Middle East Peace and the Lost Tribes Mythologies of the Lemba

 

by Zvi Baranoff

Peace in the Middle-East is possible if Jews would follow the lead of their cousins, the Lemba people of South Africa. This is, it seems, the learned opinion of Noah Tamarkin, a cultural anthropologist and an associate professor at Cornell University. 

Mr Tamarkin expressed his opinion in a short essay in The Conversation entitled South Africa’s Lemba people: how they view their Jewishness challenges Zionist ideas that identity is linked to one homeland (https://theconversation.com/south-africas-lemba-people-how-they-view-their-jewishness-challenges-zionist-ideas-that-identity-is-linked-to-one-homeland-228632) published April 30, 2024.

Mr Tamarkin seems to be a well intentioned fellow. However, his essay is deeply flawed, with obvious misstatements and falsification throughout. 

The essay begins by describing the Lemba people as “Black Jews who live in South Africa and Zimbabwe.” It goes on to claim that the “Lemba people have long held that they are Jews by descent.”

Are the Lemba Jewish? Mostly not. Are they descendents of Jews? Perhaps. Have they “long held” such beliefs? That depends on who among the Lemba one speaks to and how much time is considered long when discussing history. 

Most of the Lemba people self define as Christians. There are some who are Muslims and Jews. Many of those that self define as Jews also self define as Christians. 

There are hints that could imply that the Lemba are descended from ancient Hebrews. The actual, provable links however, are few. The first “proofs” rely on some vague similarities of the oral traditions of these people to early Hebrew history and mythology. The Lemba also refrain from eating pork - as do both Jews and Muslims. The Lemba practice circumcision. The Jewish tradition is on the eighth day. The Lemba tradition is eight years old. Muslims worldwide also practice circumcision as well as many African people. 

However, the Lemba were unfamiliar with any possible connection to ancient Hebrews and, in fact, were unaware of Jews until they came in contact with Christian missionaries around the beginning of the Twentieth Century, and later to interaction with South African Jews. So, the “long held” belief of a Jewish ancestry dates back to around 1900, which is not very long in the scheme of things. Thousands of Lemba have adopted Jewish practices, in relatively recent times. This has been accelerated through the support of American Jews supplying religious education and ritual materials. 

Christian missionaries have a long history of introducing Biblical mythologies and integration of these mythologies with those of their targeted audience. When one goes out looking for the Lost Tribes of Israel, one inevitably finds them, even if the actual links are tenuous at best. The tales of the Lost Tribes, the ten Tribes said to be exiled from from the Kingdom of Israel around 722 BCE, is shrouded in mythology and actual history is pitifully lacking. Most historians have concluded that the deported tribes assimilated into the local population, although legends of people around the world being the Lost Tribes, reinforced by threads of customs and  beliefs, is tantalizing.

The Lemba origin story is based on a long journey of their twelve clans from a place called Sena. According to the oral traditions, they followed a sacred object called the ngoma lungundu or “drum that thunders”. The twelve clans are reminiscent of the Twelve Tribes of Israel and the ngoma lungundu is therefore likened to the Ark of the Covenant. 

The genetic pools that Mr Tamarkin refers to, dating back to the 1990s, show a strong Middle-Eastern connection. This could be Hebrew or it could also be Arab. The genetic link among the Buba, one Lemba clan, does have a fairly high correspondence to the Cohen marker. This is curious. However, the overall information that we learn from genetic studies points to a strong likelihood of the influence of Arab traders that had an extensive network throughout Africa for hundreds of years.

Mr Tamarkin, goes on to state that “Lemba people did not orient themselves towards Israel. Instead they interpreted their genetic studies as proof that Jews were African and that Lemba people were, therefore, indigenous African Jews.” The link is to a book by Mr Tamarkin.

Drawing these conclusions requires intellectual gymnastics. He ignores the origin mythology of the Lemba people that stresses that they come from elsewhere and consider themselves to be separate from the surrounding peoples. The name Lemba may originate from the Bantu word lemi which means "non-African" or a "respected foreigner", although it could derive from the Swahili word kilemba meaning turban or “those who wear turbans”. Mr Tamarkin also ignores the Lemba burial practice of orientation to the north, presumably towards their historic origin and fails to mention that some Lemba that have adopted Judaism have made aliyah to Israel. 

