Transcript for the Piece Audio version of Stories Make the World

Series Title: Illuminations Jewish Culture as a Light in the World
Program Title: Stories Make the World

Show Intro (Schoen):
Welcome to, "Illuminations: Jewish Culture in the Light of the World." This program is called "Stories Make the World."

Indeed, stories are used by all cultures in every imaginable context.
"Tell me a story," says the child at bedtime as she moves from day into dream. Politicians re-create themselves through stories to look more electable. Every culture on Earth has a story of creation, with itself at the center.

Judaism is rich in stories. And this program is full of wonderful tales from around the world, Jewish and others. It explores how storytelling defines culture, binding a people together -- and also how storytelling creates bridges to help people speak to one another across traditions.

Music (Fades up in the clear, then under beginning of story)

Old Man Who Was Lame Story
Prayer: (Runs under Old Man story.)
Fischer: Once there was an old man who was crippled. He couldn?t walk at all. Somebody came by and asked him to tell a story about the Ba?al Shem Tov. So the old man began to tell a story about how the Baal Shem Tov would pray. And as he was telling the story he found himself getting to his feet so that he could show how the Ba?al Shem Tov prayed. And in that instant, he was cured of his lameness. Now that's the way to tell a story.

Simms: Richard Leaky who was the great paleontologist said that the most unpredictable element of the world was human mind, more unpredictable than the weather. And that the way in which human beings were able to organize themselves was through storytelling. And that, he said, separates us from all other species. It was his suggestion, actually, that we wouldn't call ourselves homo sapiens, as a distinguishing factor, but homo narrons, "Those who tell their stories."

Narration: That was storyteller Laura Simms. I'm Corey Fischer, one of the members of A Traveling Jewish Theatre. Our work -- creating contemporary theater from Jewish sources -- has always had a strong connection to storytelling. And over the years, we've become more and more curious about just how it is that stories define our humanity, how they connect us to a specific culture and how they give meaning to our individual lives. So we began to speak with a number of people who share our fascination with stories.

Simms: I was in a school on the upper west side in Manhattan with the 4th and 5th graders. And I asked them what would happen if there were no stories in the world. And they all agreed, of course, that if there were no stories in the world I would have no job, their parents would not be able to explain anything to them. There'd be no lies, their uncles who went fishing would not be able to come back and boast about what they had done. There would be no history. Then suddenly a girl sitting in the front of me, I could see her being illumined by complete brilliant presence. And her hand shot up. And before I even looked at her she said, "Well, if there were no stories in the world, there would be no world. Stories made the world."

Narration: For Helen Stoltzfus, this idea triggered a childhood memory.

Stoltzfus: When I was 8 or 9 years old I had this daily ritual. I would walk around the fields and I would talk to myself. I would tell myself a story. And the story was actually a chapter, a part of a much longer on-going story about... I don't even remember what the stories were about except I remember one of them had to do with a bunny family. There was a story about, I think, being part of a missionary family. And there was also a fantasy about being a foreigner and being this person who spoke another language. And I had this absolute need to do it. I had to go out every day and finish whatever story I had begun before. It was what gave me a sense of identity of who I was. And... made me happy.

Simms: I think growing up Jewish gave me the ticket to have an identity as a global person. What interested me tremendously in the Jewish world was the mysticism, the music, the song; that which connected me to the world at large and not what closed and separated.

Music (under Forest Prayer)

