Month: June 2021

Posted on Creative Writing

beyond the green line


elderly ewes who know war
new children, speaking an ancient tongue
a man, both farmer and father, skin hardened by sun, passes by on a horse, reins in one hand, pistol in his pocket.

faraway orchards rise into distant heights. these rocks know violence.

nearby a school lets out, the schoolyard fills. the bomb shelter watches over the young
its doors locked, extinct. Or is dormant?

down the street a teenager sits on the porch his father built
reminiscing of khaki and smoke, dreaming of khaki and smoke.
the army awaits him. small earlocks curl down his ears,
his hair disappears under a knit yarmulke*, in the language of the old country.

*skullcap

Posted on Government

The Roots of the Angolan Civil War

The transition from Portuguese colonialism to independence in Angola was riddled with violence, preceding the start of a brutal civil war. Portugal’s withdrawal from the country in late 1975 led to a power vacuum of competing nationalist groups, each with their own ideological orientation but muddled by leaders’ personal aims. To complicate matters further, the emerging civil war in Angola — which would last nearly three decades before peace deals at the turn of the millennium finally quelled ongoing violence — became a proxy war for competing international interests. Due to the scope and complexity of the lengthy conflict, in this piece, I will focus on the precipitating​ ​events which led to violence in Angola. After dedicating a paragraph to historical context, I will argue that ideological and ethnic conflict between nationalist groups vying for power and the influx of foreign interests (and arms) led to violent civil war in Angola.

Portugal was one of the last European powers to forgo its African colonies. After making their “first inroads” into Angola during the fifteenth century, the Portuguese exploited Angolans and the rich natural resources of the country (James 2011, p. 5). Angola, positioned in coastal, southwestern Africa, has rich deposits of petroleum, diamonds, and iron ore (Kaplan 1979, p. XV). Portugal harvested Angola’s natural (and human) resources, but little was returned to the population in terms of hospitals, schools, good governance, a participatory political system, or economic benefits, leading to “stifling conditions” for Angolans. (James 2011, p. 5). By 1961, some Angolans were fed up. Supporters of the Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA) tried to storm several colonial prisons in Luanda, the capital (p. 8). Paired with more violence in northern Angola, this unrest marked the beginning of the Angolan national revolution (p. 8).

The ensuing fifteen years included an initial Portuguese response to the unrest and later independence as Continental political upheaval in Lisbon turned Portugal’s focus away from Angola. In the early 1960s Angolan unrest alone, best estimates suggest that some 40,000 Africans were killed along with 400 Europeans (James 2011, p. 8). Portugal was “stunned” by the events and attempted to alleviate the widespread discontent (p. 8). New offenses were launched in Angola against the African nationalists, such as conducting airborne assaults, building airstrips and roads in remote regions, and constructing fortified villages (aldeamentos​​) to deprive guerrillas of contact with the wider Angolan population (Meredith 2011, p. 309). Even before independence, the seeds of internecine conflict among Angolan nationalist actors were sown. Meredith notes, accurately, that personal, political, traditional, and religious jealousies led the three sides (more on these later) to fight among themselves as much as against the Portuguese (p. 312-313). The fighting even led to Portuguese action to protect civilians from Angolan nationalist infighting. By 1973 in Portugal, career officers in the armed forces were “disgusted” with government politics and conduct in colonial conflicts, leading to the overthrow of Portuguese dictator Marcelo Caetano and throwing the colonial future of Angola into uncertainty (James 2011, p. 10).

In addition to the MPLA upheaval in Luanda, two other main nationalist actors emerged during these formative years, representing varying interests among Angolan nationalists, and illustrating the salient civil divisions which would soon turn bloody. Looking back briefly, the MPLA was formed in 1956 by the merger of several parties including the communist party (James 2011, p. 8). Agostinho Neto was elected its president in 1962, along with a “strong cadre” of leaders (p. 8). The MPLA was largely located in Luanda and the surrounding environs, engaging with intelligentsia, mestiços ​​(mixed race individuals), and assimilados​​, and viewing itself as the Angolan defender of the diverse “urban masses” (p. 8). This scope did not apply to all Angolans, though. The anti-Portuguese violence in northern Angola was a function of the Union of People of Angola (UPA), later the National Front for the Liberation of Angola (FNLA) (p. 8). This group, led by Holden Roberto, had an agenda which included the restoration of the Bakongo empire (p. 8). To garner support, Roberto traveled throughout Africa, Europe, and North America to spread awareness, also forming an Angolan govêrno​ (government) in exile (p. 8). What is key about the early FNLA activity is both its ethnic focus (Bakongo) and its international reach, an early hint of later foreign involvement. Lastly, the third major player who emerged in 1966 under Jonas Savimbi, the National Union for the Total Independence of Angola (UNITA) was formed to represent Angolan peasants (p. 9). Formed in direct opposition ​​to the other two groups, Savimbi’s new group argued that the MPLA was both too “non-African” and mestiço-​focused, while the then FNLA was too dedicated to northern Angola (p. 9). Given these early divisions, it is not surprising that the ensuing independence would be off to a shaky start.