Mr Tamarkin suggests that the Jewish sense of a indigenous relationship to a homeland in what is now Israel is misplaced. Mr Tamarkin proposes that the 15 or so million Jews of the world are African based on the 100,000 (more or less) Lemba being African, although the basis of a Jewish link to the Lemba is the possibility of a migration beginning with an exile from the Land of Israel, to Yemen, and eventually across Africa. 

Whether the Lemba perceive themselves as indigenous to Africa or rooted elsewhere is irrelevant to the sense of a general indigenous relationship to the Land of Israel by Jews worldwide. Around seven million Jews currently live between the Mediterranean Sea and the Jordan River, as well as around seven million Palestinians. Clearly, both people have an indigenous relationship to that particular piece of land.

Certainly, a logical argument can be presented that the Zionist ideology and subsequent experiment was a misstep and an historic mistake. There were certainly other perspectives among the Jews at the time of the formation and development of political Zionism. However, there is no denying that there is a strong link to the sense of place, emotionally and genetically. 

We are certainly not going to reorient the attachment of 15 million Jews, seven million who currently live in Israel and six million that live in the United States, with the rest scattered worldwide, to Africa because of a tenuous link of approximately 100,000 Africans. There is no other place in the world than the actual traditional homeland that has this genetic and historical link. 

Mr Tamarkin's essay approaches a fascinating subject, however the lack of intellectual honesty and historical integrity does a great disservice to the Lemba, to the Jewish people, and to the possibility of finding a real solution to the shared destiny of the people, Arabs and Jews, that live on the land that Mr Tamarkin so casually writes off as irrelevant to identity. 

Moishe Pipik Flies to the Moon, Seeks His Fortune & Has Lots of Adventures

 

by Zvi Baranoff 

It was a very long time ago and very far away. In a shtetl called Brooklyn there lived a small boy named Moishe Pipik. Moishe Pipik was a good lad. He was smart and creative. 

Although Moishe Pipik was an only child, he lived in a very crowded apartment. The apartment was situated in a crowded tenement building on a busy street in the very heart of Brooklyn. 

The apartment was small but maybe it wouldn't have felt so crowded if he lived there with just his parents. However, besides Moishe Pipik and his parents, his Bubbe, his mother's mother, also lived in that small apartment. 

Even with his grandmother sleeping in the “spare” bedroom, the apartment might have felt merely cramped but the apartment was always far more crowded than that. It seemed that there were always some extra relatives staying there. 

There were always some family members going through a difficult stretch, between jobs and without a place of their own. Sometimes there were several relatives staying at once. They slept on the couch, in the bathtub, and on the kitchen floor. Sometimes there would be a “guest” sharing his bed. A small child might be sleeping in the bottom drawer of his dresser. In the summer, a person or two slept on the fire escape.

Both of Moishe Pipik's parents worked a lot. His father was at a job six days a week. His mother “took in” clothes to repair, besides all the cooking and cleaning involved in maintaining the home. She had learned to sew from her father, who had earned his living as a tailor among other endeavors. Moishe Pipik's mother often worked late into the night, sometimes falling asleep at the sewing machine that she had inherited from her father. 

.

It really couldn't be said that Moishe Pipik's parents neglected him. They assured that he got all of the things that he really needed such as his daily meals and his weekly baths. Moishe Pipik's parents did truly love him.

What they couldn't provide the boy was all of the attention that he craved nor all of the things on his endless list of wishes and desires. 

The other relatives filling the apartment to overflowing helped fill that void as far as his desires beyond absolute need was concerned. The neighborhood, as well, was crowded with people that were almost as nosy, loud and boisterous as his relatives.  These neighbors watched out for Moishe Pipik, almost as if they were family. 

Of all the relatives that frequently encamped at the family's apartment, often for weeks or months at a time, Uncle Morrie and Aunt Fannie were Moishe Pipik's favorites. Uncle Morrie was his mother's younger brother. Aunt Fannie, as near as he could tell, was actually a second or third cousin of his father's but she insisted on being called Aunt. 

When Moishe Pipik was a little pisher, Morrie had been a merchant marine. Morrie traveled the world and would mail the family picture postcards from all the exotic ports where the ships docked. The postcards decorated the apartment, giving the place a low budget international flair.

