have a coin collection and this is a good addition.” I am sure he thought I was nuts. A consumer of camel han d ing him a Vietnamese dong note to atone.
“Sir, I just want to say that . . . well . . . I won’t eat camel again. The next time it’s offered to me, I’ll pass. I promise.”
The High Priest nodded, but our intimacy was gone. I had blown it. Over a hump-backed steak in a Bedouin tent. I had insulted my host with my gut. I was a culinary criminal in his eyes.
And then, just when I was deflated enough to skulk out of the room, the High Priest smiled. “It has been very enjoyable talking T o rah with . . .
with . . . a camel eater,” he said.
“Please, sir,” I answered, “a repentant camel eater.”
He laughed. I laughed. The deputy High Priest laughed. The family laughed. Soon we were all cackling. After I left, I heard that the High Priest asked how the camel eater was, and if she had gotten home safely. I suppose that meant that he couldn’t forget my sin, but he was able to forgive me.
He was a wise man, the High Priest Elazar. He taught me that I can unwittingly screw up and commit a cultural faux pas out of ign o rance. I can offend someone’s sensibilities by what I say, the clothes I wear, and even by what I eat. But it takes a man of substance, of wi s dom, to leapfrog over condemnation to compassion.
Recently, I was in a restaurant in Santa Fe, New Mexico. A waiter was fu m ing because he had spent a lot of time helping two young
foreigners understand the menu and order. He had even brought them free sop a pillas and honey to dip them in. Then he had advised them on where they could go for a hike. When they exited the restaurant, they had not left a tip.
I immediately thought about the High Priest and decided to speak to the o f fended waiter. I told him I sympathized with him, and su g gested that maybe in the young men’s country, tips were not the norm. He spewed out a cranky epithet or two and then shrugged and said maybe that was true. I heard him tell the woman who worked the cash register that he had been stiffed, and then he added, “Maybe in their country they don’t give tips.”
I smiled inwardly. The waiter did exactly what my role model in a turban did on the Mountain of Blessings. He was insulted, but he chalked it up to a cultural miscalculation, and forgave it.
As I write these words, I have learned that the High Priest just passed on. I am honored that I got to meet and spend time with him. I was feeling very sad about his death when I received an email from my dear Samaritan friend Benny Tsedaka. He, too, was sad, but he closed his missive by saying that “We all must pass. Only God is Ete r nal.”
C hetumal, in the southern Yucatan peninsula in Mexico, just a few hours away from the international pla y ground of Cancún, is where I went to prison. I was able to gain entrance because I collect prison art. You are probably wondering why I collect prison art and why I wanted to enter the prison. There is a long answer and a short one. The latter seems most a p propriate here.
I have never really been interested in the mainstream. Actually, most people are fascinated by the mainstream, so the mainstream doesn’t need my interest. What makes my ticker beat faster is disco v ering voices, people, places, realities that are not generally known. And serious offenders fall into that category. The stories of how and why they descended into the bowels of crime make great films and books but, in real life, the general feeling is that convicted criminals are mo n sters and they should be locked up and punished.
This would be fine if it worked. The perps would learn their harsh lessons out of sight of the rest of us. But, as we all know, one day the prison gates open and the perp is free. If he and we are lucky, he has had a change of heart, and he becomes a productive member of soci e ty. If he has learned little inside the prison except how to be a better
“Sir, I just want to say that . . . well . . . I won’t eat camel again. The next time it’s offered to me, I’ll pass. I promise.”
The High Priest nodded, but our intimacy was gone. I had blown it. Over a hump-backed steak in a Bedouin tent. I had insulted my host with my gut. I was a culinary criminal in his eyes.
And then, just when I was deflated enough to skulk out of the room, the High Priest smiled. “It has been very enjoyable talking T o rah with . . .
with . . . a camel eater,” he said.
“Please, sir,” I answered, “a repentant camel eater.”
He laughed. I laughed. The deputy High Priest laughed. The family laughed. Soon we were all cackling. After I left, I heard that the High Priest asked how the camel eater was, and if she had gotten home safely. I suppose that meant that he couldn’t forget my sin, but he was able to forgive me.
He was a wise man, the High Priest Elazar. He taught me that I can unwittingly screw up and commit a cultural faux pas out of ign o rance. I can offend someone’s sensibilities by what I say, the clothes I wear, and even by what I eat. But it takes a man of substance, of wi s dom, to leapfrog over condemnation to compassion.
Recently, I was in a restaurant in Santa Fe, New Mexico. A waiter was fu m ing because he had spent a lot of time helping two young
foreigners understand the menu and order. He had even brought them free sop a pillas and honey to dip them in. Then he had advised them on where they could go for a hike. When they exited the restaurant, they had not left a tip.
I immediately thought about the High Priest and decided to speak to the o f fended waiter. I told him I sympathized with him, and su g gested that maybe in the young men’s country, tips were not the norm. He spewed out a cranky epithet or two and then shrugged and said maybe that was true. I heard him tell the woman who worked the cash register that he had been stiffed, and then he added, “Maybe in their country they don’t give tips.”
I smiled inwardly. The waiter did exactly what my role model in a turban did on the Mountain of Blessings. He was insulted, but he chalked it up to a cultural miscalculation, and forgave it.
As I write these words, I have learned that the High Priest just passed on. I am honored that I got to meet and spend time with him. I was feeling very sad about his death when I received an email from my dear Samaritan friend Benny Tsedaka. He, too, was sad, but he closed his missive by saying that “We all must pass. Only God is Ete r nal.”
C hetumal, in the southern Yucatan peninsula in Mexico, just a few hours away from the international pla y ground of Cancún, is where I went to prison. I was able to gain entrance because I collect prison art. You are probably wondering why I collect prison art and why I wanted to enter the prison. There is a long answer and a short one. The latter seems most a p propriate here.
I have never really been interested in the mainstream. Actually, most people are fascinated by the mainstream, so the mainstream doesn’t need my interest. What makes my ticker beat faster is disco v ering voices, people, places, realities that are not generally known. And serious offenders fall into that category. The stories of how and why they descended into the bowels of crime make great films and books but, in real life, the general feeling is that convicted criminals are mo n sters and they should be locked up and punished.
This would be fine if it worked. The perps would learn their harsh lessons out of sight of the rest of us. But, as we all know, one day the prison gates open and the perp is free. If he and we are lucky, he has had a change of heart, and he becomes a productive member of soci e ty. If he has learned little inside the prison except how to be a better
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