We are excited to have hosted another successful Sydney Jewish Writers Festival. We hope you enjoyed it as much as we did. The range of outstanding presenters, the diversity of subjects and the thought provoking ideas all combined to make it a wonderful Festival with over 500 people attending over 3 days. We have put many photos on our Facebook page and encourage you to tag yourself.
Thanks to all our amazing presenters and volunteers, we couldn't have done it without you.
Thanks to all our amazing presenters and volunteers, we couldn't have done it without you.
We wanted to post the outstanding winning entry for this year's Australian Jewish News writing competition:
KIBBUTZ MOTHER
By Elle Kaye
Typical Kibbutz |
She vacillated between
joy and dread as she contemplated the being inside her. She
allowed herself to close her eyes and fantasise about this
one. About holding her. Kissing her all over her soft, downy head.
Smelling her. Breathing her in. comforting her. Brushing away her
tears. Smiling at her. Singing to her. Rocking her. And then
she opened her eyes. Enough silliness, she scolded herself.
Children at Kibbutz |
When she had left her
family for the Kibbutz she didn’t think about children. In the
early days, she didn’t think she wanted any. She watched the
other women grow fat with their children and she judged them and
their supposed sickness, their supposed fatigue. Any
excuse not to work, she had scoffed. She judged them their
weakness and tears – of course the children should be raised
collectively. What did they think this was? Summer camp? She judged
them their tears and their milk stained clothes and their
softness. This was no place for softness.
When she had the first
one she tried, and succeeded, to remain as distant as possible.
When they discouraged her from breastfeeding too
often, she agreed. It would only spoil the child.
When they recommended
against visiting during the workday,
she blushed with
embarrassment. Of course she mustn’t coddle
her. So she determined
to set an example. She kept away. She
mothers now, she only
judged them more harshly. When they spoke of their grief,
of their need to be with their babies, she tut-tutted and
continued with her work. But the ache. The ache within her. That
parasitic ache for her child. She ignored it. She would conquer it.
She spent the required
hour a day with the baby. The smell as she walked up the path
towards the room made her sick. Chicken soup. Every day, at
this hour, the children were fed chicken soup. She would be handed a
yellow or orange bowl of mushed chicken and vegetables. She
would spoon the mush into her wary daughter’s mouth. She
watched in judgment as the other mothers smiled and
cooed at their children. She held her head
high as the woman in
charge of the babies praised her for
treating her daughter
like an adult. For refusing to talk gibberish at her. She was assured
that her daughter would grow up to be a useful member of the
collective. She nodded. Smiled tightly. That
was the aim after all.
The mission. Wasn’t it?
The second child was
male. And she was told to be even tougher
with him. But her
resolve crumbled like the quiver of her lips as
she had to hand him
over too. She ran into the thorn fields and
allowed herself to sob
then. And then, she returned to work. And
told her man there
would be no more.
But this time. This
baby. This baby she did not want to let go.
She felt like a
petulant toddler. She wanted to stamp her foot. To
holler and scream and
hit the floor with her fists, her head.
Image: bajasfamilyrestaurant |
It was time to visit
the children. She walked down the path and smelled the familiar
sickening smell. She knew her nausea had nothing to do with her
pregnancy. She fed them. Gave them the perfunctory kiss that
was expected. She stood and left.
The fragrance of the chicken soup lingered as she shut the door behind her.
The fragrance of the chicken soup lingered as she shut the door behind her.