As near as Moishe Pipik could tell, Uncle Morrie had some sort of job involving race horses. Unfortunately, the horses didn't always pay Uncle Morrie, which was a cause for friction with Moishe Pipik's father. Moishe Pipik figured that the problem stemmed  from  the fact that horses don't have pockets so the horses rarely carried money. 

When the horses did pay off, Uncle Morrie would be quite generous. A couple of times he took Moishe Pipik to Coney Island, where they watched the skirts, ate ice cream on the Boardwalk and went to the Penny Arcade where Moishe Pipik saw the jumpy films of hoochie-coochie girls for the first time. Once, Uncle Morrie took the lad to the big museum in Manhattan to gawk at the dinosaur bones. Occasionally they would go to Ebbets Field to eat Cracker Jacks and Foot Long hot dogs while watching the Brooklyn Dodgers. 

Nope. Morrie no longer shipped out. He did, however, tell elaborate tales of days when his travels took him to exotic places like Buenos Aires, Tangiers, Marrakesh, Havana and New Jersey. The stories of strange and wonderful adventures involved Eskimos, Bedouin, Gauchos, Pickpockets, White Slavers, Pygmies, Horse Thieves, Card Sharks and Indians. In those tales, Uncle Morrie was always heroic. 

Uncle Morrie played checkers with Moishe Pipik. He also taught him poker and gin rummy. 

The most wondrous and unexplainable thing about Uncle Morrie is that he would sometimes pull a nickel out of Moishe Pipik's ear. For no particular reason, at random and unexpected times, Uncle Morrie would draw the boy close, reach around and extract a shiny coin...and then, give the nickel to the boy! 

Nothing pleased Moishe Pipik more than the feeling of a nickel pressed into the palm of his hand. He would smile broadly and then squeeze the coin in a tightly gripped fist. 

Of course, a nickel would not remain long in Moishe Pipik's hand. He would run down the street to Finklestein's Delicatessen where he would promptly exchange the shiny nickel for the opportunity to fish a fat kosher dill pickle from the wooden barrel. The pickle barrel was nearly as tall as Moishe Pipik. With the tongs held firmly in his right hand, leaning over the huge barrel, Moishe Pipik would try to find the biggest and juiciest of the pickles floating in brine. Nothing pleased him more than exchanging a nickel for such a Heavenly Delight as a fat dill pickle. 

When his Aunt Fannie would arrive, it was usually just before dinner time. She would be carrying a small suitcase and the clothes she wore would be crumpled and mussed. There would be a knock at the door. Aunt Fannie, standing there, would sniffle. Aunt Fannie would be holding back tears. She would sigh heavily, and shuffle her feet a bit. 

Moishe Pipik's mother would also sigh.  Then, his mother would usher Aunt Fannie in. No questions were ever asked. An extra plate would be put at the table. Moishe Pipik's mother would add some more water to whatever was cooking on the stove and somehow there was always just enough food to go around. 

The first couple of days after her arrival, Aunt Fannie was always moody and outwardly unhappy. Aunt Fannie would say things to Moishe Pipik such as “Always stay a little boy!” and “Don't grow up to be like all those other men!” 

When the mourning period for her lost romantic entanglement was over, Aunt Fannie's mood would improve and she would be upbeat and joyful. Then, Aunt Fannie was a lot of fun to be around and Moishe Pipik loved all of the attention that she showered on him, although he could do without so many hugs and a few less pinches. Moishe Pipik really didn't much like the smeared lipstick on his cheeks either, truth be told. 

On the particular day in question Moishe Pipik awoke with a particularly strong desire for a pickle from the big wooden barrel at Finklestein's Delicatessen. He asked his mother if she would give him a nickel to satisfy his craving. She told him that she didn't have any extra money for frivolity. He was most disappointed but not particularly surprised. 

Aunt Fannie was stretched out on the sofa. She was feeling very sorry for herself. She had a hot water bottle on her head and she groaned horribly, on the verge of tears. Moishe Pipik determined that there was no point in asking Aunt Fannie for anything that morning. 

Uncle Morrie was sitting at the kitchen table. He was drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette, and studying the Daily Racing Form. Moishe Pipik asked his uncle to look in his ears and see if there were any nickels hidden in there. Uncle Morrie grunted before taking a look. “I am afraid,” he said, “that the nickel mine is played out for now.” That was certainly not encouraging news.

