This sheet on Genesis 34 was written by Anita Diamant for 929 and can also be found here
We have been lost to each other for so long.
My name means nothing to you, my memory is dust.
This is not your fault, or mine. The chain connecting mother to daughter was broken and the word passed to the keeping of men, who had no way of knowing. That is why I became a footnote, my story a brief detour between the well-known history of my father Jacob, and the celebrated chronicle of Joseph, my brother.
On the rare occasions I was remembered, it was as a victim. Near the beginning of your holy book, there is a passage that seems to say I was raped and continues with the bloody tale of how my honor was avenged.
It’s a wonder a mother ever called a daughter Dina again. But some did. Maybe you guessed that there was more to me than the voiceless cipher in the text. Maybe you heard it in the music of my name. Dee-nah. The first vowel high and clear, as when a mother calls to her child at dusk; the second sound soft, for whispering secrets on pillows.
No one recalled my skill as a midwife or the songs I sang or the bread I baked for my insatiable brothers. Nothing remained except a few mangled details about those weeks in Shechem.
There was far more to tell. Had I been asked to speak of it, I would have begun with the story of the generation that raised me, which is the only place to begin. If you want to understand any woman you must first talk about her mother and then listen carefully. Stories about food show a strong connection. Wistful silences demonstrate unfinished business. The more a daughter knows of her mother’s life – without flinching or whining – the stronger the daughter.
My name means nothing to you, my memory is dust.
This is not your fault, or mine. The chain connecting mother to daughter was broken and the word passed to the keeping of men, who had no way of knowing. That is why I became a footnote, my story a brief detour between the well-known history of my father Jacob, and the celebrated chronicle of Joseph, my brother.
On the rare occasions I was remembered, it was as a victim. Near the beginning of your holy book, there is a passage that seems to say I was raped and continues with the bloody tale of how my honor was avenged.
It’s a wonder a mother ever called a daughter Dina again. But some did. Maybe you guessed that there was more to me than the voiceless cipher in the text. Maybe you heard it in the music of my name. Dee-nah. The first vowel high and clear, as when a mother calls to her child at dusk; the second sound soft, for whispering secrets on pillows.
No one recalled my skill as a midwife or the songs I sang or the bread I baked for my insatiable brothers. Nothing remained except a few mangled details about those weeks in Shechem.
There was far more to tell. Had I been asked to speak of it, I would have begun with the story of the generation that raised me, which is the only place to begin. If you want to understand any woman you must first talk about her mother and then listen carefully. Stories about food show a strong connection. Wistful silences demonstrate unfinished business. The more a daughter knows of her mother’s life – without flinching or whining – the stronger the daughter.
(ב) וַיַּ֨רְא אֹתָ֜הּ שְׁכֶ֧ם בֶּן־חֲמ֛וֹר הַֽחִוִּ֖י נְשִׂ֣יא הָאָ֑רֶץ וַיִּקַּ֥ח אֹתָ֛הּ וַיִּשְׁכַּ֥ב אֹתָ֖הּ וַיְעַנֶּֽהָ׃
(2) Shechem son of Hamor the Hivite, chief of the country, saw her, and took her and lay with her by force.
Anita Diamant is an award-winning journalist and the author of five best-selling novels and six guidebooks to contemporary Jewish life
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