Forest Prayer:
Greenberg/Fischer: Singing in Yiddish
Stoltzfus: Between Kosev and Kitev, there?s a forest where the Baal Shem Tov goes walking.
Newman: The Baal Shem Tov was a rabbi and a healer.
Fischer: He led a movement of renewal in the Jewish communities of 18th century Poland and Russia.
Stoltzfus: Some people called him a heretic.
Newman: But most of what we know about him is the creation of countless generations of storytellers.
Fischer: In the days of the Baal Shem Tov. In the days of the Baal Shem Tov. In the days of the Baal Shem Tov. Whenever the community was threatened by a pogrom or by a natural disaster, he would go to a secret place in the forest. And he would make fire. And then he would say a prayer. And the catastrophe would be averted.
Stoltzfus: In the next generation, his disciple, the Maged of Meserech would go to the same place in the forest. And he would say, Raboineshaloilem. God. I can no longer make fire. But I can still find this place. And I can say the prayer. And that must be sufficient. And it was sufficient. And again the catastrophe was averted.
Greenberg: In the third generation, Moishe Leb of Sasof, would go to the same place in the forest. And he would say. Reboineshaloilem, I cannot make fire. And I, I, I have forgotten the prayer. But I can still find this place. And that must be sufficient. And it was sufficient. And again, the catastrophe was averted.
Newman: And now, we say, God, We cannot make fire. We too have forgotten the prayer. And we can no longer find the place. All we can do is tell the story. And that must be sufficient.

Narration: Whenever I hear stories about the Baal Shem Tov, I remember the cantor who prepared me for my Bar Mitzvah. He was the only person in my very secular childhood who ever mentioned the Baal Shem Tov. He only told me one or two very short stories, but in them, I heard a language of imagery that gave me a sense of pleasure in being Jewish. I begin to wonder if there is some way the stories actually teach us what it means to be a Jew. How to recognize ourselves. Whether there is a particular form that sets Jewish stories apart from other stories.

Music: (Heel-dragging music under Simms.)

Simms: There?s a certain quality of, um, like dragging your heels in a Jewish story. (laugh) Or a piece of your shirt is hanging out of your pants in the Jewish story, that is very cultural and makes you laugh a lot.

Schachter: (Sings) There used to be a Rov and a Rebitzin and seven little children. And Papa went to the shule and Mama went to the meal and she said to the kindela, "Don?t let anyone come into the house. And the oldest one was Berele and the second one was Shmerele and there were all seven kindela. And Haskela was the youngest one.

Narration: Rabbi Zalman Schachter is often called the zayde, the grandfather of the Jewish renewal movement. Storytelling is a fundamental part of his life and teaching.

Schachter: This one made a fire and this one started to cook and this one put the spices in and this one served and there came the big freser. He ate everything up and made tickle, tickle, tickle, tickle (Yiddish). That's the first story I remember. And I couldn?t wait for Papa to tell it to me again.

Simms: I think I really understood that it didn't isolate me, being Jewish. But instead it opened me out to the world. When the Maori people invited me to tell stories in New Zealand, I think I began to really understand my role as a storyteller. So I was on the Marrai and after a whole series of ceremonial greetings, I was finally in the ancestral house and was going to tell my story. Many things had happened. And many hours had passed. And when finally it was my turn now to do what I had been invited to do I was very exhausted. However, right before I was to get up and tell the stories, I was told that I actually had to sing first. Which took me by surprise. And all of a sudden, every song I ever knew dropped out. And there I was, feeling sort of naked and humiliated. And what I considered at first to be the silliest song came into my mind, which was the song I used to sing in Hebrew school, Hee nay ma tov u man iyim, How good it is that we?re here together.

Music (humming--Hee nay ma tov)

Simms: And there I was, singing in a high pitched voice a Hebrew song from my childhood. Everybody liked it. All the old people were nodding. They really liked this.

Music (Segue humming to singing)

Simms: And I realized that, maybe it was the most appropriate thing I could do in this ceremony, to sing my Hebrew song that was my ancestry. And it was good that we were there together. And I?ve come to the conclusion that in many ways my storytelling is a calling my ancestors to me. Calling my Rumanian grandmother, the daughter of the grand rabbi of Moldavia to sit in my ear like the old women in the great stories, weaving tales to me so that I could be connected way back to the beginning of time through the path of my own heritage. Or as the Maoris say, on the sacred space, you can trace yourself back to every single human being that?s ever lived. For a second you see with animal eyes and you hear with animal ears. And you can only experience that really through the form of story.

