Esther in Winchester
Esther arrived in Winchester just during a heatwave, standing in the narrow confines of the train between the carriages. The train was packed with commuters heading onward to Southampton and the airport there, and it was hot, stuffy, and as temperatures began to soar outside, inside was a furnace of humid heat.
She had travelled down from London, her mind full of the images she had seen outside Parliament: banners calling for compassion in Gaza, photographs of families displaced, and the quiet, stubborn hope of people who refused to let suffering be ignored. But there was also lingering fear among the Jewish community, of being made scapegoats for what was happening thousands of miles away, in another place, another land.
She had come to Winchester for something gentler, to see the statue of Licoricia of Winchester. Yet as she walked toward Jewry Street, she felt the ancient and the modern folding into one another, as if history were whispering in layers, the old lies returning, the shadow of Shylock in the noonday sun.
The bronze figures appeared ahead: Licoricia striding forward, her son Asher beside her, the tax demand in her hand. The sign of the discriminatory royal taxation (tallage) that medieval English monarchs constantly imposed on the Jewish community. In sharp contrast, the inscription beneath them read: “Love thy neighbour as thyself.”
Esther paused. Her own name carried a story, of a queen who had lived in a palace of power yet felt the vulnerability of her people in her bones. She remembered the moment in the Book of Esther when Mordecai tells her that silence is not safety, that she had come to her position “for such a time as this”, to speak out for her people. That line had always unsettled her. It was not a comfort; it was a summons.
A line from a hymn rose in her mind: “I was hungry and thirsty, were you there, were you there…” The words felt heavier now, as if addressed not only to her but to every passer‑by, every government, every age. A new summons, against hate, against ignorance, against fear.
She looked again at Licoricia, a Jewish woman finding her place in a world that welcomed her community for its usefulness and resented it for the same reason. A woman who, like Queen Esther, lived under the shadow of royal favour that could turn cold without warning. A woman who used what influence she had to build, to support, to endure.
Esther imagined Licoricia teaching Asher the stories of their people , perhaps even the story of Queen Esther herself, who approached a king with trembling courage and said, in essence: See us. Hear us. Do not turn away. She thought of Licoria holding her sons hand, protecting him against am often heartless world.
The parallel struck her sharply. The protest she had seen that morning was another version of that plea , a collective stepping forward, a refusal to let suffering remain invisible.
Another line from the hymn surfaced: “And the creed and the colour and the name won’t matter…”
Yet they did matter, she thought. They mattered far too often. That was why the Book of Esther still spoke across millennia, because it understood how fragile safety could be, how easily a people could be scapegoated, how necessary it was for someone, anyone, to speak. And that was why Sydney Carter had written those words, an advocate for disregarding differences in race or creed, aligning closely with the command to love thy neighbour.
Standing before the statue, Esther felt the stories intertwine: Licoricia’s resilience, Queen Esther’s courage, the cries from London’s streets. All of them asking the same question: Will you be there? Will you speak? Will you see?
She stepped back, taking in the bronze figures one last time. Virtues carved in metal were not relics; they were instructions, a call to the silent people who had not yet spoken, that that never have spoken yet. As she walked away, the refrain followed her like a quiet summons:
“Were you there, were you there.”
Esther arrived in Winchester just during a heatwave, standing in the narrow confines of the train between the carriages. The train was packed with commuters heading onward to Southampton and the airport there, and it was hot, stuffy, and as temperatures began to soar outside, inside was a furnace of humid heat.
She had travelled down from London, her mind full of the images she had seen outside Parliament: banners calling for compassion in Gaza, photographs of families displaced, and the quiet, stubborn hope of people who refused to let suffering be ignored. But there was also lingering fear among the Jewish community, of being made scapegoats for what was happening thousands of miles away, in another place, another land.
She had come to Winchester for something gentler, to see the statue of Licoricia of Winchester. Yet as she walked toward Jewry Street, she felt the ancient and the modern folding into one another, as if history were whispering in layers, the old lies returning, the shadow of Shylock in the noonday sun.
The bronze figures appeared ahead: Licoricia striding forward, her son Asher beside her, the tax demand in her hand. The sign of the discriminatory royal taxation (tallage) that medieval English monarchs constantly imposed on the Jewish community. In sharp contrast, the inscription beneath them read: “Love thy neighbour as thyself.”
Esther paused. Her own name carried a story, of a queen who had lived in a palace of power yet felt the vulnerability of her people in her bones. She remembered the moment in the Book of Esther when Mordecai tells her that silence is not safety, that she had come to her position “for such a time as this”, to speak out for her people. That line had always unsettled her. It was not a comfort; it was a summons.
A line from a hymn rose in her mind: “I was hungry and thirsty, were you there, were you there…” The words felt heavier now, as if addressed not only to her but to every passer‑by, every government, every age. A new summons, against hate, against ignorance, against fear.
She looked again at Licoricia, a Jewish woman finding her place in a world that welcomed her community for its usefulness and resented it for the same reason. A woman who, like Queen Esther, lived under the shadow of royal favour that could turn cold without warning. A woman who used what influence she had to build, to support, to endure.
Esther imagined Licoricia teaching Asher the stories of their people , perhaps even the story of Queen Esther herself, who approached a king with trembling courage and said, in essence: See us. Hear us. Do not turn away. She thought of Licoria holding her sons hand, protecting him against am often heartless world.
The parallel struck her sharply. The protest she had seen that morning was another version of that plea , a collective stepping forward, a refusal to let suffering remain invisible.
Another line from the hymn surfaced: “And the creed and the colour and the name won’t matter…”
Yet they did matter, she thought. They mattered far too often. That was why the Book of Esther still spoke across millennia, because it understood how fragile safety could be, how easily a people could be scapegoated, how necessary it was for someone, anyone, to speak. And that was why Sydney Carter had written those words, an advocate for disregarding differences in race or creed, aligning closely with the command to love thy neighbour.
Standing before the statue, Esther felt the stories intertwine: Licoricia’s resilience, Queen Esther’s courage, the cries from London’s streets. All of them asking the same question: Will you be there? Will you speak? Will you see?
She stepped back, taking in the bronze figures one last time. Virtues carved in metal were not relics; they were instructions, a call to the silent people who had not yet spoken, that that never have spoken yet. As she walked away, the refrain followed her like a quiet summons:
“Were you there, were you there.”
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