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‘Y todo esto es mío y no lo es, y parezco judía y no lo parezco’ Margo Glantz, LAS GENEALOGÍAS   ‘So everything is mine and yet it isn’t, and I look Jewish and I don’t’ Margo Glantz, THE FAMILY TREE   FACES IN MY FACE It’s dawn, it’s October, it’s Berlin’s Tegel Airport, and I’m en route again to some European city I’ve got a cup of black coffee balanced in one hand while the other is pulling a suitcase, and since there’s no escalator, I get into the lift Riding up with me is a couple dressed for vacation Ripped jeans, polo shirts, tennis shoes, two massive suitcases He’s got a pirate bandana tied around his head I’m silent as the three of us ascend The pirate turns to me and, faintly smiling, asks if I’m Hebrew You are Hebrew, he says, like that, in English, taking it for granted that I am An odd way of asking if I’m Jewish or if I’m Israeli, conflating religious and national identity with the language Hebrew? I avoid the eyes of the pirate, who must speak Hebrew himself Why? I say, hearing the irritation in my tone, my voice breaking out in hives Do I look like I am? The pirate hesitates a moment, the smile still plastered on his face as he listens to me say that maybe my face looks Mediterranean (But what does it mean to be or look Mediterranean, I wonder now as I write?) I’ve spent years explaining that I’m not French Italian Greek Egyptian Spanish Turkish, that I’m not even entirely Palestinian, however much, the one time I travelled to Palestine, the trained eye of the Israeli security forces instantly detected my Palestinian origins Of course, Mediterranean, the pirate’s girlfriend says in a conciliatory tone, attempting to rescue him from his shipwreck But he smiles with absolute confidence and states it’s not just my face We Hebrews are very lazy, he says, you can spot us because instead of climbing stairs we take the lift Like you, he says, his teeth gleaming triumphantly Like me, I think, looking down at