Narration: I realized that for Laura, storytelling has become a way to move through the worlds of our ancestors into a range of experience that's unbounded by historical time. Yet sometimes we can?t escape history. Arthur Strimling is a performer whose work is rooted in stories of dislocation and survival.

Music: (Musical drone under shoebox story)

Strimling: There was a man. He was a holocaust survivor. He was Hungarian. He was eleven years old in Hungary when his family realized that they were going to have to leave suddenly and soon. And the boy was told to pack, but that he could take only a very few things. In fact, he could take only one shoe-box full. He said he spent every afternoon for months trying to decide what to take with him. Emptying his pockets. Going through his books, his treasures. Well, finally he did get it down. But he didn't have one shoe box. He had two. In one he had his handkerchief, a change of underwear, a sweater, some hard candies, a pocket knife. In the other, he had his poems and drawings, some pencil and paper, photographs and postcards, a ring, some pieces from his gem collection. All of his treasures. Each one of these had a history. Which box to take? One afternoon he came home from school and the whole block next door was gone. It was just smoking ruin. And his parents were waiting. Now, run! And he ran inside and, and he grabbed the box with the useful things. He was crying. And he knew all along in that moment he'd left his childhood behind. Well they got to their hiding place. And he opened the box. Mistakenly, he'd taken the wrong box. He'd taken the box with the poems and the drawings and the photographs and things. What a shock. What to do with it? He said he spent the rest of his life trying to figure out what to do with that box. He said it was as if he was drowning in the sea and all he wanted to do was heave that shoe box back to the shore so that someone would catch it. Anyone. Just so that it still goes on existing.

Simms: Joseph Campbell once said to me, "Oh, so you?re going to be a storyteller." He said, "Then, the first thing you have to know is that your whole life is a story.

Strimling: I always had the sense that every individual had a kind of a personal myth that they were speaking from more or less consciously. I remember one man and this was in Long Beach, telling stories, and he was a real, he was a very religious man and read the bible a lot. And he would liken his own experiences of escape to the Jews escaping from Egypt and he would do it very knowingly and directly. And that made the bible true. You see it's true, it happened to me, just like it says in the bible, it happened to me. You know, Pharaoh released the Jews from Egypt and I got out of Poland.

Music

Coleman: There is a very real sense in which African American slaves identified with the enslavement of the Hebrews.

Narration: Will Coleman is specializing in the interpretation of African-American religious thought.

Coleman: In fact, one of the most famous persons in African American tradition is Harriet Tubman. Well, she was known as the Black Moses. The identification is so clear in the African American mind that what she was doing is what Moses was doing. It comes out in Black preaching. Again, all the illusions to the North as Canaan Land and the Promised Land. It may be allegorical, but its more than allegorical. There is a very strong identification with the personalities in the Old Testament. And with the symbols, the metaphors, the images and with the drama. The purpose is for you to enter into that story. It is to identify with the oppression of the Hebrew slaves. And on the other hand, with their liberation. So that you can then connect that with your own oppression and hope for liberation.

Narration: When Will said that, I couldn't help but think of Passover, when Jews celebrate the liberation from slavery in Egypt. The Seder is the ritual meal during which the story of the exodus is told. The whole point of the event is to pass the story on to the next generation. The special dishes all have symbolic meanings that help bring the story to life. And every Jew seems to have a story about their family's Seders.

Simms: Our Seders were just madness. They were also wonderful because my grandfather and my father kept the Seders very traditional. So my grandfather sat at the head of the table and just refused to have anything to do with English. And so he would do the Seder in Hebrew and in Yiddish. And so that was the undercurrent sound. My father on the other hand was convinced that we children had to do it in precise English. And then there were the women who were coming in and out who were very interested in all the food that had been made and what everybody was wearing. And then us kids who would always, you know, this was our chance to drink, we would get drunk and my father would have to bring us up from the floor where my brother and I turned into two dogs biting each other underneath all of this other thing that was going on. And you know, listening to my grandfather arguing with my grandmother in Yiddish. While my aunt and uncle were arguing about something else. And my mother was complaining because my grandfather was talking in Yiddish and not in English. And the story would be told and discussed and my father would discuss the story with my brother and finally my uncles would get into it. And then later on in the evening, my mother would play piano, and we would sing all the songs. And the whole thing was great theater. Because there we really lived out a story.

