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I don’t go to the cinema very often – mainly because I don’t have the time – but, occasionally I make a real effort because there’s something on that really seems worth seeing. So, during the past couple of weeks, I actually found myself in the Duke of York’s cinema on two separate occasions: First to see Fahrenheit 9/11, Michael Moore’s expose of President Bush and his Administration; and then to see The Weeping Camel, a German production shot in the Gobi Desert in Mongolia, relating events in the life of three generations of one family and their camels, as they happened. I’m not going to tell you much about Fahrenheit 9/11 because it’s now on general release and, if you haven’t seen it already, you might want to. Suffice it to say that, beginning with the devastating terrorist attacks that took place on September 11th 2001, it focuses on how the American Administration’s outrage was channelled into the war against Iraq. Michael Moore’s main contention – that the war was unjustified and the terrorists have been let off the hook – is not very startling, but what I found most interesting about the film, was the way in which Michael Moore constructed his critique from an American perspective: Made principally for an American audience, Fahrenheit 9/11 is basically about the betrayal of the people of the United States by a lazy, ignorant President and a coterie of hangers-on.
Fahrenheit 9/11 is a documentary – which implies that it is based in facts, rather than being a work of fiction. But the dividing line between ‘facts’ and ‘fiction’ is actually quite false: Most fiction is rooted in or inspired by life, and any representation of the facts is exactly that, a representation, a selection of the facts, reflecting the interests of those doing the selecting and representing. What is most unique about Michael Moore’s documentary film, is that it opens with events that were actually witnessed by people around the world as they happened: Once the first of the World Trade Centre Tower’s had been struck by a plane, millions of people switched on their TVs to catch the news reports, only to see the second plane strike the second tower. But perhaps what is most commendable about Fahrenheit 9/11 is that Michael Moore chose not to replay those familiar images – rather, the screen is completely dark during the opening sequence, and so the audience just hears the sounds that accompanied the catastrophic attack. When the images return, all you see is the dust and the debris.
This week’s parashah, Devarim, is the first portion of the last book of Torah – also called Devarim, meaning ‘words’ or ‘things’, or Deuteronomy, meaning ‘Second Law’, in Latin-inspired English. As this name suggests, Deuteronomy, a work that was written during the reforms instigated by King Josiah in Judah, between 640 and 609 BCE, and then incorporated into the Torah, provides a second account of the journey through the wilderness and the laws, which the people were to follow once they entered the land. Set in the desert, on the East bank of the Jordan, Deuteronomy presents Moses, the elderly leader, re-telling the tale to the generation born in the desert, looking back in order to bring the people forward into the land. Rather like Fahrenheit 9/11, the book reconstructs past events into a new narrative. Except that in the case of the events that took place in the wilderness, a reconstruction already exists in Exodus and Numbers. So, strictly speaking Deuteronomy is a reconstruction of a reconstruction.
You would have thought that with all this careful attention to re-telling the story, and adding another version, the Torah might provide a comprehensive account. But in fact, the reader is still left with a mystery concerning what happened between the second year of the wilderness journey, recounted up to Numbers chapter 17, and the fortieth year, which is where the narrative picks up, with the death of Miriam, the eldest of the three sibling leaders, at the beginning of Numbers chapter 20. So, condemned to ‘wander’ for forty years because they lacked the courage to enter the land when they first reached the Jordan (see Numbers 14: 26-38), what was life like for our ancestors during those missing thirty-eight years?
We don’t know. The assumption we make is that they suffered – after all, they were being punished. But perhaps we are mistaken. Perhaps, they were reluctant to move forward, conquer Canaan and set to work on building a new society. Perhaps, they settled down to their life in the desert. So, why might they have chosen to stay in the desert? These questions – and my response to them – are prompted by that other film I saw recently at the Duke of York’s: The Weeping Camel. Set in a small encampment in the Gobi desert of Mongolia, The Weeping Camel is a documentary. But unlike most documentaries, it presents a direct – albeit, edited – portrayal of a particular set of events as they unfolded for three generations of one family. In some ways, it’s a bit like a home-video, except those holding the cameras, were a German film crew.
