozen women enter the
stage in long violet robes with gold birds emblazoned on to them, and
headpieces to match.
Their voices penetrate the audience with a
certain immediacy that seems to me, can only happen in Zimbabwe.
Another smaller stage is closer to us. This is where the dancers and
actors perform their dramatically political piece. They remove a
covering under which lie Mugabe and his cronies, who struggle to
stand, but eventually succeed as they tussle over large bags of money
filled with Zimbabwe dollars. The “elders” light a fire beside the
stage, and tie Mugabe and his cronies to a pole near the audience. A
woman, dressed in white, crowned by her marital veil, cries for her
husband who has been abducted. She recites a poem to the sound of the
drums, baby on back and searches for him through the elephant skulls
that cover the stage. The vocalists move smoothly, effortlessly, into
Yassou N’Dour’s “Seven Seconds.” The audience cries, moved not only
by the story, but also by the visuals, by the sounds, by the
sensations of such a powerful piece. At last she finds him. The
dancing begins. Traditional herbs are burned. Mugabe and his cronies
are brought on to the stage. The bags representing their large
bellies and the wealth stolen from our nation are violently sliced off
them with a large knife. They struggle, but at last are thrown into a
smoky hole in the ground, leaving only Mugabe to stab open the wealth
bags, in which he plants flowers and seedlings for a new Zimbabwe.
The dancing continues, the fireworks begin. Another song:
“The higher you build your barriers,
The taller I will become.
The further you take my rights away,
The faster I will run...
...The more you refuse to hear my voice,
The louder I will sing.
Something inside so strong,
I know that I can make it”
Justice.
The energy continues to build, and the hearts of the audience are open
to such an extent, no thought can interrupt the feeling of presence.
In the dark, I scribble down some words:
My soul is accompanied by the shakers,
My heart beats to the sound of the African drums.
The nyanga dances bringing forth Justice.
The seeds of the Future are planted.
A grasshopper is drawn to the light on his back:
He crawls up the yellow fabric of new beginnings.
The sweat of power, energy, movement, excitement is drawn from his brow.
The beat quietens.
He hums a soft song,
In a throaty African voice penetrating outwards from deep within.
She smiles the smile of love,
Her dreadlocks tied back by a band of shells as she spits the holy water.
A spectacle,
Fireworks overhead almost within reach of my fingertips
The Future so nearby.
The darkness of the night illuminates the colours.
And my entire being joins the rhythm
of the dancers, the do’ers
Songs uplifting, reflecting on the Times
On Justice.
Monday, May 04, 2009
The passing of Rabbi Yitzchak Zwebner z"l
We mourn the passing of Rabbi Yitzchak Zwebner Z"L, husband of Rella Zwebner.
The funeral will take place today Erev Shabbat May 1, 7 Iyar, at 3:30 PM at the Sanhedria Funeral Parlor. Shiva details to follow.
Rabbi Yitchak Zwebner, 6th generation Yerushalmi, was born in Jerusalem in 1914 and lived in Meah Sheraim. He studied in Lifshitz Teachers Seminar and received Semicha from Harav Zvi Pesach Frank, well known posek and Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem.
He began his career by teaching religious Yemenite children in pre-State Sejera (now Ilania) where Ben Gurion lived. In 1937 he went to England to continue his studies and received his B.Ed. from the University.of Glasgow.
While Yitzchak was in Chutz LaAretz, his father Avraham-Haim, who had been elected to the First Knesset, Hebraicized his name to Shag. Yitzchak kept his original name. In 1943 he married Rella Hofstadter who had come to London from Czechoslovakia as a refugee. His first Rabbinic position was as a Reverend in Maida Vale Synagogue in London. In 1952, the Zwebners left for South Africa where Yitzchak served as a Rabbi in Nigel, Krugersdorp and Johannesburg. In 1966 he was appointed Chief Rabbi of Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe). In 1976, the Zwebners returned to Israel and settled in Bayit Vegan. Rabbi Zwebner joined Jerusalem College of Technology (Machon Lev) where he established their South African Public Relations Department.