Moishe Pipik always carried a rucksack to school, just like the other children of the neighborhood. In his rucksack, he always had a notebook, pencils, and a few crayons. Sometimes there was a snack. Always there was his small drawstring pouch where he kept his marbles as well as any treasures that he happened upon. 

All the way to school that morning, Moishe Pipik walked in the gutter between the sidewalk and the streets. He kept his eyes peeled, hoping to spy coins that had fallen there. He didn't find a single one on that long walk to school. Moishe Pipik arrived at school, as he usually did, a little late and a bit rumpled. 

Sorry to say, however, Moishe Pipik was not a particularly attentive student. 

A typical day at Moishe Pipik's school went something like this. The teacher helped the children learn their Aleph Beis. All the children watch the teacher write the letters on the blackboard and they all copy the letters into their notebooks. 

Everyone, that is, except Moishe Pipik. 

When the teacher writes an Aleph א on the blackboard, all the children see an א but not Moishe Pipik. He sees a robot. The other children write א in their notebooks. Moishe Pipik draws a robot. 

Next, the teacher writes a Beis ב on the blackboard, and Moishe Pipik sees a hippopotamus. The other children write ב in their notebooks. Moishe Pipik draws a hippopotamus.

The teacher writes a Gimel ג but Moishe Pipik sees a rocket ship preparing for liftoff. The other children carefully jot ג into their notebooks. Moishe Pipik carefully sketches a rocket on a launchpad. 

School ended no time too soon for the boy. His craving for a fat kosher dill had not waned whatsoever during the proceeding hours. Yet, he was no closer to satisfying his desire, still lacking a nickel. Moishe Pipik dilly dallied on his way back home, as he considered his options. 

Moishe Pipik detoured past the lot where the boys of the neighborhood would gather for games such as stickball, tag, mumbly-peg, and marbles. That day there was a circle of boys shooting marbles in the lot. Moishe Pipik joined in the game. 

Marbles is a game involving both luck and skill. A circle is drawn on the ground, players place marbles within the circle and then take turns by aiming a slightly larger shooter at the marbles with the intention of dislodging the marbles from the circle. Any knocked free of the circle becomes the property of the player that has knocked them loose. 

Moishe Pipik was fairly skilled at the game so evidently luck was not with him. In hardly any time, Moishe Pipik's drawstring bag was nearly empty. All that remained was his shooter, one cat's eye, a couple of very plain marbles, a button, and a pebble. 

From there, Moishe Pipik wandered about the neighborhood, scheming and dreaming and hoping for a pickle. Surely there was a way for at least one nickel to come into his possession, or perhaps even acquiring a pickle by some other means. 

Then, Moishe Pipik remembered that time once when he happened to be in the alley behind the delicatessen when the delivery truck was there. The driver, for no particular reason, as if a miracle, just gave him a pickle. Well, lightning can strike twice so Moishe Pipik ran to the alley but of course there was no delivery truck there on that day. 

What Moishe Pipik did find in the alley was a wooden banana crate. Well, it wasn't a pickle but it was a fortuitous discovery. It was just what the boy needed to fulfill one of his lifetime goals. Moishe Pipik hoisted the wooden crate onto his back, resting it on his head. In this way, Moishe Pipik walked back to his building and up the steps to his apartment. 

When Moishe Pipik got home, he found his mother busy scrubbing the kitchen floor. Hardly looking up, his Momma asked him, "What did you learn in school today?"

"I learned about rocket ships and robots and hippopotamus…esses…ummm"

"Hippopotami, I think, is the plural, but I am not sure," said his mother. "Ask your teacher tomorrow."

“Okay, Momma,” Moishe Pipik responded. He headed, with his crate, across the apartment and out the window to the fire escape. 

On the fire escape, Moishe Pipik went straight to work. The banana crate served as the cabin for the rocket ship that he had always dreamed of building. With some bits of wire, string, wheels, bicycle pedals, tin cans, and such, Moishe Pipik built a rocket ship like none other. He wasted no time, blasting off in his rocket ship that very afternoon, directly from the fire escape.

This is how Moishe Pipik became the first person to fly to space and land on the Moon, not that he ever received much recognition for that feat. 

The flight went without a hitch and was much quicker than Moishe Pipik had expected. When he arrived on the Moon, he was greeted with much fanfare. The Moon People pulled out all the stops. There was a marching band and a huge banner with the words “Welcome Moishe Pipik” in great big letters. They all yelled “Speech! Speech!” The cheers were thunderous when Moishe Pipik took the stage and expressed his heartfelt appreciation for their kindly reception. 

