Wormwood, and the Unanswered Body |
I was there not long after the explosion.
Not in the first hours, when everything was still unnamed, when even those closest did not yet understood what had happened. But soon enough for the air to carry something that could not be seen and could not be refused. The land was quiet, but not with peace. It was not even silence. It was as if matter itself had withdrawn its trust.
Years later, I encountered the same fracture again – far from the fields and forests – in the sterile brightness of hospital rooms in Israel. Orthodox patients, some of them, their bodies marked not only by visible wounds but by something working from within, without image, without contour. You could speak to them, pray with them, hold a hand. But the body itself no longer answered as one expects.
The body does not cry out when it collapses in this way. It withdraws. Cell by cell. Word by word.
Since then, one name has remained: Chernobyl.
People say it means wormwood. In Russian and Ukrainian, it refers to a dark weed, a plant of the artemisia family: Chernobyl – Чернобыль / Чорнобиль – טשערנאָביל. And inevitably, the association arises with the Book of Revelation – the falling star called Wormwood, turning waters bitter.
But catastrophe is not the execution of a script. Humans do not “recognize prophecy fulfilled.” They reach, rather, for older words when language fails them. They borrow echoes.
What happened there was not only an explosion. It was a moment when matter itself ceased to be trustworthy.
Water, air, soil – the elements that sustain life – became uncertain. Invisible. The body, which depends on them, entered into doubt with its own environment. And perhaps more deeply still: the body entered into doubt with itself.
It is from within that space that I wrote this Yiddish poem: Times of war – a balagan of bodies and voices/מ-לחמה, בשר און מן־מן
מלחמה־צײַטן ־ אַ באַלאַגאַן פֿון גופֿים און געשרײַ,קריג־לידער שמעקן מיט אַ שװאַכן טעם פֿון ליבשאַפֿט.מען זאָגט: דאָס איז אַלט־נײַ, אַ חידושאָבער דאָס בלוּט װײַזט און שרײַט אַרוּם.
Times of war – a chaos of bodies and cries,war-songs carry a faint taste of love.They say: old-new, a strange novelty,but the blood shows itself and cries out.
בשר איז דאָ ־ בשר ודם, ניט קײַן רוח־בלאָזקײַן גײַסט לעבט אָן אַ גוף, קײַן נשמה אָן אַ הײַם.אַזױ האָט מען אַלץ געװוּסט ־געשריבענע תורה מיט געשפּראַכענע משנה,
Flesh is here – flesh and blood, not spirit alone;no spirit lives without a body, no soul without a home.So it has always been known –the Written Torah with the spoken Mishnah,
אַז אַלע נשמה װױנט אין אַ גוף װי אין אַ מקום.אָפֿט פֿאַרמישט׳ס זיך ־ בשר מיט רוח, תאװה מיט קדושה,ס׳װאַקסט אַ שאָד, אַ שפּאַלט אין מענטשנס פֿאַרשטאַנד ־קײַנע מלאכים זײַנען מיר ניט,
each soul dwelling in a body as in a place.Often it blurs – flesh and spirit, desire and holiness;a fracture grows in human understanding –we are no angels,
נאָר מענטשן, געבױט און געמוּטשעט פֿון פֿראַגעס.קױשקײַט און טהרה, װי אַ חלום, אַ סיפּור פֿון רײַנקײַטעלויים ־ קינדער פֿון ליכט, מיט ברענענדיקע אױגן ־און דעם אונטער: אַ קערפּר בדעקעט און באַגירט,
only humans, built and worn by questions.Chastity and purity – a dream, a tale of cleanness;children of light, with burning eyes –and beneath: a body covered, yet desiring,
אַ שילד טראָגט די הנאה.כ׳געדענק אַ רב צװישן מאָנאַכן ־ שטיל, פֿאַראינטריגירט,ער רעדט פֿון אַ לאַם צעטײלט צװישן אַלע.זײ קוּקן אױף ברױט און װײַן װי אױף סודותדיקע סוּבסטאַנצן
A shield that carries pleasure.I remember a rabbi among monks – quiet, intrigued;he spoke of a lamb divided among all.They looked at bread and wine as hidden substances,
און מרן זוּכט װערטער צװישן אוכל און באַטײַט.שירײם בײַם צדיקס טיש, מיט איבעריקע פֿון דער סעודהפֿאַרברענגען, אַ קרײַז פֿון חברים, אורחים און שטימעםצי׳ז ניט אױכעט די שאלה אַ גוף צו טײלן,
and the master searched for words between food and meaning.Remnants at a righteous table, leftovers of a meal,a circle of friends, guests, and voices –is this not also the question: to divide a body,