Music: (Bring in piano at end of story)

Music: (Segue to Tibetan music)

Schachter: I lift up mine eyes unto the mountains. And the mountains are the Himalayas. And we get there on the invitation of his holiness the Dalai Lama. (singing) And what does the Dalai Lama want to have with rabbis? He says to himself, "These tribes have lived in the Diaspora for 2,000 years and have still been able to pass on the tradition from generation to generation without having had a homeland. These people must know something that we Tibetans, now deprived of our homeland, need to know." So he invites us to come and to council with him. And one of those conversations, it came up that there was a hope to be able to create a Seder. Why a Seder? Seder is the Passover meal where for generations we have been telling the story, parents to children. And those children becoming parents later on telling to their children. So the important transmission that takes place for us is at the Seder table. So can you then imagine a Seder table, one on which you would have symbols of the birth of the Buddha, the royal crown that he has, the choices that are given to him. When you put this all together, it provided such a wonderful, wonderful possibility. So that's what I shared with the Tibetans about how one might utilize a form of storytelling that we have used for the last, at least 2,000 years, if not longer.

Narration: So it?s clear that for many cultures, the story of the Exodus has become a model for the story of the release from slavery. Now a story like this can connect people across continents and through generations. But what about the other dimension of storytelling? The inner dimension. How do stories that we hear interact with our own imaginations and our own experience in ways that sometimes transform our lives.

Schachter: When I tell you a story, "I went and then I did this and I did that." For five minutes you?ll lend me and ear. And you'll get bored because its my story. And my story which isn't your story puts you to sleep. But what would be, if I start to tell you a story' and the more I tell you the story, the more you hear it's your own story. So, as you hear your own story told, it wakes you up. So one of the points of storytelling is to tell the story so that there is this inner waking up.

Narration: In addition to that quality of recognition that Reb Zalman is talking about, is there something about the shape or the form of a story that allows us to really hear it?

Lopez: What is the story that culminates in the fourth movement of Beethoven's 9th symphony? What is that story? It's hard to talk about, but I know that that's a story. And I long to listen to it. Um, and the theater is a kind of story. The short story is a kind of story. Something that I overhear eavesdropping in public places... All of that to me is expressive of the same instinct and hunger which is to make something coherent of what seems chaotic. And, in so far as possible, make it beautiful and memorable.

Narration: That was Barry Lopez, author of Arctic Dreams and Crow and Weasel. He told us about an experience he had in Australia:

Lopez: I was sitting one day in a dry riverbed, in the Northern territory, with a group of Walprie women. And they were occupied with the ordinary tasks of daily life. Two little girls were digging in the sand bed of the river. And in the middle of what was to me a very ordinary atmosphere, a woman burst into song. And I mean burst into song in the sense that suddenly the air was full of this woman?s voice and then she was quiet. And momentarily, another woman began to sing. And they were singing about the land, the place where we were. And you sense in a moment, I think, like that, that this has gone on for many generations. And those little girls listening to their mothers sing in that riverbed, they were hearing something that they would one day remember. It would be many, many, many years later and one of those little girls would be an old woman and she would say, "One time we were here. My mother sang this song." And then sing it to her daughter.

