I Am a Militant Man: a poem by Joshua Melamed

Posted on November 23, 2011 by

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I am a militant man, because I have been conditioned to be a militant man.

I never asked to have the urge to wield a weapon, to want to delve into battle, to gallop terribly against my fellow man.

I was born immaculate, so innocent, still, I was turned fierce and unyielding.

I am a Jew and I have existed since the dawn of my inception in Ur Kasdim.

I am the Christ-killer, the evil money lender, the red-hatted merchant scurrying about. I am the fortunate Dhimmi man, waiting patiently for my Pogrom to occur. My body was burned six million times,

but at least they killed me first.

In ‘48 I retrieved my land, that sliver along the sea. In addition they gave me a desert and then I had my country.

Right away they fought against me joyously, so eagerly leaving their homes.

Through tales of libel were justified all their bloodthirsty drones.

But, they understood not, that:

I am the Christ-killer, the evil money lender, the red-hatted merchant scurrying about. I am the fortunate Dhimmi man, waiting patiently for my Pogrom to occur. My body was burned six million times,

but at least they killed me first.

And so I raised my bloodied fist, reveling triumphantly in their shameful misery. And in my heart I felt, no joy.

Again and again and again and again they soon struggled to drive me into the sea. Kindly they would arouse my wrath, compelling me to be. Always persistently reminding me

I am the Christ-killer, the evil money lender, the red-hatted merchant scurrying about. I am the fortunate Dhimmi man, waiting patiently for my Pogrom to occur. My body was burned six million times,

but at least they killed me first.

You have perverted me, compelling me to be the man I am. I asked not to be this way, wished not to feel the way I do. I was in fact conditioned to be this way by you. The time is here and the truth is that, I will not rise above at all. I will hold my place, maintain my position, yearning to appall.

I am the Christ-killer, the evil money lender, the red-hatted merchant scurrying about. I am the fortunate Dhimmi man, waiting patiently for my Pogrom to occur. My body was burned six million times,

but at least they killed me first.

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Posted in: Israel, Open Letters