The immediate transition of power from Portugal to Angola was outlined in the 1975 Alvor Accords, but the previously discussed divisions quickly led to the first outbreaks of internecine violence. By July 1974, the new Portuguese leadership promised independence to Mozambique, Guinea-Bissau, and Angola (p. 10). The FNLA, MPLA, and UNITA met in Mombasa, Kenya, in January 1975, where they recognized one another as fellow organizations prepared to negotiate with Portugal (p. 10). This amicable recognition was short-lived. Ten days later, the Portuguese and the three Angolan movements met at Alvor, Portugal, to make plans for independence (p. 10). The resulting “Alvor Accords” called for an integrated military, a transitional government, and elections for a constituent assembly by October 1975 (p. 10). Portugal was set to relinquish power on 11 November 1975 (p. 10). It did not go as planned, a result of increasing foreign involvement and the materialization of the divergent interests of the nationalist groups.

In the summer of 1975, simmering tensions erupted on the streets of Luanda in advance of the 11 November independence date; soon, foreign involvement would also ramp up. The three movements gathered in the capital city of Luanda to launch preparations for independence, but as James put it, “old animosities surfaced” (p. 10). In June and July 1975, after much street violence, the FNLA and UNITA were forced from Luanda, returning to the north and south, respectively. As the MPLA maintained power in the city, it could “proclaim independence under its own banner” (p. 10). Ethnic divisions became increasingly evident. The World Encyclopedia​ of the Nations​ noted that at the “dawn” of Angola’s independence, each of the three rival organizations had its own army and sphere of influence, representing ethnic and international rifts (p. 24). The FNLA primarily represented and recruited personnel from the Kongo ethnic group (p. 24). This group was based in Zaire (now DRC) and received foreign financial support from China and the United States (p. 24). Together, UNITA and the FNLA established the Popular Democratic Republic of Angola (centered in Huambo), sustained with US funds and South African troops, and some white mercenaries (p. 24). UNITA also drew on its unique ethnic base, recruiting from the Ovimbundu, the largest ethnic group in Angola (p. 24). The MPLA, a Marxist-oriented party, drew social support and recruited from the mestiços​and intellectual elite in Luanda and other urban areas and, on ethnic grounds, from the Mbundu people (p. 24). As a self-proclaimed leftist entity, the group received military and financial assistance from the Soviet Union and from some 15,000 Cuban soldiers (p. 24). Clearly, both ethnic division and differing foreign alignments contributed to civil strife between the three nationalist groups.

In this short essay, I sought to highlight some of the historical context and other precipitating factors which led to the onslaught of violence in Angola. The fighting, which was notably under-documented in both the 1980s and 1990s, included continued clashes between MPLA, FNLA and UNITA forces. Throughout the 1980s, some 30,000 Cuban troops continued to help the MPLA consolidate control over the country and provide technical support in their efforts (World Encyclopedia of the Nations, p. 24). Part of this support was required to stave off constant violence from UNITA, which operated in Angola’s southern hinterlands, using the rural landscape to their guerrilla advantage. After the Organization of African Unity (OAU) formally recognized the MPLA government in Luanda as the “legitimate” sovereign power in Angola, South African troops withdrew (p. 24). In a proxy of the wider Cold War between the United States and the communist bloc supporting MPLA, the United States reportedly sent some $15 million to UNITA in the 1980s. Interestingly, one Washington Post​ columnist argued that the individual Angolan response to these nationalist groups’ actions was often ambivalent. In the 2015 piece, the author explained that in a (then) new study about Angola, called “Political Identity and Conflict in Angola, 1975-2002,” many Angolans said that the conflict had “little meaning.” Most notably, interviews showed that few ordinary Angolans “cared” about ideological divides between the three nationalist groups and the corresponding foreign players. Rather, interviewees suggested that they simply submitted to the “authority” of the moment’s occupying military power, providing loyalty to whichever group provided them good jobs and services and had a positive impact on their daily life.

Works Cited

Hill, Melissa Sue. Worldmark Encyclopedia of the Nations.​ ​ Fourteenth edition / Project  Editor: Melissa Sue Hill. Farmington Hills, Mich: Gale, Cengage Learning, 2017. Print.

James, W. Martin. Historical Dictionary of Angola​ ​. 2nd ed. Lanham, Md: Scarecrow Press, 2011, Print.

Kaplan, Irving, H. Mark. Roth, and Allison Butler. Herrick. Angola, a Country Study​ ​. 2d ed. Washington, 1979. Print.

Meredith, Martin. The Fate of Africa: a History of the Continent Since Independence. Revised and updated ed. New York: Public Affairs, 2011. Print.

Taylor, Adam. “A 27-year civil war, for no reason at all.” The Washington Post​ ​. 14 Oct. 2015. Web. 8 Mar. 2021.