Moishe Pipik's biggest regret concerning that trip, however, is that he didn't pack a camera. Photographic documentation of the voyage would have certainly bolstered his claims about visiting the Moon. 

Lacking a camera, Moishe Pipik made a few sketches in his notebook. Unfortunately, in all of the excitement, he misspelled the word “Welcome” on the banner. Also, in his excitement, he added a giraffe, an elephant, and a hippopotamus to the picture even though none of those animals were actually there. Sorry to say, his drawings were not that convincing. 

Additionally, Moishe Pipik had asked the Moon People if he could take some cheese home. He was informed that he had arrived on a day when the cheese mine was closed for repairs. So, most unfortunately, Moishe Pipik had no souvenirs from his trip to reinforce his assertions that he had traveled to the Moon.

Moishe Pipik's return flight was unremarkable and without a hitch. He was back on the fire escape in no time flat. It was still hours before his supper would be served. Moishe Pipik's mother was at work by the stove, stirring a large pot. He tried to tell his mother about his trip to the Moon but she was much too busy to listen and shooed him away. 

Moishe Pipik's Aunt Fannie was once again moping in the living room. His Uncle Morrie had gone to the racetrack. The boy still had the unfulfilled desire for a delicious kosher dill and he still lacked a nickel. He headed back out into the streets of Brooklyn. 

Moishe Pipik knew what had to be done and he went about doing it. He moved with the intensity and purposefulness of a shark, approaching neighbors in search of temporary employment. To anyone who would listen, he explained how he really wanted a pickle from the delicatessen and therefore really, really needed a nickel.

Over the next couple of hours, Moishe Pipik swept sidewalks, steps, and foyers. He emptied a litter box and took out some trash. He weeded several flower pots and walked a dog. Somehow, even with all the efforts, the goal remained elusive. Moishe Pipik found himself in front of Finklestein's Delicatessen without a nickel to his name. He sat down on the curb, held his head in his small hands, and began to cry.

The crying started out as just a whimper but it graduated into a full-fledged Niagara Falls sort of downpour. The tears fell into the gutter and threatened to flood the entire street. 

When Mr Finklestein looked out the big plate glass window of his delicatessen, he saw what assuredly was the saddest little boy in the whole world. Mr Finklestein wiped his hands on his white smock and walked out the front door of the delicatessen. The bell on the door tinkled as he left the building and crossed the sidewalk. 

Moishe Pipik was absorbed in his very personal sense of loss and private misery. He took no notice of Mr Finkelstein until the man's rotund shadow was directly over him. Then, Moishe Pipik looked up. He saw the kindly shopkeeper through his bleary reddened eyes, and began to stifle his tears.

“What's the matter, my Dear Moishe Pipik?” asked the good shopkeeper in the white smock. 

Moishe Pipik, gasping and nearly choking on his river of tears, said most emphatically “Today is the worst day of my life!” He then dropped his head back into his hands and began crying once more.

“Listen, young fellow,” Mr Finklestein said as he handed Moishe Pipik the handkerchief from his breast pocket. “How about you blow your nose, wipe away your tears, and come with me into the delicatessen. Maybe we can see what we can do to salvage your day. I have some experience with bad days. Maybe it won't turn out so awful after all.”

Mr Finklestein took Moishe Pipik's small hand and the two of them walked inside. Mr Finklestein set Moishe Pipik up on a stool behind the counter, near the cash register. There, they would be able to talk while Mr Finklestein could keep an eye on his store and help any customers that may show up. 

“So, Moishe Pipik! Tell me all about it. What happened today?” This is what the shopkeeper said to the boy. 

So, Moishe Pipik proceeded to give an account of his day. “This morning, all that I really, really wanted - all that I could think about  - was a pickle. You know how much I love the pickles from your big barrel.” The boy gave the shopkeeper a knowing nod. Mr Finklestein returned the nod. Moishe Pipik continued his narrative. 

“I asked my Momma for a nickel, but she said no. I asked my Uncle Morrie if he could pull a nickel out of my ear but he told me that my head was empty. That's how my morning began.”

“Hmm,” said Mr Finklestein. 

