Why kill a man when you can kill an idea?

By Elle Kaye

Winner of the Australian Jewish News 2015 Writing Competition

Award winning series Homeland and Prisoners of War

To coincide with the Australian visit of Emmy-award winning Israeli writer/director Gideon Raff, creator of Prisoners of War, the Israeli television show that led to US blockbuster series Homeland, we asked readers to submit a short story, poem or screenplay that starts with the line "Why kill a man when you can kill an idea?", a quote from Homeland. 

The graffiti stared at her. Bright, dripping yellow on the grey tunnel wall, illuminated haphazardly by a flashing, fluorescent light. She tried to imagine what would possess someone to risk their life to write such a thing. Tried to ignore that gnawing sensation that told her that she was meant to see it. Today. Now. Urgently.

This wasn’t the train she had meant to catch home. She was early. Classes had been cancelled in advance of the exam period starting the following week. But here she was. Stopped. Blinking in time with a fluorescent light and a spray of graffiti.

She imagined the anonymous author. An utter cliché, baggy jeans, skateboard, backpack full of spray-paint canisters. And as she imagined him there she shouted to him: “Hey! Does it even matter which you kill? It’s not the answer that matters. It’s the question itself. Asking yourself the question matters. Thinking is what matters. Intention matters.” And as her monologue played out in her imagination and as her eyes scanned the text again, the bag on her lap began to feel heavy.

She had never had access to her papers before. But today she had had to reapply for the next year at university. On the previous two occasions she had been escorted. But because she had been such a good girl for the past two years, because she had returned home daily, because she continued to tow the line, she was allowed to have her papers for today only. She had stood passively as she watched the safe being unlocked and her papers retrieved. She had promised faithfully to return them.

Every day she returned to her community was another day she risked being married off. She knew how it would be. Knew that the marriage would happen without her knowledge. Knew that she would be woken one morning and married before the sun had fully risen.

Being different was not a good thing in her community. Unless, of course, you could be useful. And so, improbably, she was given the opportunity only a handful of women had been given before, a degree at university. And because of her obvious aptitude for numbers, stellar lineage, her quiet demeanour and outward piety, she was not seen as a flight risk.

She would have liked more time. But as the train continued to stand still and as the light continued to flicker against the yellow graffiti, she knew she needed to act.

She got off the train. She walked into the first bank she saw. She opened a bank account with her papers and two cheques she had received only that day. She had won two prizes this year. $6750 all up. Not enough to live off. If it were only for the cheques, she never would have had the courage to leave. It was actually having work prospects that did it. The other piece of paper weighing down her canvas bag. A job offer. Full-time over the summer then part-time when university returned. Mentorship. Even rental assistance.

She thought of the question again as she walked out of the bank into the glaring sunlight. She laughed aloud as she thought of the irony of her choices. She hadn’t killed a man or an idea. She had killed herself  … by giving herself a new life. Back home, she would be mourned as if dead. Excommunicated forever. And she knew that there would be a deep and heavy sadness to reckon with. But for now, all she felt, was free.

Gideon Raff is a guest presenter at the 2015 Sydney Jewish Writers Festival

Gideon Raff will be speaking at the opening night of the Sydney Jewish Writers Festival on Saturday 29 August from 8:30pm - 10pm, I love a complex country: Views on Israel with Dvir Abramovich, Jennifer Teege and Debbie Whitmont. 

He will also be speaking on Sunday 30 August from 3:15pm - 4:15pm, TV espionage: In Conversation with the creator of Homeland, Prisoners of War & Dig, Gideon Raff with Michaela Kalowski. 

To see the full program and buy tickets: www.sjwf.org.au 

Festival wrap up and writing competition winner

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. 

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 was pregnant again. It had taken her time to work it out but now she knew. It had been five years since the last pregnancy and she thought she was done. She placed her hand protectively on the tiny bump that she only now acknowledged for what itwas. A girl. She could tell.

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

weaned her as soon as possible. Understanding the other

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

Wanted someone to listen to her. But what would she say? What did she know? She was just ignorant. Corrupted by the bourgeoisie values of the family she left.

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.