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South African Jewish journalist Jeremy Gordin murdered in home burglary at 70
(JTA) — Jeremy Gordin, one of South Africa’s most prominent journalists, wrote repeatedly in recent months about burglaries at his family’s Johannesburg home.
In a weekly column, he expressed dismay at the rampant levels of crime, growing urban decay and regular power outages endured by South Africans as a result of mismanagement and corruption. In one — titled “It is getting dark, too dark to see” after the Bob Dylan lyric — he addressed his two children, both in their twenties.
“I’m not suggesting that you’re going to find yourselves in desperate flight across your own border, that your graveyard may be ploughed up and strewn with garbage. But there comes a time when things are clearly falling apart,” he concluded.
He added, with the allusion to his Jewish identity clear to anyone familiar with Jewish history, “And you, who have your whole lives before you (as they say), need to consider seriously going to live elsewhere. We’ve been doing it for centuries, after all.”
On March 31, Gordin’s worst fears came to pass: He was murdered during a night robbery at his home. He was 70.
South African police described the incident as “a robbery gone wrong” but did not describe the exact cause of death. Seven people were arrested in Johannesburg two weeks later; one was driving a car that had been stolen from Gordin’s residence.
It was a tragic end for Gordin’s 70-year South African story, which, as with so many of his country’s Jews, intersected sharply with both the story of Israel and with the struggle of Black South Africans. As a lifelong journalist, he had at times headed both South Africa’s version of Playboy and its storied working-class Black tabloid, and also ran an initiative that used reporting to prove the innocence of people who were wrongfully imprisoned. He won the country’s annual top journalism prize multiple times.
Gordin was also a friend to many, frequently opening his home in Johannesburg’s Parkview neighborhood to guests. (This reporter was one of them during a stint in Johannesburg for Efe, the Spanish newspaper.)
Gordin was born in Pretoria in 1952, in a Jewish family with Lithuanian and Latvian origins. After a spell in South Vietnam, where his pharmacist father worked for the United States, the family returned to South Africa. Gordin went to high school in Brakpan, a town in the industrial east of the Great Johannesburg emblematic of the country’s white Afrikaner working class to which he often referred in his articles.
Gordin obtained a scholarship to study in Israel and completed a bachelor’s degree while playing rugby at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Back in his country, he did his military service volunteering for the South African Defence Force’s elite 1 Parachute Battalion, then started a prolific career in journalism.
In a breakout moment, he published a book in 1998 based on his conversations with the apartheid government’s death squad leader Eugen de Kock. Then incarcerated, de Kock candidly told Gordin about his deeds, but most importantly about those who had ordered his crimes, for which they were hardly questioned and never tried.
Gordin authored another canonical book of recent South Africa history, his biography of South Africa’s former president Jacob Zuma. Published in 2010, a year after Zuma took power, Gordin’s went beyond the usual assumptions about the Zulu former freedom fighter who learned how to read and write as an adult and was often underestimated by South Africa’s intellectual class.
Zuma left office in 2018 after a tenure marked by charges of corruption, cronyism and incompetence. Gordin’s biography has been criticized for being excessively indulgent with its subject, but it remains essential for understanding Zuma’s psychology and the motivations behind his actions.
In the early 1990s, after a period living in San Francisco, Gordin became the launch editor of Playboy South Africa. (He posed nude, with only a magazine as cover, to promote Playboy’s South Africa launch.) In a recent essay, Gordin recounted trying to land a then-unknown Charlize Theron for the magazine’s first cover. Invoking Yiddish terms, Gordin recalled journalists who had passed away, described the actress’s unembarrassed audition, and also managed to explore changing race and class dynamics in South Africa.
(Around this time, his friend Roy Isacowitz wrote in a remembrance published shortly after his death, the pair had successfully gotten a media executive censured for calling them “pushy little Jewboys” — though he said they accepted the description.)