Schachter: (sings) "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. And the earth she was empty and deserted." So you hear da da da da (sing) the narrative of the Torah reading. And when you come to an end of a portion (sing) "You come to an end of a portion and everybody knows they lived happily ever after." It's like very clear that at this point the reading stops. Now, there're all kinds of readings and melodies that go along with it. So, imagine, if I want to let someone know that the laws have to be kept, that this is really exact. Then I start saying, (sings) "These are the animals of which you may eat and these are the animals of which you may not eat." And that's pretty clear. And the melody is a denotative melody. It's specific. And it says this one is OK and that one is not OK. (sings) "But when you start to read from the Prophets, the melodies change and shift. Instead of saying this is in front of your nose, it says look at your dreams." So, that's the way we do it with melody.

Enlightened One Story:
Greenberg: How can we tell an enlightened one when we meet him. Ask him said the Baal Shem how to keep impure and imperfect and uncluttered thoughts from your mind and your heart. And if he gives you an answer, you will know that he's not enlightened.

Lopez: I believe that the work of storytelling is sacred work. The storyteller is not a person in possession of sacred knowledge. Something is moving through you, you are an instrument for something. And this Inuktitut word..... Inuktitut is the language spoken in the Eastern Arctic and the word for storyteller is "isoolotok." It means, "The person who created the atmosphere in which wisdom reveals itself." So that the skill of the storyteller is to create an atmosphere in which wisdom--which is like a shy animal--feels comfortable, says to itself, "This is just the kind of place for me. I believe I will come out and see if the sun is shinning and what there might be to eat." So the storyteller coaxes wisdom and wisdom comes out and stands revealed. And the people say "Ah! That?s the truth."

Music: (Musical bridge)

Simms: Perhaps the Jewish stories that I love to tell and I love to hear are the ones that are filled with surprise. The wisdom of the story is not explained, but explodes through the telling.

Schachter: I think of Professor Heshel, alavasholem. He says, "A mayse is a story in which the soul surprises the mind." And so here is a mayse of that sort. A man comes to the rebbe and complains and he says, "Rebbe, everybody in the shule is stepping on me. Look what I?m doing. I?m doing so much. I've kept the shule going for years, and people are stepping on me." And the rebbe looks at him and says, "They?re stepping on you? Who asked you to spread yourself all over the shule that wherever one steps, one must step on you?" This is the way in which the surprise suddenly... In the Talmud you say it like this: "Give your ears to hear what your mouth is saying. And when the ear hears what the mouth is saying, the soul surprises the mind." And this is what storytelling, of course, does.

Greenberg: In Moscow... no Leningrad. I was in Leningrad, one of those endless hotels and looking for a place to get a late-night snack. And everything seems disguised there sometimes. And you go through these strange, bizarre lobbies and finally there's a door that you open. And its smoke filled. And you go inside and its kind of ticky-tacky Swiss chalet or something, Russian style. And sit down and eating meat. Having a beer. And at the next table there're these guys--Russian guys. Big Russian guys. One of them with gold teeth in his mouth is sitting in this chair. He's very big. And standing above him is another Russian, who?s even bigger. And he's yelling at this guy. And they're just arguing. (Pretend Russian.) And they?re going through this whole thing. And it's very intense. And I don't want to look at it. Cause they?re big and they're Russian. And they're drinking a lot. And they're smoking a lot. And suddenly I hear this sound behind me. And the really big guy is pulling the other big guy with the gold teeth who's sitting in his chair. He's dragging him across the floor in his chair across the room. And a chill is going up my spine while this is happening. And he pulls him in the chair. And he shoves him in front of a piano. And then the guy with the gold teeth starts playing. And he starts playing this classical music piece on the piano. And the other guy is drinking and he's got a cigarette in his mouth and his hands are moving through the air and his face is light and we all look as this huge man with these big heavy fingers and this very kind of grubby exterior is playing this really light music in this bar.

Music: (Sweet classical piano music.)

Break (Schoen): (Starts at 33:45)
You're listening to "Illuminations: Jewish Culture in the Light of the World." This program, "Stories Make the World" celebrates storytelling in Jewish and other world cultures. We'll be back in a minute.

Schachter: Storytelling is transformative. That's the wonderful thing about it.. And it's so beautiful, the way in which all the traditions that have sought not only to inform their people, but to transform their people, use stories as the tools of the transformation.