אַ בשורה פֿון בשר, געבײַ, פּגרים?לא תנאף ־ זאָגט דער קול, דאָך די נאָז ניסט און ברענט,כּעס און תּאװה שלאָגן װי צוזאַמען און אײַנציקגאָט אַלײן, װײנט אָדער ניסט
a message of flesh – building, corpses?“Do not commit adultery,” says the voice – yet the body burns;anger and desire strike together, as one.God Himself weeps – or sneezes –
און ליבשאַפֿט װערט פֿאַרקױפֿט.די נעצן זײַנען אָפֿן, טירן אָן שלאָסגופֿים װערן אַ סחורה, נשמות בלײַבן שװאַךאַלע זוּכן אַ װעג צו לוסט ־ מיט כּלערלײ חוכמות
And love is sold.Nets are open, doors without locks;bodies become merchandise, souls grow weak.All seek a path to lust – with clever turns,
װי קינדער שפּילן מיט פֿײַער און פֿאַרנאַרוּנג.מין ־ מײנט מען, כאָטש טײַטשט מער?פֿון װאַרענט? װער ביסטו? װאָס ביסטו, װער װערסטו?מן הו ־ אין מדבר, די פֿראַגע געדױרט
Like children playing with fire and illusion.Kind – one says – but does it mean more?From where? Who are you? What are you becoming?Man hu – in the desert, the question remains,
אַ ברױט פֿון חקירה.בשר איז נאָר אַ גוּטע בשורה ־ פֿלײַשיק, אַ שמחה פֿון לעבןניט נאָר אכילה אין געװעלבן.אין קידושין װערן די גופֿים אַ חלק פֿונעם ברית עולם
A bread of inquiry.Flesh is a good message – a living joy,not merely eating in closed halls.In covenant, bodies become part of an eternal bond,
אַ לשון פֿון אני־מאמין.אין אַ מצב מלחמה ־ אַ חיה־גן נאָכ׳ן מבולפּאַליטיקער, רבונים, פּריסטער, אנשי דת, גענעראַלןפֿאַרבלאָנדזשעטע אין לױטערע קאַשעס,
a language of “I believe.”In war – a beast-garden after the flood:politicians, rabbis, priests, men of religion, generals,lost in their own confusions,
פֿארלירן דעם דרך־הארץ כּך־היה… כּך־וכּךאון אַ תיקון װאַרט געדולדיק אױף מענטשלעכע תשובות.אַ תיקון? ניט צו ריכטן נאָר צו הײלןניט צו באַלײדיקן, נאָר צו פֿאַרשטײן
Lose the way of decency – thus it was… thus it goes –and repair waits for human response.Repair? Not to judge, but to heal;not to wound, but to understand.
אַ שאלה איז געזיגעלט אין יעדעם גוף פֿון אמתאון אַ דרך װױנט אין אַ נעסט מיטליבשאַפֿט.מן־מין ־ אַ קלאַנג צװישן װער און װאָס,אַ װעג צװישן אָנהײב און ציל.
A question is sealed in every living body of truth,and a path nests within compassion.Man–min – a sound between who and what,a path between beginning and end.
װאוּהין גײן מיר ־ לאן ומין, פֿון װאַרענט?פֿרעגט בהדרגה דער שטילער קולאון די גופֿים ענטפֿערן מיט פֿרישע כּוחות און פֿאַרװוּנדערוּנג.
Where do we go – whither, of what kind, from where?Asks the quiet voice, slowly.And the bodies answerwith renewed strength – and wonder.
The poem does not explain Chernobyl. It does not interpret it. But it moves within the same fracture.
Radiation is invisible. It does not wound like fire or iron. It inhabits. It alters from within. In that sense, it reveals something that was always there: the body is not a certainty. It is a dwelling – a מקום – where life and its undoing are negotiated.
The confusion between flesh and spirit, between desire and holiness, does not begin in catastrophe. But catastrophe exposes it. It strips away the illusion that one could live purely in one register — spiritual or material. The body refuses that division.
I recall again the rabbi among monks. The lamb divided. Bread and wine observed, but not shared in meaning. No hostility. Yet a distance that words could not cross. The town is the birthplace of a renowned Hasidic dynasty founded by Grand Rabbi Menachem Nachum Twersky, known by his work as the Meor Einayim (מאור עיניים), a disciple of the Baal Shem Tov and the Maggid of Mezritch, who published one of the first works of Hasidic thought.
Chernobyl was also such a distance – between knowledge and what had been unleashed, between language and reality, between care and comprehension.
And still, the poem does not end in that distance.
It turns – quietly – toward the possibility of a repair – תיקון. Not a judgment. Not any explanation. Something slower, more demanding: to remain with the question.
A question sealed in the body.
That may be the last place where truth still dwells.