Jeremy Gordin, at right, stands in front of covers of the Sun, the South African tabloid he oversaw for many years. (Courtesy Gordin family)
In 2012 he was named caretaker editor of the Daily Sun, a South African tabloid wildly popular among the Black working class. The paper lost much of its appeal after the death of its founder, larger-than-life Afrikaner media executive Deon du Plessis. Gordin brought back the pride, the punch and many of the readers to the paper. Or, as a headline made for him by his colleagues when he retired said, he “brought rock’n roll back to the Sun.”
The tabloid’s news largely relied on cases of violence, gossip and sex often featuring “tokoloshes,” fantastic creatures of popular African mythology whose encounters with the Sun’s readers were reported nationwide in the first person to its many correspondents. The readership and the paper’s foot soldiers were 100% Black. They collected the stories and sent them to the Johannesburg newsroom, where a group of experienced white male journalists including Gordin translated their texts in the characteristic Daily Sun language.
Gordin’s world couldn’t be further away from the one his newspaper reflected. But as his colleague at the paper Vincent Pienaar wrote after his death, “Not only did he understand the ethos of the publication, he embraced it.”
The tabloid took on serious stories, too. During his tenure as the paper’s editor the Daily Sun broke the story of the death at the hands of police officers of Mozambican immigrant taxi driver Mido Macias. A reader had filmed his gratuitously brutal arrest and sent it to the newspaper. Eight police officers involved in the victim’s death in custody were ultimately sentenced to 15 years in prison.
After leaving the Daily Sun, Gordin took on a role coordinating the Wits Justice Project, a journalism program focused on the plight of innocent or unfairly treated prisoners. In 2011 he helped secure the release of Fusi Mofokeng and Tshokolo Joseph Mokoena, who had served 19 years in prison for a crime they didn’t commit.
Gordin’s many friends say that his sympathy for the underdog was inextricable from the Jewish traditions and attitudes he inherited.
Although not religiously observant, Gordin peppered his articles with Jewish stories and jokes and Yiddish words and expressions. His sense of humor was strongly influenced by his Jewishness, as it was the combination of principle and humorous compassion that defined his personality. He was extremely well-read and voraciously curious, loved to share what he discovered with friends and indulged in sassy but harmless gossip both in private and in his articles.
Sometimes, his Jewish identity and his journalism entwined as when, in 2016, he reported from Johannesburg about the extradition hearing of a Hasidic rabbi, Eliezer Berland, wanted in Israel on rape charges. His final column, published the day before his death, explained, and condemned, the proposed right-wing judicial reforms in Israel.
Rabbi Sa’ar Shaked of the Beit Emanuel Progressive Synagogue in Johannesburg said Gordin as a friend and “wild spirit” who didd’t regularly attend services but was a repeat guest speaker at the synagogue to discuss weekly Torah portions and a variety of aspects of Jewish history and law.
Despite not attending services regularly, Gordin’s role in the community is described as “very active” by Wendy Ovens, a South African health professional in the NGO sector who served with him on the management committee of Beit Emanuel in 2011.
“His knowledge on Judaism and Jewish history was incredible,” Ovens said. She said his Jewish identity fueled his core mission: “He was community-minded and believed in justice and in what was right.”
Gordin is survived by his wife, Deborah Blake, and his children, Jake and Nina.
—
The post South African Jewish journalist Jeremy Gordin murdered in home burglary at 70 appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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Class assignment: Get to know your murdered Jewish neighbors
Last Sunday, my cousin, his cousin, their spouses and I arrived by rental car into a small city that until then had existed for us only as a blip on a genealogy chart: Saint-Quentin, in northeast France, where my cousins’ great-uncle Marcel had lived alongside, for a time, their grandfather.
We were here thanks to the determined efforts of a history teacher named Damien Bressolles, who since 2023 has been assigning his classes of high school seniors to construct written portraits of neighbors dragged out of France and deported to their deaths during the Holocaust.
Bressolles has done the math: Saint-Quentin had around 400 Jewish residents before the war, 87 of whom were deported. Only five returned from the camps.