Moon story:
Newman: One time, dark clouds filled the sky. And the Baal Shem Tov could not say the blessing of the new moon. The more he tried, the darker the sky became. Until the moon was completely covered. And he fell into a deep despair.
Stoltzfus: Meanwhile, in another room, his Chassidim, who were unaware of his grief were dancing.
Greenberg/Fischer: (Singing begins)
Stoltzfus: And as their joy overflowed, they burst into his room, took him by the hand and drew him into their dance.
Newman: And the Baal Shem Tov began to feel the strength of the community lifting his heart as it lifted the clouds from the sky. And then someone shouted:
Stoltzfus: The moon is shining!

Simms: I think stories can change people's lives. And we do have a tremendous power of imagination to shape things through non-aggression. And through a kind of creative trickery of the mind. So I think that the work of the storyteller in the modern world is to empower the imagination.

Music: (Greenberg singing)
"And even though I walk through a valley of the shadow of death, I will fear not, for you are with me."

Golem story
Newman/Fischer: Whispering Voices (for Golem story)
Greenberg: Singing (for Golem story)
Fischer: I remember a visit I made to the Jewish quarter in Prague when we were performing in Czechoslovakia. The Jewish quarter was about a thousand years old when it was destroyed. But the buildings are still intact. In fact, the oldest extant Synagogue in Europe is there. But the thing is, they're empty. They're uninhabited. Except for the ghosts... and tourists. Prague is full of tourists, mainly from Germany. And the Jewish quarter is one of the main attractions. Now in the center of the Jewish quarter is the Jewish cemetery. It was founded in 1493. And it contains about twelve thousand graves, because for centuries it was the only place that Jews were allowed to bury their dead. So, it's very crowded. There are places where the graves are stacked maybe twelve high. The gravestones are leaning. They all lean in different directions. They've been shaped by gravity and time, weather. And as I walk among them, I begin to feel a grief that is so huge, I can't see its shape. It was different from the grief I'd felt in the Jewish museum around the corner when I saw the pictures drawn by the children who had died in the concentration camp at Theresienstadt. This grief has something to do with the fact that I don't know enough Hebrew to read the names on the grave stones. I don't know whose lives these are. I notice that the gravestones are covered with pebbles and scraps of paper. The pebbles are left by people to mark their visits. And the scraps of paper are prayers. They write requests on them and leave them there so that the dead will intercede in they're lives. I notice that one of these gravestones that has an especially large amount of pebbles and scraps of paper has next to it a small plaque with Roman letters so I can read it. And it says, Rabbi Yehuda Low ben Bezalel. I recognize this name. I know this name. This is Rabbi Yehuda of Prague. Also known as the Maharal. He's the rabbi in the legend of the Golem. This is a story I've heard all my life. I don't remember when I first heard it. The Golem is, you know, this creation, this artificial being who protects the Jewish community. In the legend, the Rabbi is heartsick because of the constant attacks on the Jewish community. So, he decided to use his power, his knowledge of cabala and magic to create an artificial being that would protect the community. And what he did is he gathered a mass of clay and he shaped it into a human form. And then he inscribed on it's forehead the Hebrew letters for the word emet, which means truth. And then he wrote a kabalistic formula on a scrap of parchment and placed it in the creature's mouth.
(Golem's voice) Breathing... AND THE GOLEM BEGAN TO BREATHE. AND BLOOD BEGAN TO FLOW IN ITS VEINS. IT BEGAN TO MOVE. IT GREW LARGER AND LARGER. AND THE GOLEM DESTROYED THE ENEMIES OF THE JEWS!!!
(Fischer's voice resumes) The rabbi saw that the Golem was growing larger and larger. And he realized that it was out of control and could turn against the community. He knew that he had to return it to its inert state. He climbed a ladder so that he could reach up to the creature's forehead and erase the first letter of the word emet, truth, so that it would become the word met, which means dead. There was so much clay, that when he did so, and it toppled over it crushed the rabbi to death.
And now, here I was, standing in front of his grave. I notice a woman, a tourist. I think she had come off the bus load of German tourists that had just arrived at the cemetery. And she was browsing through the scraps of paper on the Rabbi's grave. She was picking one up and looking at it and putting it down and picking up another one and putting that down. And I found myself saying to her, "Could you, uh, could you put that down, please. The... the... you're not supposed to... those aren't... But she either didn't hear me or she didn't understand English or she chose not to respond. She just kept browsing. And I wanted ... I uh, wanted to...
(Golem's Voice) Breathing... I WANTED TO TELL HER TO... TO PUT IT DOWN. GO AWAY. THIS IS NOT YOUR PLACE!"
(Fischer's voice resumes) I didn?t do that. I just kept saying, "Listen could you, could you put that down please. Those are not meant to be..." She wouldn't look at me. But eventually she had enough. And she put the last one down and went on her way. And I wanted to go after her. I wanted to find a language in which I could explain to her that these are prayers. People put these here in trust. They come from their pain. I wanted to tell her that this is sacred ground. Not because it's a cemetery. But because it's almost all that we have left. But I couldn't move. My path was blocked. There was a very large Golem standing between us. The grave stones just keep leaning, as if they were witness. I had the feeling they knew the story.

