(It feels like a disservice to be writing this in English, but that’s where I am at this point, so it’ll have to do)
I met Etgar Keret in June 2014, when I was in Israel for my brother’s wedding and then to work for the summer. It was one of those happy-go-lucky days in Jerusalem—the sun was shining, the shuk vendors were shouting at full volume, and there was no war going on (yet). Things felt right as I walked into the small bookstore at the end of Emek Refaim St.
It was time for me to read a book in Hebrew.
A full twelve months had passed since my gap year at Nishmat (an Israeli seminary in Jerusalem), and my Hebrew was getting (how you say?) rusty. I am a Hebrew-speaking Jew at my core, but also at my core is my identity as a writer. My ability to express myself in English helps me clarify what I think and who I am, both to others and to myself. Meanwhile, my Hebrew skills were borderline decent, considering thirteen years of Hebrew education. By my gap year, I was able to get by in a cab or order food. But Nishmat was a time to discuss, to discover through exchanges of language and delving into texts. I had plenty to say and plenty to delve into.
I opened my mouth, racked my brain, and hoped something came out in Hebrew that made sense.
It didn’t.
Or at the very least, I hoped, I’d understand what was going on.
I didn’t.