The last Sunday of April is National Deportation Remembrance day in France, marked with marching band processions, flag rituals and hearty renditions of “La Marseillaise” and Resistance songs. This year in Saint-Quentin, the proceedings that began at the Warsaw Ghetto memorial by the River Somme included something new: a strong showing of Jews.
Bressolles and his students had given us the gift of getting to know our own families, and gathered us for a reunion. A couple dozen of us got to know one another over champagne at City Hall, where we toasted Bressoles, and then during a tour around town. We ended at the cemetery where Bressoles first spotted the deportation memorial that sparked his yearning to learn about his lost Jewish neighbors.
Many participants were descended from parents and grandparents who had left Saint-Quentin before it could betray them — but not everyone. Yvon Doukhan’s family survived in town because they were Algerian, and the Nazis didn’t recognize their name as Jewish. He showed us their house, just off the main square.
Alain-Sam Federowski’s father, a military officer, was protected, ironically, as a prisoner of war in Austria. His mother fled with other family members to the south of France and worked in melon fields. The Federowski family gravestone, which sits next to the deportation memorial pylon in the cemetery, is crammed with names, with a small blank spot on the lower left reserved for one more: Alain-Sam’s own.
Gilles Weiss is a magician and local son, who bought a house in Saint-Quentin to use as for storage midway between performances in Paris and Brussels, and discovered wood paneling with Hebrew carved in it. He determined that those panels had been salvaged from the deportation train cars, the desperate farewells of passengers to their loved ones.
Saint-Quentin is a quiet and dignified little city that, before Nazis controlled France, had been a hub for the textile industry, and therefore home to hundreds of Jews. They operated looms, sold merchandise, ran the shops that lined the Rue D’Isle, learned there and prayed there.
Now, just three Jewish families remain.
Restoring Jewish presence
Bressolles, who is in his mid-30s and hails from southern France, is not alone in asking young Europeans to confront the Holocaust person by person, story by reconstructed story, participating in bringing the dead to a shadow of life.
A family-led French project called Convoi 77 is working with teachers and students to identify and produce biographies of everyone on the last train from Drancy to Auschwitz in July 1944 — a train that carried some residents of Saint-Quentin.
But Bressolles’ project at Jean Bouin high school brings a distinctively local lens — one that Bressolles calls “historical, civic, and deeply human.” He and his students are restoring Jewish presence to a place from which it had been eradicated with intent. As elsewhere, Nazis destroyed the synagogue after the human purge.
Camille Sazerin, a 17-year-old participating in the school project, had no idea that Jews had been part of her community — never mind that they had so violently been torn away, sent to another country to be slaughtered. (Bressolles has brought some of his students to Auschwitz and Birkenau.) She became so committed to Bressoles’ project that she, alone among the students, spent the entire last day of spring break with us, after delivering a speech with a classmate at the ceremony by the Somme.
She hopes she’ll find a way to continue with the project after graduation, she told me. “I don’t want to finish,” she said.
Another student, Manon Jurczinsky, who is 18, wrote me in a testimonial translated into English about her research on the Goldblum family. “This project made me realize that these events could also happen in our own town and not only in large cities like Paris,” she said. “I also understood that wherever Jews went, they were hunted and persecuted, and most of them were deported to camps. Saint-Quentin showed us that this family had come here to ‘hide.’ They had jobs and a way to live, but it was not enough. Perhaps they could even have been part of our own family.”
Bressolles has focused the project on individual people, starting with the few dozen names on the cemetery memorial. He digs up an array of documents, such as birth, marriage and death records, then asks his students to read through and write up narratives based on the information.
Verifying and building on the student work, Bressolles puts together detailed dossiers on each of the people profiled, including historical context for their biographies. Eventually, he expects, their collective research will become a book.
Revived relatives
That effort has connected Bressolles to the descendant families, who get relief from the common burden of working alone to excavate the stories of murdered relatives. His files, gleaned from the French National Archives, go far deeper than merely facts and dates.
