I was just a brickmaker’s son. My job was to mix clay and straw, pack it into molds, and set them in the sun to dry. Most days, I barely got a greeting. But all that changed the day they started building the tower.
My name’s Adam. I was twelve when they came through our village—men with long robes and louder voices. “One language. One people. One tower to the heavens,” they said. Everyone listened. Everyone followed. Builders, diggers, fire-starters—we were all swept into their grand plan.
Father said it was a good thing, that G-d must be pleased to see people working together. I wanted to believe him. But something inside me felt wrong.
They said the tower would reach G-d. That it would make us famous. That with bricks and fire we could control the sky. But I saw the way people talked to each other. There were no prayers. No thanks. Just pride. Just “Look what we’ve done!”
Every morning, the tower grew higher. Every night, the shouting got louder. “Place the stone faster!” “Higher, faster, now!” One man slipped and fell. They didn’t even stop to bury him. I looked at Father, but he just looked away.
Then something strange started happening.
“Bring me water!” one man snapped. But the boy next to me just stared at him.
Water. That should be an easy word. Everyone knew it. But the boy mumbled something weird—like “wadur” or “vasa.” And the man smacked him.
“You making fun of me?!”
Soon, it happened again. And again. Orders turned into arguments. Arguments into fights.
Then it all exploded.
One morning, I watched as a foreman tried to call the brick haulers. They stared at him like he was crazy. He screamed again, but the words didn’t make sense—even to me. Soon fists were flying, bricks hit the ground, and the tower—our precious tower—started to crumble, one level at a time.
Chaos. That’s what it felt like. I grabbed my sister’s hand and ran. People were shouting in dozens of strange sounds. No one could understand each other anymore. Not even Father and I. I saw the fear in his eyes as he said something I couldn’t comprehend. He looked like a stranger.
For days after, we wandered. Families got pulled apart. Neighbors were suddenly foreigners. We stopped building and started separating. North, south, east, and west—people moved wherever they found someone who understood them.
And somewhere deep down, I knew. G-d had scattered us.
He hadn’t done it to punish us. Not really. He had done it to protect us. From ourselves. We thought we didn’t need Him anymore. That we could reach the heavens without His help. But He loved us too much to let our pride grow taller than our faith.
Years later, we settled in a quiet valley. Different people, different words—but something better grew between us. Forgiveness. Humility. I learned to listen more than shout, to thank more than boast. We didn’t need a tower to get close to G-d.
Now, when I knead clay with my own son beside me, I don’t dream of towers. I dream of peace. Because that day, I didn’t just lose my language—I found something deeper.
G-d didn’t leave us behind. He just opened our eyes.
And now, I finally understand what Father meant—working together is good, but only if we remember Who we’re working for.
I was just a brickmaker’s son. My job was to mix clay and straw, pack it into molds, and set them in the sun to dry. Most days, I barely got a greeting. But all that changed the day they started building the tower.
My name’s Adam. I was twelve when they came through our village—men with long robes and louder voices. “One language. One people. One tower to the heavens,” they said. Everyone listened. Everyone followed. Builders, diggers, fire-starters—we were all swept into their grand plan.
Father said it was a good thing, that G-d must be pleased to see people working together. I wanted to believe him. But something inside me felt wrong.
They said the tower would reach G-d. That it would make us famous. That with bricks and fire we could control the sky. But I saw the way people talked to each other. There were no prayers. No thanks. Just pride. Just “Look what we’ve done!”
Every morning, the tower grew higher. Every night, the shouting got louder. “Place the stone faster!” “Higher, faster, now!” One man slipped and fell. They didn’t even stop to bury him. I looked at Father, but he just looked away.
Then something strange started happening.
“Bring me water!” one man snapped. But the boy next to me just stared at him.
Water. That should be an easy word. Everyone knew it. But the boy mumbled something weird—like “wadur” or “vasa.” And the man smacked him.
“You making fun of me?!”
Soon, it happened again. And again. Orders turned into arguments. Arguments into fights.
Then it all exploded.
One morning, I watched as a foreman tried to call the brick haulers. They stared at him like he was crazy. He screamed again, but the words didn’t make sense—even to me. Soon fists were flying, bricks hit the ground, and the tower—our precious tower—started to crumble, one level at a time.
Chaos. That’s what it felt like. I grabbed my sister’s hand and ran. People were shouting in dozens of strange sounds. No one could understand each other anymore. Not even Father and I. I saw the fear in his eyes as he said something I couldn’t comprehend. He looked like a stranger.
For days after, we wandered. Families got pulled apart. Neighbors were suddenly foreigners. We stopped building and started separating. North, south, east, and west—people moved wherever they found someone who understood them.
And somewhere deep down, I knew. G-d had scattered us.
He hadn’t done it to punish us. Not really. He had done it to protect us. From ourselves. We thought we didn’t need Him anymore. That we could reach the heavens without His help. But He loved us too much to let our pride grow taller than our faith.
Years later, we settled in a quiet valley. Different people, different words—but something better grew between us. Forgiveness. Humility. I learned to listen more than shout, to thank more than boast. We didn’t need a tower to get close to G-d.
Now, when I knead clay with my own son beside me, I don’t dream of towers. I dream of peace. Because that day, I didn’t just lose my language—I found something deeper.
G-d didn’t leave us behind. He just opened our eyes.
And now, I finally understand what Father meant—working together is good, but only if we remember Who we’re working for.