In 1980 they accepted a request from the community of Somerset West in Cape Town to be the Rabbi and join the Bet Din. They returned to
Israel in 1985 when they joined the Hovevei Zion synagogue.
His brother, David Zwebner. HYD was among the Lamed Hey who were killed in attempt to break through the siege of Gush Etzyon (January 14, 1948).
Rabbi Zwebner, who possessed flawless nusach, was a talented Baal Koreh and was always available to layn, daven for the amud or give a shiur.
He is survived by his wife Rella and his children
Shulamith and Yehuda Berman, Efrat
David & Ronit Zwebner, Jerusalem
Michael & Deborah Zwebner, Bet Shemesh
Jonty & Janet Zwebne,r Bet Shemesh
and many grandchildren and great grandchildren
The funeral will take place today Erev Shabbat May 1, 7 Iyar, at 3:30 PM at the Sanhedria Funeral Parlor. Shiva details to follow.
Rabbi Yitchak Zwebner, 6th generation Yerushalmi, was born in Jerusalem in 1914 and lived in Meah Sheraim. He studied in Lifshitz Teachers Seminar and received Semicha from Harav Zvi Pesach Frank, well known posek and Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem.
He began his career by teaching religious Yemenite children in pre-State Sejera (now Ilania) where Ben Gurion lived. In 1937 he went to England to continue his studies and received his B.Ed. from the University.of Glasgow.
While Yitzchak was in Chutz LaAretz, his father Avraham-Haim, who had been elected to the First Knesset, Hebraicized his name to Shag. Yitzchak kept his original name. In 1943 he married Rella Hofstadter who had come to London from Czechoslovakia as a refugee. His first Rabbinic position was as a Reverend in Maida Vale Synagogue in London. In 1952, the Zwebners left for South Africa where Yitzchak served as a Rabbi in Nigel, Krugersdorp and Johannesburg. In 1966 he was appointed Chief Rabbi of Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe). In 1976, the Zwebners returned to Israel and settled in Bayit Vegan. Rabbi Zwebner joined Jerusalem College of Technology (Machon Lev) where he established their South African Public Relations Department.
In 1980 they accepted a request from the community of Somerset West in Cape Town to be the Rabbi and join the Bet Din. They returned to
Israel in 1985 when they joined the Hovevei Zion synagogue.
His brother, David Zwebner. HYD was among the Lamed Hey who were killed in attempt to break through the siege of Gush Etzyon (January 14, 1948).
Rabbi Zwebner, who possessed flawless nusach, was a talented Baal Koreh and was always available to layn, daven for the amud or give a shiur.
He is survived by his wife Rella and his children
Shulamith and Yehuda Berman, Efrat
David & Ronit Zwebner, Jerusalem
Michael & Deborah Zwebner, Bet Shemesh
Jonty & Janet Zwebne,r Bet Shemesh
and many grandchildren and great grandchildren
Gabi Elkaim's diary from Bulawayo
We left Harare early this morning. We met at 5:45am to travel the 5 hours back to Bulawayo, with a brief stop in Kwekwe to visit one of the Brahma Kumaris' sister's family, where we were welcomed in for an Indian breakfast of grated mealies mixed with lacto and Indian spices. It was drizzling when we left Harare, and had rained in Kwekwe by the time we got there. It seemed the rain was following us, as soon after we got to Bulawayo, it started to rain here too. Ops said it means the winter is coming and that we should expect it to be a very cold one.