In reading the students’ historical portrait of Marcel Rapaport — my uncle’s uncle — my cousins discovered details they hadn’t known about his brother Max, who was their grandfather, and another brother, Jacob, who had also passed through Saint-Quentin.
Using naturalization records, the eight-page writeup details the intensive bureaucratic efforts that Marcel had to go through in order to bring his fiancée, Chaja Grynsztejn, over to France from Łódź, Poland — proof that the immigrant will have a source of financial support and not be a burden on the state, that they are not a criminal, and so on.
Saint-Quentin police records document pivotal moments during the Occupation — such as when Marcel had his Grammont 5555 radio confiscated in 1941 under a German law forbidding Jews from possessing receivers. Even the issuance and ongoing monitoring of the stars of David they were forced to wear as identification has been preserved in a local police file — as was the record of their arrest by local French authorities. Marcel and Chaja were on the first transport from Saint-Quentin to Auschwitz, and died there.
My cousin Gill Pratt rallied our little delegation here as part of his global project of repairing family ruptures. Starting during the COVID pandemic with questions to his mom during her isolation in a senior living facility, in the years since he has tracked down relatives in Poland and Brazil and brought us together to get to know one another.
They were lost to us, not because they were killed but because their parents chose to protect them from what they considered dangerous knowledge of their Jewish identity.
One of the relatives Gill found was Krzyzstof Goszcyzynska, who lives in Łódź, and had had no idea his grandfather was Jewish. That was Max Rapaport, who lived in Saint-Quentin for a time but at some point, for reasons unknown, moved back to Łódź, Europe’s textile manufacturing mothership.
“Talking to dead people is much easier. You can invent any characteristic for them,” reflected Gill about the unknowns. “It’s really wonderful because you see them; you discover documents about them and you make up a story about what they were like. They were always wonderful, never difficult.” (Gill, for the record, is always wonderful.)
A shared conversation
The corollary: talking to the living is hard, especially when all my years of high school and college French have collapsed in a rusty heap of disuse doused in Spanish I since learned.
Over lunch, I sat near Camille, the 17-year-old student, and did the thing that journalists do, while she, the dutiful and sharp student, answered my questions, with both of us switching back and forth between French and English to ensure we were understood.
How did the project make her feel? Sad. She described it as “very intense.”
Which families did she document? Apel and Goldblum.
What do you want to do professionally? Teach special ed, or work with survivors of domestic violence.
Then the student had questions for me.
How do Americans see the French? (A lesson on red states and blue states, and the Iraq War and Freedom Fries followed.) Are there things about French culture that I do not like? (The pop music, with an extremely specific exception for Serge Gainsbourg.)
Then, in politely coded English, she asked me: How do I approach political subjects, when so often people are not able to talk to one another about it? I suspected she was alluding to Israel and Gaza, and she confirmed that’s what she meant.
I responded in unexpectedly fluent, confident French. To translate: I do it by having conversations just like this one, where I speak to the person in front of me, respect their individual humanity, offer my perspective, and listen. I don’t take my views to social media. And, I said, more people need to do exactly this: talk, and listen. She nodded.
By the end of the day, dozens of us had joined a new WhatsApp group Bressolles created, called Communauté Juive Saint-Quentin. The hundreds who had lived here were gone, their stories and photos bare traces of their lives. The synagogue — which Weiss, the magician, designed, and where he has installed the carved wood from the deportation train — has to bring in people from nearby communities for the high holidays in order to have a minyan.
Nonetheless, from Paris and Lodz and California and New York here we briefly were as a collective presence in the city that had almost forgotten us, and revived in the name of the WhatsApp group: the Jewish community of Saint-Quentin.
The post Class assignment: Get to know your murdered Jewish neighbors appeared first on The Forward.
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Women aren’t equal citizens in Israel. But this week brought us closer than ever
On Monday, three women sat for an exam — and changed the course of Israeli history.
