This evening I’ve been listening to family stories.
There was the story of the boy born after his own father’s death, caught in the whirlwind of the Bolshevik revolution, traveling from Azerbaijan to Palestine.
Then there was the story of the other boy, caught between ethnic communities in Baghdad, beaten by strangers for being Jewish, then beaten again by his own family for not being Jewish enough.
There was the story of the girl, his daughter, who ran like a cat along the top of a brick wall, one brick wide, and never fell.
Generations dancing between impossible extremes.