One Monday, my husband and I went to Tel Aviv. He had a meeting and I had things to read so I decided to travel with him from Jerusalem to keep him company. Then we went to dinner.
While he was in his meeting, I sat in a cafe outside the building, reading my book and drinking coffee. The couple at the table next to me left. A hooded crow flew down and perched on the back of the seat next to the table. His eyes moved back and forth, scanning, looking at me and looking at the table of half eaten food, coffee cups and jelly donuts with their red jam and white sugar. This went on for several minutes, back and forth, head turning, eye aimed right at me, and then at the food. Then he hopped off the chair onto the pavement, hopped around a bit, and flew off.
Across the plaza were two pillars. On top of one stood a young boy. On top of the other stood a girl. They were half facing each other. A few minutes later, another hooded crow flew into the plaza, this time landing on the head of the boy. He looked around and flew off.
Behind the pillars were three flag poles. The one nearest to me and most easily visible had a flag of Japan, land of the rising sun. A third crow flew into the plaza and perched on top of the pole flying the Japanese flag, a large red ball on a white background, and then left.
Dusk was falling. Behind the flag poles was a park with large dark trees with broad canopies, a rarity in Israel. Minutes went by without a crow, but then I saw a lone crow fly from one tree to another in the shadows of the park. I wondered about the connections between the four birds, but could see nothing.
By that point it was getting too dark to read so I went into the lobby of the building. The lobby was filled with several large statues of modern art. It has been a while since I’ve sat in the lobby of a building in the business district. I sat watching the tailored suits and felt as if I missed that world slightly. For me, it represents a path once taken and abandoned I feel a certain sadness. I miss the feeling of competence and control, but there is something about that world that has always seemed false. Some part of me is like a raven wanting to fly in and peck away at all the pretenses.
What struck me at first was the contrast between self-possessed men and women walking through the lobby in their tailored suits and the statues, which all seemed to be symbols of vulnerability: a mother with a child, two men wrestling, two large vases on a coffee table in the shape of tear drops or wombs, a beam sticking out from the mezzanine above with a maiden perched on the end as if walking the plank, and an odd looking sculpture that looked like a sea anemone from the depths of the sea where only bathyspheres go.
Then I got up and started walking around. There were many other sculptures. Next to the sea anemone was a pair of outstretched arms holding a bronze expanse and a striving arm grasping at a golden ball. Further back in the lobby was a bronze sculpture that looked part mushroom and part grinding pestle. And way in the back was a semi-circle of sculptures. One of these looked like the squat big beaked raven sometimes found on top of totem poles.
It was titled, “HaHitpartzut HaRishonah”, the first break-out. And then it hit me, the sculptures weren’t sculptures of vulnerability, but of different kinds of power. The maiden on the plank was also the mermaid leading sailors to safety or Athena leading soldiers to battle. The mother and child were the power of nurturing, The vases were the power of tears and creativity. The men wrestling were now clearly Jacob wrestling with an angel, symbols of our search for blessing from above and justice here below. The sea anemone was the power of originality and invention; the arms outstretched, the power of inclusion; the arms reaching for the golden ball, the power of striving and persistence.
The hooded crows had also been pointing out power: food: the power of sustenance and meeting basic needs; the pavement stones of the plaza: the power of groundedness; the boy and girl: the power of relationships; the flag poles: the power of society, politics and nations; the woods beyond: the power of the unconscious.
I have always feared that strength would crowd out love and increase the risk of evil. What all of these forms of power around me helped me see was that there are many, many different kinds of power. The evil associated with power does not lie in power itself, but in using the wrong sort of power in the wrong situation. Only power misplaced oppresses and destroys. Power rightly applied heals and transforms. Ultimately, it is our choice of power that creates either evil or good.
Rape convinced me that I lost all power. I was told by detectives, crisis hotline counsellors, a therapist, and even the director of a rape crisis center what an incredible job I did defending myself. And yet I could not stop rape. For years I couldn’t conceive of a way that I could regain a belief in the effectiveness of my own actions.
The ravens tell me otherwise. Powerlessness was a lie. They showed me that the only power rape took from me was physical power. On a street in Tel-Aviv I learned that our survival and creativity is never dependent on only one type of power. Take one away from us, and there are still so many others to try.
Today, I gave a student of mine a little pamphlet I received a number of years ago called “Megillat HaShoah” The Holocaust Megillah. I explained to her how uncomfortable I am about the ritualization of something that is so personal — almost all my uncles, aunts, cousins and two grandparents from Trochenbrod/Lozhist and Luck (Lutzk) were killed in the Shoah (Holocaust). My parents barely made it out alive, staying one step ahead of the Nazis for the better part of the war.