Never before have women been permitted to take the rabbinical exams issued by Israel’s Chief Rabbinate. But thanks to a groundbreaking Supreme Court ruling in July which deemed such exclusionary practices unlawful, three scholars were able to break this glass ceiling.
Yaara Widman Samuel, Ruth Agib and Rachel Tzaban’s victory against gender-based discrimination in Israeli society is momentous, an achievement rooted in many years of tireless advocacy, courageous leadership and unflinching determination. And yet, it is but one victory in a larger, ongoing battle for gender and religious equality in Israel, a battle waged over decades and across many fronts.
Recently, I had the privilege of witnessing another front in this battle at the Western Wall. There, I joined Women of the Wall, advocates for equal rights at the Kotel, for their Rosh Chodesh Adar service. It was an experience I will never forget.
Women of the Wall are engaged in an epic struggle for equality under Israeli law. For more than 37 years, they have gathered on Rosh Chodesh — the holiday that marks the start of each new Jewish month — to pray, sing, and read Torah at the Western Wall. Their mission is simple: to secure women’s right to pray at the Wall.
And for more than three decades, they have been met with anger, disdain, humiliation and denial. Most recently, Israel’s Knesset advanced a law that would prohibit non-Orthodox and egalitarian prayer at the Western Wall complex. The proposed law would grant Israel’s two chief rabbis exclusive authority over the Wall, allowing them to define prayer and what constitutes “desecration.” Under this law, those who “desecrate” prayer — such as women who wear tallit or tefillin, or mixed gender groups that gather for worship — could face up to seven years in prison.
And yet, like the women who fought for the right to take the Chief Rabbinate’s rabbinical exams, Women of the Wall has not been silenced or deterred. They know that the Western Wall is not the property of one denomination or community; it belongs to all Jewish people — regardless of gender, denomination, or affiliation.
Israel’s Declaration of Independence states that the country “will ensure complete equality of social and political rights to all its inhabitants irrespective of religion, race, or sex.” This promise must extend to the Western Wall as well. All Jewish women should be welcome at the Kotel, and all should feel safe to practice their Judaism in the manner they choose. These principles of equality and inclusion are essential to Israel’s democracy and religious identity.
But not all would agree.
When the Torah is contraband
On Rosh Chodesh Adar, we arrived at the entrance to the Wall a few minutes before 7 a.m. Even at that early hour, it was already crowded with worshippers.
The energy was charged and tense. As our group approached the security check, we were met with immediate hostility.
The security guards often harass and humiliate Women of the Wall participants. This day was no different: they asked us to remove our coats and demanded every bag be checked by hand. Purses were emptied, tallitot unfolded, even wallets were scrutinized — all in the name of preventing something “dangerous” from entering the plaza.
The “dangerous” items they were seeking were Torahs.
That morning, we carried a Torah proudly to expose the absurdity and injustice of the situation: how could our religion’s foundational document be treated as dangerous?
Security did not take kindly to our effort. Needless to say, the Torah was not allowed inside.
Shaken, we made our way toward the Wall. As we walked, we found ourselves surrounded by mobs of children, many apparently from traditional communities, who screamed hateful things, calling us heretics and shouting at us to leave. They mocked women wearing kippot and tallitot, pushing and shoving as they did.
Their contempt wasn’t surprising; similar scenes have unfolded many times, over many years. But it was shocking — and deeply disheartening.
When it came time to leave the plaza, many of us held hands, for solidarity, but also for safety. We circled back to the Kotel entrance, to read from the Torah, since we couldn’t do so at the Wall itself.
As we read, the commotion reached a crescendo. The noise was deafening, and we were increasingly hemmed in by rioting crowds. Meanwhile, the security guards — tasked with keeping the peace — not only allowed the agitators to continue, but targeted us. Ultimately, two of our prayer leaders were detained — simply because they were women reading Torah.
Not at the Wall. Outside the Wall.
