They thought they had begun anew. That the water had washed away not only the bodies but the sickness itself. But it had gone in too deep. *Ḥamas* had not drowned — it had survived, and it had learned not merely to take up a stone but to fire a brick. From now on, it began to build.
“Come,” they said. “Let us make bricks and burn them with fire“1.
“Let us build ourselves a city and a tower,” they said, “with its top in the heavens, and let us make a name for ourselves“2.
Now that Heaven was silent and the earth permitted everything, the descendants of Noah, the people of the new age, decided there was no cause to long for Heaven if it could be reached by hand.
The tower began to rise. And if the rainbow had been given from above and meant God’s renunciation of violence, the tower became a sign raised from below. A mechanical answer aimed at Heaven. The final refusal of dialogue.
God, we no longer need You, nor Your breath.
And then, like a parent who sees his child stubbornly repeating one and the same mistake, the Lord came down to look upon the fruits of their labor.
The chapter goes on in the book.