This piece is part of our Wit­ness­ing series, which shares pieces from Israeli authors and authors in Israel, as well as the expe­ri­ences of Jew­ish writ­ers around the globe in the after­math of Octo­ber 7th.

It is crit­i­cal to under­stand his­to­ry not just through the books that will be writ­ten lat­er, but also through the first-hand tes­ti­monies and real-time account­ing of events as they occur. At Jew­ish Book Coun­cil, we under­stand the val­ue of these writ­ten tes­ti­mo­ni­als and of shar­ing these indi­vid­ual expe­ri­ences. It’s more impor­tant now than ever to give space to these voic­es and narratives.

At the Jerusalem Café


in the dias­po­ra of Asheville, North Carolina, 

a man sit­ting out­doors two tables over 

stares at me with a small smile. 


All the oth­er din­ers have disappeared

inside to escape the heavy humid heat.

My water glass sweats in front of me.


My damp curls stick to my cheek.

The man con­tin­ues to stare.

Do you speak Ara­bic?” he final­ly calls.


I squint into his unblink­ing eyes.

No one has ever asked me this before.

Do you speak Span­ish? Do you speak Ital­ian? 


I have heard many times 

but nev­er Do you speak Arabic?

His face is so open with hope, 


I am almost sor­ry to dis­ap­point him.

No,” I reply but the man does not care

for my answer. No?” He tilts his head


and stud­ies me, a puz­zle to fig­ure out. 

You are not Ara­bic?” He gives me a chance

to change my mind. No,” I repeat, my hand


fly­ing to the six-point­ed star hang­ing by a thread

around my neck. I am Jew­ish.” I say, my face

heat­ing up from the sun which has turned the corner


and is now beat­ing down on us both.

Ah!” His smile broad­ens. I am from Bethlehem.”

Ah!” I smile as well. I have been there. 


It is beau­ti­ful.” We beam at each other

until our food arrives and we both lift triangles

of pita bread to dig in, he scoop­ing up hummus,


me dip­ping into baba ghanoush.

I fin­ish first, pay my bill, stand, and stop

at his table. I speak one word of Arabic,”


I tell him. Salaam.” I offer my hand which he takes,

his dark eyes grow­ing moist. Shalom,” he says

and my dark eyes fill, too. Peace,” we break 


out in uni­son. Peace, peace, peace.” He stands, 

squeezes my hand and togeth­er we bow our heads

in prayer, a gen­tle breeze out of nowhere bless­ing us both.


The views and opin­ions expressed above are those of the author, based on their obser­va­tions and experiences.

Sup­port the work of Jew­ish Book Coun­cil and become a mem­ber today.

Lesléa New­man has cre­at­ed 85 books for read­ers of all ages includ­ing the mem­oirs-in-verse, I Car­ry My Moth­er and I Wish My Father; the nov­el-in-verse, Octo­ber Mourn­ing: A Song for Matthew Shep­ard; the short sto­ry col­lec­tion, A Let­ter to Har­vey Milk, and the children’s books, The Bab­ka Sis­ters; Wel­com­ing Eli­jah: A Passover Tale With A Tail; Ket­zel, The Cat Who Com­posed; and Joy­ful Song: A Nam­ing Sto­ry. Her lit­er­ary award include two Nation­al Jew­ish Book Awards, the Syd­ney Tay­lor Body-of-Work Award, a Nation­al Endow­ment for the Arts Poet­ry Fel­low­ship, and the Mass­a­chu­setts Book Award. From 2008 — 2010, she served as the poet lau­re­ate of Northamp­ton, MA.