“I looked for nickels in the gutter on the way to school but, no luck. After school, I lost my marbles…at least, most of them.”

“Then, I built a rocket ship and flew to the Moon. They didn't have any cheese because the cheese mine was closed for repairs and I don't have any photographs so probably nobody will believe that. My Mom sure didn't.” Moishe Pipik showed Mr Finklestein the sketches from the trip.

“Well, now…” said Mr Finkelstein. 

Moishe Pipik put his drawstring bag on the counter as he began to explain the next phase of his very long day.

“So, I went to work to see if I could earn a nickel. Mrs Apelblum asked me to take out her trash. She didn't have a nickel. She gave me seven pennies.” Moishe Pipik put the seven pennies into a small pile on the counter. 

“Mrs Bassowitz asked me to walk her dog. She didn't have a nickel. She gave me a dime which is much smaller than a nickel.” Moishe Pipik sadly placed the dime next to the pennies. 

“Mrs Czernec asked me to sweep her steps. She didn't have a nickel. She gave me a subway token.” Moishe Pipik added the subway token to the collection of coins on the counter.

Mr Dannenberg also asked me to do some sweeping for him. He didn't have a nickel. He gave me three stamps.” The stamps were placed on the counter.

“Mrs Ehrendorf had me clean out her smelly cat's stinky litter box. She gave me three empty soda bottles.” These were in Moishe Pipik's rucksack and he placed them on the counter. 

“Mrs Feldman asked me to pull all the weeds from her flower pots. She didn't have a nickel but she gave me two cookies and they were pretty good. Not as good as a pickle but better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, I suppose.” Moishe Pipik smiled a bit as he wiped some cookie crumbs from the corners of his mouth. 

Mr Finklestein patted Moishe Pipik on the head. “Let's do some math,” he said to the boy. Moishe Pipik grimaced. He hated math but he tried to be brave.

Mr Finklestein counted five of the seven pennies as he picked them up off the counter. “Five pennies, young man is worth a nickel.” He placed the five pennies into his cash register and replaced it with a nickel. Moishe Pipik's eyes brightened. 

“This thin dime here doesn't look like much.” With that, he dropped it into his cash register and placed two nickels on the counter in its place. 

“What do you suppose that subway token is worth?” Mr Finklestein slipped the token into the cash register and replaced it with three nickels. 

“These are three cent stamps. That's nine cents.” Mr Finklestein placed a nickel and four pennies onto the counter. 

“The soda bottles,” Mr Finklestein continued, “each have two cents deposits.” He put the bottles into a crate and put a nickel and a penny on the counter in their stead. Moishe Pipik's eyes widened. 

Moishe Pipik began to count the coins,  placing them into piles. Eight nickels made quite a stack. There were also seven pennies. Moishe Pipik happily traded five of those pennies for another nickel.

Moishe Pipik left Finklestein's Delicatessen with EIGHT fat kosher dill pickles wrapped in wax paper with brown paper wrapped around that and all placed lovingly into a paper sack by Mr Finklestein. Moishe Pipik held the largest pickle from the barrel in his right hand and ate it on his way back home. 

By the time that Moishe Pipik had returned to his apartment, his family was already seated at the dining table. Moishe Pipik slid into his seat, next to Aunt Fannie. Aunt Fannie's mood had much improved. She squeezed the boy until he squealed and kissed him loudly on his cheek, leaving a significant amount of smeared lipstick on his face. 

Uncle Morrie and Moishe Pipik's father had reconciled any ill feelings between them as Uncle Morrie had made a generous contribution towards the rent. He had also brought home a freshly killed chicken which Moishe Pipik's mother cooked and served even though it was a weekday and not Shabbos or a holiday. 

Uncle Morrie and Moishe Pipik's father were sharing a bottle of schnapps. They each had a glass and the bottle sat between them. Moishe Pipik's father filled the cap - a thimble’s worth, perhaps - with schnapps and passed it to the boy. Moishe Pipik tossed the pungent liquid down his throat and gave a little shudder. 

Everyone was having a fine time. Uncle Morrie refilled the cap and slid it across the table back to Moishe Pipik. He also gave the boy the bag of chocolates that he had bought for him on his way home from the racetrack,  handing him the bag under the table. 

Moishe Pipik ate his fill and then some of the chicken and potatoes that his mother served that evening. He stealthily chomped down the chocolates as well. 