Incredulously, these women — rather than the violent crowds around them — were deemed a “disturbance to public order.” rather than the violent rioters attacking them. And yet, even amidst this harassment, they bravely stood their ground. Until the moment they were detained, they prayed with sincerity, with strength, and — appropriately for the start of Adar, a month that ushers in joy — with audacious joy.
A continuing fight
After their release from police custody, the two women who had been arrested put out a video in which they said, defiantly, “We will be back!”
And indeed, in honor of Rosh Chodesh Iyyar they returned. While their Torah was seized yet again, they remained undeterred, declaring: “We will not give up our Jewish right. We held a Torah reading at the entrance to the Wall — and we will continue our just struggle.”
That struggle has been going on for decades, but has perhaps never been more important than today. The erosion of religious freedom in Israel may begin at the Wall — but it will not end there.
That is partly why the image of the three brave women taking the Chief Rabbinate’s exams resonated so deeply: Our rights are under threat, but at the same time, we have clear proof that progress is still possible. It’s a reminder that privileging one segment of the Jewish community at the expense of the rest will only divide us, within Israel and across the Diaspora. As Rabbi Mauricio Balter teaches, “A strong Israel is a democratic Israel. A faithful Israel is a pluralistic Israel.”
And so, we persist. We fight for ourselves, for our mothers and our grandmothers, and for our daughters and granddaughters. We do not give up this fight because religious equality matters. Because gender equality matters. And because Israel’s future as a democracy depends on it, for those who live there and for those who call it their spiritual home.
The post Women aren’t equal citizens in Israel. But this week brought us closer than ever appeared first on The Forward.
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The Israeli plant with a heavenly sweet fragrance
יאָרן לאַנג האָב איך דאָ אין ישׂראל געהערט רעדן וועגן די וווּנדער פֿון בעז. די וואָס זײַנען געקומען אַהער פֿון מזרח-אייראָפּע האָבן דערציילט וועגן אַ לעגענדאַרן לילאַ-בוים, וואָס גיט אַ ריח גן-עדן אינעם וווּנדער-שיינעם מאָנאַט מײַ. לעגענדאַר – ווײַל אין ישׂראל, צום באַוידערן, וואַקסט נישט קיין שום בעז. עס איז געוואָרן אַ מין פֿויגלמילך, אַ סימבאָל פֿונעם פֿאַרלוירענעם עבֿר פֿון יענע לענדער. אָט למשל, האָט דער כּסדר-בענקענדיקער פּאָעט בינעם העלער געשריבן אין אַ ליד אין 1966, ווען ער האָט שוין געוווינט אין תּל-אָבֿיבֿ:
די בײמער בליִען בלאָ בײַ מיר אין גאָרטן.
די בײמער בליִען בלאָ, און איך פֿאַרגעס,
אַז ערגעץ אין דער קינדהײט, ערגעץ דאָרטן,
האָט בלאָ אַזױ געבליט דער בעז.
די בײמער בליִען בלאָ. װי הײסן אָט די בײמער?
װאָס אַרט עס מיך? אַבי זײ בליִען בלאָ.
און אױף דער פֿרילינג־שפּראַך, אױף דער געהײמער,
איז בלאָ – די פֿרײד, װאָס איז נישטאָ.
די בײמער בליִען בלאָ, און איך װיל מער נישט װיסן
די שײַכות צװישן זײ און בלאָען בעז –
כאָטש בײדע בליִען בלאָ אַזױ פֿאַרביסן,
און בײדנס בליִונג איז אַ נס
פֿונעם בוך „דור און דויער“.
