Daily Archives: February 27, 2019

Speculations on what happened to the adopted Yemeni children by Jay Gutman

I am about to give away a scoop. Some would say drop an H-bomb, given the history and nature of the scandal. But since no one really pays attention to all the other stuff I do, no one will pay attention to this one.

Part I

In the 1950s and 1960s and beyond, 1,053, mainly Israeli children of Yemeni descent, disappeared. The parents were told that the infant died. The parents were not given the child for burial and were sent home from the hospital. No death certificates were given.

The parents were struck with grief and incomprehension. Most parents being recent arrivals to Israel, they thought it was customary in Israel for the government or the hospital to bury stillborn or dead children, when the custom would be the burial by family with all the traditions that go with it. Some mothers and fathers had their doubts, and thought mistakes were made, as the child was born healthy. Some husbands even accused their wives of killing the baby because they had suspicions it was an adulterous baby.

yemeni001_400Over the years, grief struck families more or less organized, and protests were held in 1994, led by a Yemeni rabbi. The protests turned violent, led to the exchange of gunfire, one protestor was killed by snipers, and a dozen protestors, including the rabbi, were sent for lengthy terms in jail. The rabbi got 8 years.

5 Yemeni children resurfaced out of the 1,053, adopted by Ashkenazi families, whose foster families were specifically told not to tell their Yemeni child that he or she was an adopted child. It was mostly male babies who were given up for adoption. Another 60 or so are said to have been found, with question marks on the rest.

Where did the Yemeni children go? Here’s the scoop. They were adopted by Arab families from the Middle East. You heard me, Arab families from the Middle East. And I am one of them.

To avoid raising suspicions, the children were given up for adoption to Arab Muslim or Christian families from the Middle East who were expats living in Europe or North America or elsewhere, mostly diplomats. Adoption is illegal in all Muslim countries, and the Arab families’ extended families were to be kept in the dark about the adoption as adoption is illegal. So the children were given up for adoption to Arab expat families in Europe, North America, South America, who would tell their families back home that they had been pregnant.

Why Yemeni children? Because physically Yemeni children have the same complexion as Arabs from the Middle East, the Yemeni children could easily be confused as being the biological children of the Arab families.

The Yemeni children would often grow up as outcasts in their foster families from the Middle East, anywhere from Mauritania to Morocco to Algeria to Tunisia to Libya, Egypt or Jordan, Lebanon or Syria. Saudi Arabia tended to be avoided because Saudi Arabian diplomats tend to be posted for lengthy amount of periods abroad, never to move back to Saudi Arabia.

The rest of the Article, HERE!

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The Concert by Jan Sand

Impatiently the clock’s baton
Tconcer001aps the music to start up.
The orchestra is tuning.
I’ve heard a growling stegodon,
The fluting zip of positron,
The whine of humming magnetron,
A loon’s tragic crooning.
The melody’s been fugitive,
The theme wholly evasive.
The direction’s inconclusive.
Anticipations are abrasive..
The composer is a mystery,
With a foggy, misty history
Evoking mass confusion
As to the true conclusion.
The orchestra should soon commence.
The piece, of course, will be immense.
And, hopefully, it will make sense,
For up to now the tune-up has been looney.
The clash of motivations
With experimentations
Is amorphous, a shapeless hapless discord, a din.
The band is ready, waiting,
The baton anticipating.
The time has come for the music to begin.

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Ovi means Door #X

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by | February 27, 2019 · 8:19 pm

EARTH AT RISK XV (Ovi Posters)

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Worming 908 by Thanos Kalamidas

For more Worming, HERE!

For more Ovi Cartoons, HERE!

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Long plot to honor by Jay Gutman

Go on foot down to honor
Conform folks, took comfort
Shot of Grog, shot of Grog
Blood scorch, hot blood

Go to nooks, nosh food
Follow mood, follow world top-bottom
Blow songs, do foxtrot
Roost for folks, go on lots

Don’t long to hold
Long to go now
Won’t hold no long

Now on long plot
No moons to loss
Honor won’t show to no bonds

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Offering by Abigail George

(for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)

I think of high school girls. Perfect days,

    and prefects, playing first team hockey,
    art and the debating team. Being on the
    Quiz team, appearing in the newspaper. Saying
    things before thinking about what you
were about to say. I think of how composed
sao01_400 the silent twig and the miracle of Hamlet
was. How stranded and ambushed I felt
sometimes. The useless loneliness of being
abandoned, swimming in the pool and galas.
Being let down by a beautiful mother and
a beautiful sister who followed in our mother’s
footsteps. I remember how nobody was
by my side. How I felt I was losing my
mind. That I was in hell. How I was cast out into
the abyss. How sometimes school felt like
hell and what the other girls’ said to me.
How I felt that I was losing the fight so I
began to eat less and less. I think of the
introspective branch. The sun drifting into
view. I sigh when I think of high school
girls. The vanity that they have. That they
think will carry them through all the days
of their lives. The day is beautiful, like youth.
I’m a totally novel woman now. The pills
make me forget. Yes, those sleeping pills
that leave a funny aftertaste in my mouth at
the back of my throat. Later it rains in the
evening. At first it spits, then it pours.

The fractured genius wind bangs the window

in the bathroom shut. My writing-life came
from teachers, and high school girls with pain
deep in their eyes. And the stars like our
bodies turn to dust. My sister just wants to
leave on a jet plane. She’s Prague. Found
the better exit out to India, Thailand, Bali, New
York. She wants the perfect life but she
doesn’t want to work, or pray for it. I’ve
noticed this. That history has nothing to say
about Sylvia Plath’s brother. I think of Nietzsche

and religion. I think of how much I love her, and
how we live under the same sun. How the
grand clouds rule us, perfect us when we

hear the voice of our mother, and I think of
the smell of wild rain in her hair, in her
show of tears. The winter scarf around her neck
like a hangman’s noose. I look at her face.

Happy lips. Red. Her words spelling-out an emergency service.
And I think to myself that if she had a
boyfriend he would bring her flowers.

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Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
“All about my mother” & “Brother Wolf and Sister Wren”
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!

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