Simms: People I think are suffering tremendously by thinking that they're separate from nature. That somehow we can bomb a country and then put a lot of money and clean it up. That we can murder without any ramification. That a lie can hide something. And the stories constantly remind us that action has reaction in the world. And that whatever happens to one affects all.

Scorpion Story:
Greenberg: I want to tell you a little story about the Middle east. You see there's this duck. And a scorpion. And the scorpion says to the duck, he says, "Give me a ride across the river. I've really got to get across the river." And the duck says, "Oh no, no. Are you kidding. You'll sting me. You'll kill me." "Why would I do that? Then we'd both drown." So the duck says, "OK. Get on." And the scorpion gets on the back of the duck. And they head out across the river.
Music: (Crossing melody.)
Greenberg: And they get half way across the river and Aughhh, the scorpion stings the duck. And as they're both going under the duck says, "Why did you do the man, now we're both going to die." And the scorpion says... the scorpion says, "Don't you know, this is the Middle East."

Narration: If stories can teach us that we are all connected, they also have the potential to divide us. I sometimes think that the conflict between Palestinians and Jews can be traced to the very different story each people tells about the land they both claim. The Jews tell a story about thousands of years of anti-Semitism culminating in the Holocaust, about finally regaining the homeland they were exiled from only to be met once more with enmity and persecution. The Palestinians tell a story about being displaced from their homeland by a European colonialist people just at the moment when they--the Palestinians--were awakening to their own sense of nationhood. Israeli anthropologist Smadar Lavie made it clear that there are even more stories inside these two.

Lavie: This whole matter of telling stories. I think that each group first has to feel comfortable to tell its own story to itself. The Palestinians find it very hard to tell the story to themselves. Because they have two systems of censorship operating on them. One system of censorship is the system of censorship of the Israeli's. The other system of censorship is the political correctness. That you cannot criticize your own while you're in a national struggle. But Israel also has its own structure of oppression. For the Israeli Jew, nostalgia is not allowed. You emerge from the sea, you are rootless. Take for example the prototype Sabra in Israeli literature. His name is Elik. He comes from this book by Moshe Shamir, "In his own hands." He's blonde, he's wide shouldered, square jaw, muscular. Uzi slung from one shoulder and an orange on the other. Broad smile, blue eyes, hiking boots. This is Elik. He's rootless. And there was a whole generation of non-Zionist writers, particularly in Poland and the Soviet Union that have just been effaced from Hebrew literature. Chassidic music, Chassidic tales. This is all taboo in the master narrative of Israeli nationalism. Which I think is an incredible emotional crime. Because you pass your tradition through stories.