כאָטש דער בעז אַליין וואַקסט טאַקע נישט דאָ, איז זײַן נאָמען גאָר באַקאַנט, און אויף עבֿרית פֿאַרמאָגט ער גאָר אַ שיינעם נאָמען: לילך. זײַט מיר מוחל, אָבער איך מיין אַפֿילו אַז “לילך” (וואָס קומט פֿון לילאַ) איז נאָך שענער ווי „בעז“, און עס פֿאַרמאָגט אין זיך צוויי ווערטער: “לי” און “לך” („פֿאַר מיר“ און „פֿאַר דיר“). לכּבֿוד דעם לילך האָט מען געשריבן לידער אויך אויף עבֿרית. אָט למשל דאָס ליבע-ליד „פּרח הלילך“ (די בלום פֿונעם בעז): אורי אסף האָט עס געשריבן, און נורית הירש האָט צוגעפּאַסט איינע פֿון די שענסטע מעלאָדיעס. (אַגבֿ, נורית הירש האָט קאָמפּאָנירט הונדערטער העברעיִשע לידער, און אויך עטלעכע אויף ייִדיש, אַזוי ווי איציק מאַנגערס „מיט פֿאַרמאַכטע אויגן“. אויב ס’איז נישט גענוג, האָט חוה אלבערשטיין געזונגען דאָס ליד, און דאָ זעץ איך איבער דעם רעפֿרען:
מען ליבט זיך שטיל און נישט גראַנדיעז,
מיר ריידן נישט אַזוי ווי מענטשן
וואָס וועלן סײַ ווי סײַ גאָר נישט פֿאַרשטיין
ווי שיין און פֿײַן עס בליט נאָך אַלץ די בעז.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GEBMh5Kmyvw&list=RDGEBMh5Kmyvw&start_radio=1
אָבער כאָטש דער בעז וואַקסט נישט אין ישׂראל בליִען דאָ יעדן פֿרילינג, סוף אַפּריל־אָנהייב מײַ, די שיינע קליינע לילאַ-בלויע בלומען פֿון אזדרכת (איזדאַרעכעט), אויף ייִדיש — מעליע. אמת, איר נאָמען קלינגט נישט אַזוי שיין ווי „לילך“ ; עס זײַנען דאָ אַ סך פֿרויען און מיידעלעך וואָס הייסן „לילך“ און קיינער הייסט נישט אזדרכת. פֿון דעסט וועגן, דערמאָנט איר ריח דעם ריח פֿונעם בעז, און עס טראָגט זיך אין דער לופֿטן ווי אַ זיסן פּאַרפֿום. עס איז גאָר מעגלעך אַז אָט דעם בוים וואָס בינעם העלער האָט באַשריבן איז די אזדרכת, וואָס וואַקט אויך אַנטקעגן מײַן פֿענצטער.
ווי דער בעז געהערט צו די צפֿונדיקע לענדער, אַזוי איז אזדרכת אַ טראָפּישער-סובטראָפּישער בוים. איר וויסנשאַפֿטלעכער נאָמען איז Melia azedarach. „מעליאַ“ באַטײַטהאָניק, אָט דער ריח פֿון אירע בלומען, און azedarach איז אַ פּערסיש-אַראַבישער טערמין. אין צאַנינס ווערטערבוך הייסט עס דווקא אויף ייִדיש: „כינעזישע לילאַ“. סײַ ווי סײַ, האָבן די ביימער עולה געווען אין ארץ-ישׂראל שוין אינעם 16טן יאָרהונדערט, און געהערן צו די „ותיקים“, ד”ה זיי זײַנען מיט דער צײַט געוואָרן אַ טייל פֿונעם ארץ-ישׂראלדיקן פּייזאַזש.
די אזדרכת קאָן מען נישט איגנאָרירן, בפֿרט איצט, ווען ס׳איז באַדעקט מיט בלומען. דערנאָך וואַקסן די אזדרכת-פֿרוכטן: קליינע רונדיקע געלבע פּירות, וואָס זײַנען גיפֿטיק צום עסן אָבער די קינדער האָבן סײַ־ווי ליב זיי צו וואַרפֿן ווי קליינע באַלן. סוף זומער שטייט די אזדרכת אין שלכת, עס הייבן אָן צו פֿאַלן די בלעטער. אַ פּאָר חדשים ווינטערצײַט שטייט די אזדרכת גאָר נאַקעט, און דאַן, פּלוצעם, צעבליִען זיך די בלעטער און די בלומען.
