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My first language is Yiddish, a Jewish vernacular which originated in central and eastern Europe, and was spoken by up to thirteen million people before the outbreak of World War Two. Among them were my parents, who conversed, joked, sang, complained, and expressed love in this tongue, in which German and Hebrew are prominent, together Polish, Russian, and other Slavic elements. It was the language of our home, and my father in particular taught me to read Yiddish newspapers and stories from the likes of Sholom Aleichem, the creator of Tevye the dairyman, who was immortalised in Fiddler on the Roof. I was always fascinated by Tevye’s conversations with God. In one story Aleichem has him say, “ ‘Master of the Universe,’ I say, not complaining, just asking: if wealth were a crime, I’d be a saint. You’ve given me a head full of thoughts, a mouth full of words, and a pocket full of air. I understand—someone has to be poor. But why me?” This attitude is fascinating, and has influenced my own dialogues with God, which I tend to have in Yiddish. I pray formally, and sing as a Cantor, in Hebrew; but Yiddish allows me to meet God as a friend in discourse: I can argue, joke, reminisce, and expose my vulnerabilities, all to an entity who doesn’t answer back directly, but, I trust, listens intently to my every word. Gottenyu in Himel, dear God in heaven, we know that you take heed of our rants and our reverence to You. Grant us the conviction to speak freely, and listen deeply