children; we made our hearts as bare and hard and empty as the
rock itself; good students, emblematic Jew s; pride was
prophecy. N early two thousand years later w e’d take Palestine
back, our hearts burned bare, a collective heart chastened by
the fire o f the crematoria; empty, hard. Pride, the euphemism
for the emotions that drove us to kill ourselves in a mass
suicide at Massada, the nationalist euphemism, was simple
obedience. We knew the meaning o f the H oly Books, the
stories o f His love, the narrative details o f His omnipresent
embrace; His wrath, orgasmic, a graphic, calculating
treachery. Freedom meant escape from Him; bolting into
death; a desperate, determined run from His tormenting love;
the Romans were His surrogates, the agents o f slavery and
rape, puppets on the divine string. It was the play within the
play; they too suffered; He loved them too; they too were
children o f God; He toyed with them too; but we were
D addy’s favorite girl. We had the holy scrolls; and a
synagogue that faced towards Jerusalem, His city, cruel as is
befitting; perpetual murder, as is befitting. The suicide at
Massada was us, His best children, formed by His perfect
love, surrendering: to Him. Annihilation is how I will love
them; He loved loving; the freedom for us was the end o f the
affair, finally dead. Yeah, we defied the Romans, a righteous
suicide it seemed; but that was barely the point; we weren’t
prepared to have them on top, we belonged to Him.
Everything was hidden under the floor o f a cell that we had
sealed off; to protect the holy scrolls from Roman desecration;
to protect the synagogue from Roman desecration; we kept
His artifacts pure and hidden, the signs and symbols o f His
love; we died, staying faithful; only Daddy gets to hurt us bad;
only Daddy gets to put His thing there. First we burned
everything we had, food, clothes, everything; we gathered it
all and we burned it. Then ten men were picked by lot and they
slit the throats o f everyone else. Then one man was chosen by
lot and he slit the throats o f the other nine, then his own. I have
no doubt that he did. There were nearly a thousand o f us; nine
hundred and sixty; men, women, children; proud; obedient to
God. There was discipline and calm, a sadness, a quiet
patience, a tense but quiet waiting for slaughter, like at night,
how a child stays awake, waiting, there is a stunning courage,
she does not run, she does not die o f fear. Some were afraid
and they were held down and forced, o f course; it had to be. It
was by family, mostly. A husband lay with his wife and
children, restrained them, their throats were slit first, then his,
he held them down, tenderly or not, and then he bared his
throat, deluded, thinking it was manly, and there was blood,
the w ay God likes it. There were some w idow s, some