Our intention for leaving Harare so early was to be able to get back in time for the unvelings that were scheduled for 2:30pm at the Jewish cemetery, as well as a Yom Ha'Shoa ceremony to remember the 6 million who perished in the Holocaust. This is not usually the sort of thing that I would be lining up for... but I had seen Shirley the week before, and she had asked me specially if I would come for her sister Queenie's unveiling, if I am back from Harare in time. I walked into the entrance room of the cemetery just as the clock turned 30 minutes past 2, and to my surprise, stood in a room of almost 70 people (I counted), jews and non-jews alike. Rabbi Moshe, the travelling rabbi came to Bulawayo from Joburg, specifically for today. Eight unveilings took place, a large number for a single afternoon. I was told, however, that this was the case, as previously in Zimbabwe, it was impossible to have the tombstones made, and only those who were able to bring them in from South Africa, were able to have the traditional unveiling service. Indeed, I noticed one grave that marked the death had taken place in 2004. I visited my grandfather and placed a stone on his grave, noticing that beside him lay David Cinamon, a young man whose death was a tragedy. I never met David, but was glad that my grandfather was there to keep him company, if only in body. I started to read the names of the other tombstones, some I remembered: Tilly Katz who used to call me Big Eyes as a child, most I did not remember. The surnames ring a bell, and I quietly remarked how each person in that cemetery is a friend of one another, or at least the child or grandchild of a friend. I thought about how in that cemetery lies a community, in the true sense of the word, dating back as far as 1909 I believe. And those who were present today mark the continuation of our community, despite that it's a dwindling one... a community nonetheless, who continues to take care of its dead.
We went to the monument for the 6 million at the end, and then washed our hands in a symbol of leaving the dead behind, and returned to the entrance room where more prayers were said. A menora of 6 candles were lit for the 6 million, and for all of those that suffered at the hands of the Third Reich. The honour of lighting the 6th candle was given to David Coltart, our new Minister of Education, as the rabbi spoke of a common plight of the Jewish people and Zimbabweans alike: that of hope, and a future.
We then continued on for tea at Savyon Lodge, our Jewish retirement home, another symbol of a community that really does look after one another.
And so, despite a grey and heavy day, in all senses, it seems that light always manages to find a way to make itself apparent, within our small Jewish community, and yes, even within our nation... sometimes we just need to look a little more carefully for it.
With that, I wish you all the ability to see the Light in your lives,
- Gabi
Our intention for leaving Harare so early was to be able to get back in time for the unvelings that were scheduled for 2:30pm at the Jewish cemetery, as well as a Yom Ha'Shoa ceremony to remember the 6 million who perished in the Holocaust. This is not usually the sort of thing that I would be lining up for... but I had seen Shirley the week before, and she had asked me specially if I would come for her sister Queenie's unveiling, if I am back from Harare in time. I walked into the entrance room of the cemetery just as the clock turned 30 minutes past 2, and to my surprise, stood in a room of almost 70 people (I counted), jews and non-jews alike. Rabbi Moshe, the travelling rabbi came to Bulawayo from Joburg, specifically for today. Eight unveilings took place, a large number for a single afternoon. I was told, however, that this was the case, as previously in Zimbabwe, it was impossible to have the tombstones made, and only those who were able to bring them in from South Africa, were able to have the traditional unveiling service. Indeed, I noticed one grave that marked the death had taken place in 2004. I visited my grandfather and placed a stone on his grave, noticing that beside him lay David Cinamon, a young man whose death was a tragedy. I never met David, but was glad that my grandfather was there to keep him company, if only in body. I started to read the names of the other tombstones, some I remembered: Tilly Katz who used to call me Big Eyes as a child, most I did not remember. The surnames ring a bell, and I quietly remarked how each person in that cemetery is a friend of one another, or at least the child or grandchild of a friend. I thought about how in that cemetery lies a community, in the true sense of the word, dating back as far as 1909 I believe. And those who were present today mark the continuation of our community, despite that it's a dwindling one... a community nonetheless, who continues to take care of its dead.
We went to the monument for the 6 million at the end, and then washed our hands in a symbol of leaving the dead behind, and returned to the entrance room where more prayers were said. A menora of 6 candles were lit for the 6 million, and for all of those that suffered at the hands of the Third Reich. The honour of lighting the 6th candle was given to David Coltart, our new Minister of Education, as the rabbi spoke of a common plight of the Jewish people and Zimbabweans alike: that of hope, and a future.
We then continued on for tea at Savyon Lodge, our Jewish retirement home, another symbol of a community that really does look after one another.
And so, despite a grey and heavy day, in all senses, it seems that light always manages to find a way to make itself apparent, within our small Jewish community, and yes, even within our nation... sometimes we just need to look a little more carefully for it.
With that, I wish you all the ability to see the Light in your lives,
- Gabi
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