Fischer: Abe Shulman, who was a survivor of Buchenwald and Mathausen and Dachau, was speaking in a living history workshop in the South Bronx. And he said:
"You ask how did I survive. I'll tell you. Every morning I was floating. Not here. Not there. I was in danger. I told myself, 'Abe, you have two tasks. To live another day. And to tell the story. That?s all.' Each morning I only wanted to sleep. To give in and sleep forever. So I gave myself this talking to. I made myself take this vow. I said to myself these words, 'Avram. What are you doing? Time to get up. You have two tasks in front of you. To live one more day. And to be there when all this is over, to tell their story.' So this is the way. Renewing my vows to the dead. And it's still not finished, renewing. This is why I survived."

Lopez: The storyteller is the enemy of oblivion. And in a larger sense the storyteller is the enemy of totalitarianism. Because totalitarian regimes are all interested in saying "That's not what happened. What happened was this. Don't you remember?" And it's important in that moment for the storyteller to say, "That's not what we remember. And you can kill us and you will not kill our knowledge that that is not what happened. So if you kill all of the people, the fish will know that your story is a lie. And if you kill all of the fish, the flowers will know that you lie. And if you kill all of the flowers, there will be nothing left and your lies will be your own death."

Music: (Tikkun Olam story.)

Tikkun Olam Story:
Newman: In the beginning, before there were any beginnings or endings, there was no place that was not already God. And we call this unimaginable openness, Ain Soff. Being without end. World without end. Ain Soff. Then came the urge to give life to our world and us. But there was no place that was not already God. So Ain Soff breathed in to make room. Like a father steps back so his child will walk to him. And we call this withdrawing Tsim Tsum. Into the emptiness Ain Soff set vessels. And began to fill them with divine light. Like a mother places bowls in which to pour her delicious soup. And we call these bowls Kalim. As the light poured forth, a perfect world was being created. Think of it. A world without greed and cruelty and violence. But then, something happened. The Kalim shattered. No one knows why. Perhaps the bowls were to frail. Perhaps the light too intense. Perhaps Ain Soff was learning. After all, no one makes perfect the first time. And with the shattering of the bowls, the divine sparks flew everywhere, some rushing back to Ain Soff, some falling, falling, trapped in the broken shards to become our world and us. Though this is hard to believe, the perfect world is all around us. But broken into jagged pieces like a puzzle thrown to the floor. The picture lost. Each piece without meaning. Until someone puts them back together again. We are that someone. There is no one else. We are the ones who can find the broken pieces, remember how they fit together and rejoin them. And we call this repair of the world, Tikkun Olam. In every moment, with every act, we can heal our world and us. We are all holy sparks, dulled by separation. But when we meet and talk and eat and make love, when we work and play and disagree with holiness in our eyes, seeing Ain Soff everywhere, then our brokenness will end. And our bowls will be strong enough to hold the light. And our light will be gentle enough to fill the bowls. As we repair the world together, we will learn that there is no place that is not God.

Music: Closing music

New Music: (Runs under credits)

Credits (Schoen): "Stories Make the World," is a project of A Traveling Jewish Theatre. It was produced by Claire Schoen and Corey Fischer. The stories were adapted and performed by A Traveling Jewish Theatre members Corey Fischer and Naomi Newman and former members Albert Greenberg and Helen Stoltzfus. Original music by Jim Quinn. Narrated by Corey Fischer. Mixed by John Rieger.

This program was made possible in part by grants from The Koret Foundation, The Walter and Elise Haas Fund, The National Foundation for Jewish Culture with funds from the Nathan Cummings Foundation and the California Council for the Humanities, a state program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Additional funding from the PRX Reversioning Project. The Public Radio Exchange is at prx.org.

A Traveling Jewish Theatre would like to acknowledge its debt to the late Barbara Myerhoff, whose work as an anthropologist writer and thinker is a continuing source of their inspiration.

I'm Claire Schoen.

Total Time: 59:00

Back