Moishe Pipik wobbled away from the table, quite satiated. The boy went to his room, taking the eight remaining pickles from Finklestein's Delicatessen with him. He sat in his closet, eating one pickle after another,  and thinking that it had turned out to be the absolutely best day of his life. That is, until the churning sensation in his stomach began. 

If you enjoyed this story, consider purchasing a copy of The Luftmenschen of Planet Birobidzhan. The novel is now available worldwide, wherever books are sold! 

The Luftmenschen of Planet Birobidzhan can also be purchased through this direct link:

https://shop.ingramspark.com/b/084?params=6TtjgjBTrFtcK4tvxeCbUN4hTvy9rOoAq8aeNsNXURN

Zvi Baranoff has written both fiction and non fiction for decades and has had pieces published in several independent publications. The Luftmenschen of Planet Birobidzhan is his first published novel. He lives in rural southern Oregon, where he anticipates remaining for the foreseeable future. 

Even Without Clocks

"...and I am anxiously waiting for the secret of eternal life to be discovered…" Lawrence Ferlinghetti from his poem I Am Waiting

by Zvi Baranoff

Abuelo, like an history professor, extrapolated on the Zone's relationship - or lack thereof - with Chicago, the USA, the rest of the world…and the unlikely events that created a place found on no maps.

For perspective, we considered the Spanish Civil War, the Paris Commune, letters exchanged between Karl Marx and Abraham Lincoln, the dialectics of Bolsheviks and Mensheviks, and the campaign for the eight hour work day before approaching more recent history. 

Abuelo pulled down a screen with a map of Chicago. "This is where I lived in the 1990s," he said, pointing with a broom handle. "By the end of the century, there was a bike collective here, an organic bakery here and a puppet troupe in a warehouse here."

"Well," he continued, "there were urban gardens here and squatters in here."

"Demonstrations usually began in this park, proceeding in this direction. The police would try to block off the marches before they got this far."

"At some point there would be a standoff. The cops formed a phalanx, a bottle would bounce off some cop's helmet or a window would crack somewhere. Clubs would swing, teargas canisters would fly.  Crowds would either flee or fight. Sometimes they built barricades". That was the general pattern for decades. 

We listened to recordings of old speeches and watched films of marches and riots spanning a quarter century.  

There were calls for disbanding the police department, or at very least keeping cops out of the Zone. Some advocated for secession.

Rather than marching towards the police, demonstrators declared parks and streets "liberated" and defended territory. 

The police retaliated by clearing out occupied spaces. Cops attacked the parks, raided the squats, and trampled the gardens. And a bottle would fly or a window would break and the batons were utilized as was teargas.

The frequency of demonstrations increased. Tensions grew. The crowds got larger and more adamant. The police became more brutal.

Those that lived in the Zone anticipated negotiations and compromise leading to increased autonomy. 

What came down from the Federales caught everyone off guard. 

Forever, it had been a bizarre ballet with discordant music. Without warning, the orchestra packed up and left. The dancers did not know what to do.

It was the Ides of March when the Zone was declared to be illegal. All businesses operating within the Zone were ordered to cease activities immediately. The government declared that those "without criminal intent" must vacate the Zone forthwith. 

Electricity to the Zone was cut off. Mail and trash was discontinued. Water was briefly cut, but that required shutting down a line that served a third of Chicago, so the water was soon back on.

Neighborhood meetings stretched into the early morning hours. A collective response was sought but consensus was never quite reached. 

The Police established Security Checkpoints on the main streets. Cars were allowed out, with a screening for outstanding warrants. Then, barriers were placed on all the secondary streets. Soon after, the alleys were blocked. Boulders were placed on the bike paths.

While persistent individuals on foot found ways through the blockade, normal travel and exchange was squashed. The Zone was under quarantine, embargo, siege.

People in the Zone tried using the internet to reach the outside world. Within days, most of the Zone lost that connection. Some would wander with their phones held up in the air, trying to catch a signal near the checkpoints. 

Police drones knocked phones from hands, smashing fingers as well as phones. After a few days, the electronic curtain solidified.  Even those weak signals around the parameters disappeared. The Zone was cut off.

Virtually no news seeped from the Zone. The only information that came in was from the police at the security checkpoints. Much of that information seemed tailored to cause panic. 