אָבער אַפֿילו אין די ווינטער־חדשים בלײַבט נישט די אזדרכת אַליין: זי ציט צו זיך כּלערליי פֿייגל, וואָס עסן אירע פֿרוכטן. איינע פֿון די פֿייגל איז די דוכיפת (Hoopoe), וואָס צוליב איר פּרעכטיקער קרוין האָט זי אַ ייִדישן ייחוס: ווען דער פּאָעט חיים־נחמן ביאַליק האָט איבערגעזעצט זײַנע לידער אויף עבֿרית האָט ער די פֿראַזע „גאָלדענע פּאַווע“ איבערגעזעצט ווי „דוכיפת הזהב“, כאָטש דאָס וואָרט פֿאַר פּאַווע איז „טווס“. ווי די אזדרכת, איז די דוכיפת אייגנטלעך נישט קיין סאַברע, אָבער אויך זי איז שוין אַ ותיקה און ווערט אַפֿילו באַצייכנט ווי דער נאַציאָנאַלער פֿויגל.
די אזדרכת ציט אויך צו צוויי אַנדערע פֿייגל, וואָס געהערן צו די „אַרײַנדרינגענדיקע מינים“. די ערשטע איז די דררה, אַ מין גרינער פּאַפּוגײַ, וואָס פֿרעסט די פֿרוכטן פֿון אזדרכת מיט גרויס חשק און רעש – זי פּלאַפּלט אָן אַן אויפֿהער און מאַכט אַ גראַטשקע. כאָטש די דררה איז אַ שעדיקער, איז זי גאָר שיין און אַ ביסל קאָמיש דערצו — קאָקעטיש און „פֿאַרפּוצט“. דער צווייטער פֿויגל איז די מײַנע , אַ קליינער שוואַרצער פֿויגל מיט אַ געלבן שנאָבל, וואָס איז זייער קלוג, און קאָן נאָכמאַכן פֿאַרשיידענע שטימען פֿון פֿייגעלעך. די צרה איז אַז די מײַנע האָט נישט ליב קיין קאָנקורענץ, טרײַבט זי אַוועק די אַנדערע פֿייגל, און בפֿרט די אָרטיקע, וואס האָבן נעבעך ווייניק שׂכל און כּוח.
אַלע ישׂראלים זײַנען אויפֿגעבראַכט וועגן די מײַנעס, אָבער בײַ מיר דערוועקט זייער נאָמען אַ שמייכל, ווײַל עס דערמאָנט מיר אָן דעם וויץ מיט אַ פּוילישן ייִד וואָס זיצט אין אַ ווינער קאַפֿע. דער ייִד בעט דעם קעלנער אים געבן דאָס זעלבע וואָס זײַן שכן טרינקט, און דער קעלנער ענטפֿערט: “דאַס איזט זאַהנע!” (Sahne, דאָס דײַטשע וואָרט אויף שמאַנט). זאָגט דער ייִד (מיט זײַן פּוילישן אויסרייד): “דוס איז זאַאַנע, אָבער ווי איז מאַאַנע?”
ווי געזאָגט, אין די לאַנגע זומער חודשים ווערט די אזדרכת, צוליב אירע געלבע פֿרוכטן, אַ באַליבטע סבֿיבֿה פֿון די פֿאַרשיידענע פֿייגל. אַמאָל פּראָבירן זיי לעבן בשלום איינער מיטן אַנדערן, ווײַל עס זײַנען דאָך פֿאַראַן געונג פּירות פֿאַר אַלעמען. אָבער פֿון צײַט צו צײַט ווערט אַזאַ געשריי בײַם בוים, אַז עס גלוסט זיך פּשוט צו פֿאַרמאַכן דאָס פֿענצטער — כאָטש ס׳איז אַ שאָד צו פֿאַרפֿעלן דעם ריח גן־עדן!
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