So, beginning with an ancient tale about the camel told by one of the older members of the family, the film goes on to record what happened when one of the family’s camels had a traumatic time giving birth to its first child. The audience sees it all: The camel walking around in distress, with two spindly legs sticking out from behind; the way in which the family members help the camel to give birth; the camel rejecting her offspring; and the numerous attempts made to coax her to let her baby suckle. As a stalemate ensues, the young woman, who together with her husband, takes on the task of trying to bring mother and baby together, decides to milk the mother and feed the baby herself – but the baby doesn’t receive enough nourishment that way and becomes weaker and weaker. As a last resort the couple’s young sons, one about twelve, the other about seven, set out on camels for a trek to the nearest small settlement to run errands – chief of which is to bring a violinist back to play to the camel. The musician consents – but can’t come straight away. Once he arrives, he sets immediately to his task. The whole family gathers, and as he plays his violin – which is not at all like its western counterpart – the young woman stands stroking the camel and singing to her, while her husband brings the baby closer. Slowly we witness an amazing sight: The mother camel is standing sideways on to the camera, and the large eye we can see, fills with tears. Up to this point she had been persisting in trying to push her baby out of the way; as she begins to weep, she lets the baby suckle. The crisis is over.
There are so many things I could say about this remarkable film. The story is incredibly moving, and it is also fascinating to see how everyone is involved – the two sets of parents, the young couple, and the boys – even the camels are characters in their own right. Only the babies – the young couple’s small daughter, the lambs, and the new-born camels – are in dependent roles. But what I found most striking was to see how rich and complete this simple desert existence seemed to be: The large round tents, which were plain from the outside, were extremely colourful inside, painted in bright colours, and full of beautiful cloths – similar to the clothes the people wore. As my eyes took in the turquoise and the blues and reds, I thought of the descriptions of the Tabernacle in Exodus, and understood that just because the colours of the desert landscape were shades of brown and beige didn’t mean that desert dwellers lived dull lives. On the contrary, their lives weren’t only challenging and purposeful, they enjoyed themselves as well, smiling and joking together as they sat down together to eat at the end of each day. Even when a desert storm blew, and the young woman got to work to cover the gap at the top of her tent, it was clear that the harsh weather conditions in the Gobi desert did not mean that life was unbearable.
As I watched I remembered my own experiences of camel rides and brief sojourns in the desert hills to the west of Eilat, and I left the film feeling that I could understand why people chose to live in the wilderness. Which brings me back to the Torah – and those missing years of wilderness wandering: Perhaps our ancestors stayed in the desert for forty years because they wanted to; perhaps, they liked the life they created in the wilderness. It’s a thought. Written and edited long after the entry into Canaan and the establishment of a society there, is it surprising that the Torah reflects the perspectives of those who lived in towns and villages, and farmed land, and doesn’t tell the story from the point of view of those earlier generations who dwelt in the wilderness? Perhaps, all those tales about our ancestors grumbling and mumbling in the desert were just projections dreamed up by their urban and agrarian descendants?
We don’t know. But one thing that is clear is that the only way we can know what happened is by recourse to the stories told at a much later time. What will later generations make of the events of September 11th and the subsequent war against Iraq? They will study news footage and documentaries, and millions of words and images, and attempt to piece the story together. And, of course, the different ways they approach that piecing together, and the different ways in which they make sense of what they find will be shaped by their own experiences; their own lives. As I pointed out a short while ago, the Hebrew name for the last book of the Torah that we begin to read today, Devarim, means ‘words’ or ‘things’. Human beings tell stories; we create language and we create objects and artefacts – that’s what distinguishes us from all the other creatures of the earth. Paraphrasing a piece of one of my favourite Torah passages, as it says in Deuteronomy chapter 30: it’s in our mouths and in our hearts, not only to speak but to act (:14). But if that’s the case, as we read the ancient texts of the Torah, as we watch films like Fahrenheit 9/11 and The Weeping Camel, what are we doing? Are we just passive readers and spectators? How do we engage with the Torah and with the films we see – with these new forms of text, made up of words and images and sounds? Do we make connections between the Torah and the contemporary texts we encounter every day? Do we learn from what we read and see? Judaism is preoccupied with words, but the central concern of Jewish life is how we go about transforming words into deeds – that is what the Torah is all about. Isn’t that Michael Moore’s purpose in making Fahrenheit 9/11 – not simply to present the facts as he sees them, but to inspire people to act – to challenge Bush and to send him packing?
On Monday evening until sunset on Tuesday it
will be Tishah B’Av, the ninth day of the month of Av, which
commemorates the destructions of the first Temple and second Temples in 586 BCE
and 70 CE respectively, and all the subsequent massacres of our people. At our
service we will also recall the atomic devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki on
August 6th and 9th 1945, as well as September 11th 2001.
What is the point of this annual act of remembrance? The first Chassidic
Rebbe, known as the Baal Shem Tov, said that ‘Remembrance leads to
redemption.’ Surely, we recall the past, and tell and re-tell tales, for the
sake of the present and the future – as part of our endeavour to
repair the world: May this be our will. And let us say: Amen. |