Around that time, the Federal government instituted the Universal Cell Phone & Internet Bill of Rights. No law has ever been more mislabeled than this. On the one hand, it assured every American access to the internet, but it bound everyone to the web. 

The governmental presumption is that anyone disconnected for long from the web had died. Dead people don't have bank accounts, health insurance or Social Security. Essentially, anyone remaining in the Zone became dead to the world.

The population of the Zone rapidly dwindled. Those with commitments to jobs and families left. Those with deeper attachments in the neighborhood or with reasons to be disconnected from the outside - such as outstanding warrants - stayed put. Things got really difficult, really quickly.

The Salvagers became key to survival in the Zone. They moved in and out of abandoned properties, determining what was useful. Salvagers oversaw deconstruction projects and coordinated smuggling operations that brought essentials into the Zone. 

To be a Salvager took a level of gumption and willfulness that only the truly committed can maintain. Initially, the Salvagers were a working committee, primarily of squatters. The crews transformed into something closer to a guild or a fraternity.

"Let's go for a walk," Abuelo suggested. 

Sure, why not? I looked around in case of mountain lions or other such. I shrugged my shoulders. I found my hat and coat. 

Abuelo threw some fruit and bread and cheese and such into a shoulder bag and picked up his walking cane. We headed out into the pre-morning darkness.

The weather had turned moderate. The walk was not cold. We entered a stairwell of one of the taller buildings in the Zone. On the roof, there was a fine sheltered space with a lawn and trees and a view of the eastern horizon. Some other locals also found their way to this promontory.  The sun rose in spectacular form. We ate breakfast on that rooftop.

"I have something to show you," Abuelo told me. He led me further through the trails of the Zone. 

We tend to think of city spaces as crowded places, however, if houses are scaled down and roads, offices, commercial buildings, parking lots, trains and such are eliminated, a is a city can be quite spacious and open.

That is the situation in the Zone. Probably three-quarters of the original buildings had been carefully deconstructed, with everything useful transformed. The cottage where I was recuperating was built entirely from repurposed materials. 

We walked another short distance and came to what had been a plaza long ago. There was a building with a clock tower but the face of the clock had been smashed. A pedestal stood unadorned in the center of the former plaza, with neither statuary nor plaque.

"So," Abuelo began. "The more political folks met all day and all night. They argued and fought over ideology and policy. They strived to make decisions by consensus."

"In theory, that meant that everyone came to a common agreement. In practice, there were really few things anyone agreed about. No one liked to be told what to do. No one wanted authority over them. As far as making practical decisions, well…" He trailed off and sat quietly for a while.

Then he continued his tale. "They abolished government, capitalism and money. All that was pretty simple since the government had abandoned the Zone. There was no business. Paper money had already been banned. We were cut off from electronic financial transactions. Those 'decisions' had really already been made for us."

"They went on to do away with sexism, racism, ageism and every other 'ism' they could think of. Then, they took on the issue of time."

"There was a May Day celebration here in the plaza with music and speeches followed by the great debate about time."

"Labor activists decried the old bosses and time clocks. The young and the old argued against being categorized by chronological age. Former prisoners did not want to 'do' time. Anarchists claimed that time was oppressive. New Agers declared time an illusion. Some suggested that if we stopped measuring time we could halt the aging process. Science fiction fans professed that by disconnecting from linear time, time traveling would be possible."

"So, on that May Day, while we partied below, a yahoo with a sledgehammer climbed the tower and destroyed the clock."

"The next day, calendars, day planners, and clocks were piled up and set aflame. Over the next couple of days, several individuals lost their wristwatches to zealots. The Zone was declared free of time for perpetuity."

"That was our last May Day in the Zone. Without a calendar there are no holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, and no yahrzeit candles lit for you when you are gone."

Abuelo balanced himself with his cane. "Somehow, even without clocks and calendars, we still age," he said with resignation and a touch of sadness. 

As we walked home, I asked Abuelo about the empty pedestal in the former plaza. "Oh," he said. "The nihilists wanted to build a monument to nothing, and they did."

This piece was published in the Fall 2023 issue of Fifth Estate. They left off the Ferlinghetti quote and may have made a minor change or two. They have a minor typo... Anyway, I can't complain. 

Fifth Estate is a GREAT publication that has been around since the 1960s. Consider subscribing or otherwise supporting their publishing efforts. Here is a link: https://www.fifthestate.org/