Massada is not just a lone hill in a desert that has been unearthed. It is a code. It is a way of life. It is an essence!
I felt it from the beginning. The morning held its breath in a kind of "nature holiness", like a hymn. The dawn broke slowly broke through the darkness in the distance with its pale yellow light. The tents stood like trees on the treeless hill. The bare stone crags outlined the sky. From the "White Promontory" two thousand years of silence met my ears.

Wonder dinned in my heart and mind.
How many births and deaths
How much joy and how much sorrow
How much living in these 2000 years!
Can I even begin to grasp the immensity of
Day and night - 365 times 2000 -
730.000 days and nights lived by my ancestors
in peace and war
so that I could be brought forth
And my children after me
In this land of our fathers.



The Testimonial:

"Let us spare nothing but our provisions for they will be a testimonial that we were not subdued for want of necessaries but that according to our original resolution we preferred death before slavery. (Josephus - Eleazar of Masada)

The morning held its breath in a kind of "nature holiness", like a hymn. The dawn was slowly breaking the darkness in the distance with a pale yellow light; the tents stood like trees on the treeless hill. The stone crags outlined the sky, from the White Promontory, two thousand years of silence met our ears. Wonder dinned my heart and mind.
How had they ever picked this spot?
How did they ever get up here?
Water- where from?
And they built buildings "with corner towers sixty cubits high"! Who was the architect? Had they put out a public tender? Did Jonathan, the high priest, work in an office with compass and ruler and India ink with double steel pen? And the sun-photo plans for work on the site-- Who made them?
Who carried heavy bondstone after heavy bondstone and placed ponderous boulder on ponderous boulder?
Asses, oxen, sheep and camels. How many had slipped on their unaccustomed hooves into the wadi below?
The women! The children! The men! The guts of them!
The newspaperman's taperecorder was an anachronism. I heard him interviewing Danny, our archeologist. "Yes, we've found mosaic floors, a water heater, Roman style, monogrammed jugs and jugs without names, a Beth Kenesset, a pool, pieces of glass, stone fixtures... The inventory went on...
My small pick axe rang "skirk, skirk" the warning tone of metal against pottery. A spot of umber peeked out of the earth. I gently coaxed the jug handle out of hiding. There under a pile of hundreds of stones toppled from walls once straight, pressed day and night for one hundred forty-eight million nine hundred and twenty thousand hours. They had been lying in oblivion waiting for this moment when I would come and sift them out from under the dust of time. And who was I to come and find the testimonial? I, the daughter of Pincas, the son of Moses. I with my long generations behind me, belonging there because of them, was squatting on the floor of their storeroom under the constant sun, digging out the broken pieces of that life that had long ago started ours.
I lifted the shard up into the light.
Whose were the fingers that molded, the bands that raised, the feet that trudged? Men's souls beat within the clay.

And they built buildings "with corner towers sixty cubits high"! and who was the architect? Had they put out a public tender? Did Jonathan, the high priest, work in an office with compass, ruler and India ink with a double steel pen? and the sun photo plans for work on the site - Who made them?
Who carried heavy bondstone after heavy bondstone and placed ponderous boulder on ponderous boulder?
Asses, oxen, sheep and camels. How many had slipped on their unaccustomed hooves into the wadi below.
The women? the children? The men. The guts of them!
The newspaperman's taperecorder was an anachronism. I heard him interviewing Danny, our archologist" Yes, we've found mosaic floors, water heaters, Roman style, monogrammed jugs and jugs without names, a Beth Knesset, a pool, pieces of glass, stone fixtures.. the inventory went on...
My small pick axe rang "skirk skirk" the warning tone of metal against pottery. A spot of umber peeked out in the earth. I gently coaxed the jug handle out of hiding. There, under a pile of hundreds of stones toppled from walls once straight, pressed day and night for one hundred forty eight million nine hundred and twenty thousand hours it had been lying in oblivion waiting for this moment when I would come and sift it out from under the dust of time. And who was I to come and find the testimonial? I, the daughter of Pinchas, son of Moses, son of Eleazar, I with my long generations behind me, belonging there because of them was squating there on the floor of their storeroom under the constant sun digging out the broken pieces of that life that had long ago started ours.
I lifted the shard up into the light. Whose were the fingers that molded, the hands that lifted, the feet that trudged? Men's souls beat within the clay.
"Found a coin!" shrieked the girl behind me. I felt a streak of possessive jealousy. I wanted to have found the bright green circle, oxidized by winds and rains and storms and suns giving testimony by its existence and by its inscription, "Israel, third year of the Rebellion.
And now we are "Israel 48th year of the revival"
There was fascination in expecting the unexpected, compulsion in the search, adventure in the discovery and intimation in the revealed.
Would we find a graveyard where those killed before the siege were buried? Will the stones say, "Here lies.."
"Yochanan ben Arie who stood guard at the North Gate and after four days of ceaseless watching fell with a Roman arrow caught in his throat.
"Yael bat Gurie who met her death carrying water to her loved one on the night watch.
"and who died before his time at the age of eight because he forgot that children do not play in the shade of a tree in the heat of the day when catapults play havoc with the world.

