I live in Chandler, row in Tempe, work in Phoenix, drive to work through
Scottsdale, get my hair cut in Mesa -- it's all My Town. That's why I was
incensed to hear that a mosque in Tempe was recently vandalized for the
fifth time. Nazi symbols were spray-painted on it, and that's a bit of our
recent past that doesn't need to be resurrected no matter whom it's directed
against. More than that, though, it's ridiculous and appalling to tar a whole
thousand-year-old religion with the terrorist brush. I don't much care what
happens to those who have connived at wholesale murder and terror, but those
people were not following the teachings of Muhammed any more than the Crusaders
and Inquisitors were following the path of Jesus.
I signed the
href="http://www.tolerance.org/101_tools/declaration.html">Declaration of
Tolerance and I stand by it. I cannot see this kind of act without speaking. I
won't speak or even read hatred, to the point that I've removed diarists from my
friends list who have expressed disdain for entire religious or ethnic groups. As
an American, as a human, and most particularly as a Jew, I feel the duty not to
keep silent. Possibly Fred Small can explain my reasoning better than I can; I
don't think he'd mind my borrowing his words, properly credited. It's a bit long
but I don't want to cut it; the asterisks are mine because I'm posting from
work.
Posted by dichroic at September 19, 2003 04:59 PMNot In Our Town
Words and Music by Fred Small
Copyright 1994 Pine Barrens Music (BMI)
When the Klan came to Montana, they made no grand parade.
No hooded knights on horseback, no banners boldly raised.
Spray paint and bomb threats, a voice on the telephone line:
"Kill the n***s, kill the ho*os, Jew b***h die."
Five-year-old Isaac woke screaming in the gloom.
"Mommy, there's a man at my window, looking into my room."
"Son, there's nothing out there but the shadows branches make."
The little boy went back to sleep, his parents lay awake.
For Isaac's bedroom window showed their faith for all to see
The candles of the menorah stood for hope and memory.
The next night, out of the darkness, a cinder block was hurled.
It shattered Isaac's window, and the boundaries of his world.
Chorus:
One moment of conviction, one voice quiet and clear,
One act of compassion, it all begins here.
No safety now in silence, we've got to stand our ground.
No hate. No violence. Not in our town.
The cop was not unfriendly. He said, "Ma'am, if I were you,
I'd take down that menorah, the Star of David, too."
Isaac's mother Tammy said, "I'm sure that's good advice.
But how then could I ever look my children in the eye?"
Then at their doorway a little girl did stand
A gift for her schoolmate in her outstretched hand.
A menorah drawn in crayon, from a Gentile to a Jew
It read, "To Isaac, From Rebecca, I'm sorry this happened to you."
Chorus
Bridge:
Have you seen the paper? Did you hear the news?
What kind of people are we? We thought we knew.
Can children primed in prejudice in peace together dwell?
If we look out through this shattered glass, do we see ourselves?
Margaret McDonald called her pastor on the phone.
"This time the Jews will not face their foes alone.
We'll make paper menorahs, display them from our homes.
We'll show the bigots there are more of us than they have stones."
Volunteers printed up menorahs by the score.
Children in their Sunday schools colored hundreds more.
Grocers and dry cleaners gave out the design, singing:
What's a little broken glass when freedom's on the line?
Now in the town of Billings live not 100 Jews,
But menorahs now were everywhere, on every avenue.
Thousands upon thousands, in windows rich and poor.
When a neighbor stands in danger, we will not close our door.
Bridge:
Through the drifting snow, Tammy drove her children round
To see all the menorahs in the windows of the town.
"Are all those people Jewish?" asked Isaac as they went.
"No," his mother answered, "they are your friends."
Chorus
repeat last line twice more:
No hate. No violence. Not in our town.