We noticed a plant tendril incongruously competing for space with the inanimate bequests of long ago pushing its way stubbornly into life under the debris of this almost hermetically sealed Vault-of Ages, a ridiculous bit of weed, insisting on growing in this lunar-like geologic stratum, putting out little feelers, grasping at the tiniest irregularities on the smooth faces of the worn stones to help itself to its feet in its climb towards the sky, finding every crack, every empty space to creep forward into it, it endured, survived grew to eight thin inches in unnumbered years. Why must it grow? What for? How long?
The little weed was like a prayer there in the grit or better, like a blessing, asking for nothing just bearing witness to an indominatableness, to a birthright, to something that is forever.

Like a poem. A gaunt and tender poem. Being its own opposites in its very essence Its nature forged Tremendously strong and immeasurably weak Quite crazy An idiot thing on the floor of that "mausoleum" Seeking nothing but to live Why? Is the answer not in the broken jug? In the coin marked, "Israel" In the double walled edifice? Is the answer not in the charcoal heaps The unburnt log The papyrus shards The words that were written The thoughts that were believed. And is the answer not in the lines recorded out of the seed of memory? Is the answer not the man Eleazar The Jew In the man's idea "Handed down", as he said From his forefathers. Their natures having been forged Tremendously strong and immeasurably weak Nine hundred and sixty burned everything but The Testimonial Killing themselves there Near the weed now seen Now green Seeking but to live They died!.

"The soul of man continues," Eleazar said, "invisible to the eyes of man, as does God, Himself... for whatsoever it be which the soul touches, that lives and flourishes: from whatever it is removed, that withers away,"


This piece was sent to Prof. Yadin for approval. He returned it unapproved but unread.
The response to this rejection was:

Not right. Not right. Not right. I thought it over all week From all angles Including yours. No exception Because I was not seeking exception. It was merely courtesy That I sent it to you. Courtesy and because I had promised to give you veto power. Veto power. True! But not unread! Not - no thought Not - no judgment Not - absolutely not - unread. For it is not Any of those things mentioned in your "veto" rights: It is not "information accrued at Masada" It is not "human interest" It is not "camp life" It is the expression of a feeling Which actually was born As I sat in my library Reading "Josephus" And what he had written And Elazar had said. And as I read I thought of the feelings Undefined and Unformed That I felt as I sat On the floor of the warehouse That once was Alive. They fell into place The thoughts that I felt The meanings of things Even unto the fifth generation As it were My past And my present Commingled The aroma of the past The odor of the present. Information accrued? Facts? Figures? Things? Taken from Masada 1963? Rather Emotions Perceptions Sensitivities Rather A digging into My own archaic present A personal osmosis With our people On Massada On the 15th day of Nissan So interwoven So intersticed That who is to say What Masada 1963 Visited for two days Gave to me That I should feel It owns my words On the subject. Unopened Like the letter of a Rejected lover Unread Like a message Unwanted and Unclean. You surely cannot want to stifle What I have to say about Massada Or what Massada has to say through me. Not right. Not right. Not right.