Posted on Journalism

Explorations in Journalism

My writing journey has been bolstered by journalism, which lets me serve as my own storyteller while enhancing my peers’ and neighbors’ understanding of the community. I have written nearly 40 articles for The Dartmouth, the student newspaper of Dartmouth College. Some of my most exciting stories include direct interviews with 2020 presidential candidates Bill Weld and Tom Steyer, and Dartmouth College president Phil Hanlon. I also edited the 2021 Winter Carnival Special Issue, a project managing several writers which explored the theme “Behind Closed Doors.” Feel free to explore the links below.

Jacob Strier – News Staff Writer

Winter Carnival Special Issue – Co-Editor 

I also wrote an award winning essay in high school for the The New York Jewish Week, and several other pieces, which I will link below.

“How Chaim Potok Illuminated the American Orthodox Community”

“Powerful Narratives to Consider in 2019” 

Posted on Journalism

Interview with Parkland survivor, Jeffrey Foster

I originally published this 2018 Q&A in high school, but it remains one of my most moving interviews. Here is the text, and the original link.

Q. Could you tell me about your experience in the shooting? You could share as much or as little as you would like.

Foster:  The day of we had a fire drill that morning and then I’d been telling the kids for weeks that there was going to be a code red or a code black coming up because the administration had been talking about it for a while, even to the point where after the fire drill that day (the rest of the periods). I had told the kids, “We might have a live, fake-shooter drill on campus in the next couple of weeks.” When the fire alarm went off, the majority of my students thought it was a fake drill. I think at least on my side of the building, as I was opposite where the killings took place, I think it actually led to a little bit more calm until we got phone calls that said “active shooter.”

Then all hell broke loose. Then the people started climbing fences and running and jumping. My teacher neighbor told me that he thought he’d heard shots, again we weren’t sure if they were real or if they weren’t real. I personally did not hear them. When my brother said there was an active shooter on campus, me and my two colleagues who are responsible for that side of the building stayed behind and made sure everybody escaped, for lack of a better word. Then we walked out to the streets, it was just pandemonium. We were on the street that was parallel to the building, there had to be at that point a hundred cops, and cops were coming from every corner of the world at that point. There was just cop car after cop car after cop car. I hate to use the word surreal, but it was one of the most surreal moments of my life. It was unimaginable, it was indescribable. It felt like a brain-wipe, it was just a bad dream.

And unfortunately that dream went on for about a month afterwards. It’s still going on, it just doesn’t hurt as much as it did the first month because now we are realizing that it is reality and we are coping with it. The days afterward, no sleep — waking up and sweating. Just trying to console as many adults and kids at every funeral I went to over the next week-and-a-half. Unfortunately I refer to it as the period of funerals. I had a calendar of every funeral I was going to. Think about the logic of that: even in a war, who is going to a funeral two, three times per day. That day and the moments after and the days after and the weeks after were, just, unimaginable.

Q: I have read several articles that have been written about you. You do teach AP Government…can you tell me a little bit about how you teach your students about government, what is it like to see your students actually starting to get involved in effecting change in the government?

Foster: It is not surprising. We have incredible families in our community. We have people who come from the socioeconomic class that tends to vote and participate. Our student government has always been really solid at our school, they get a lot of stuff done. This is a grander stage for that, but through my discussions in class and through socratic seminars which I have in class, and the passion I hear in these kids’ voices, the fact that David, Emma and Delaney [three well-known Parkland activists] are the forefront of this, it doesn’t surprise me. Those kids have been vocal all year leading up to this and it is not surprising that they are all on the stage, they turn lessons into action.

I don’t want to denigrate these kids, but we have a great school for a long time and it would surprise me if this would have happened five years ago, ten years ago, two years ago, just a different cast of characters would have showed up. Our community is a strong community. The family and the other teachers at this school did an amazing job informing these kids and encouraging these kids to participate. In my syllabus it says, “If you don’t participate, you can’t complain.” I want kids to vote first, participate, and if they don’t do that, they don’t have any right as Americans to sit around and complain because they have so many different opportunities to participate at different levels of government in this country.

Q. Did you attend the March for our Lives? Can you tell me about that experience?

Foster: Yeah, I was in Washington D.C. It was unbelievable. I was in contact with the majority of speakers beforehand. The alumni helped organize marches all around the country, in places like Denver and Boston and even locally in West Palm Beach and Parkland. Fall Out Boy put out a concert, a concert for change. That morning, because I was the person that organized the trip to the march for all the kids. I had VIP stand at the march, so I was with the celebrities and I was able to get backstage and talk to the speakers beforehand. The majority of our kids met at the Marriott, and marched over en masse (about 2,000 of them).

The messages were powerful, I loved the way that the march people mixed in people from other communities which were affected by gun violence. Our kids are not just for Douglas, they are for Chicago, for Washington D.C., Los Angeles, they don’t want gun violence anywhere. It’s a shame that the NRA and to a degree, Fox News, has made it out like we are trying to steal people’s guns. We’re not trying to steal people’s guns, we are trying to make sure that the right type of citizen is able to own a gun and not be able to own something that can murder 150 people in 25 seconds. That’s not the message they are putting out. I am pretty active on Twitter, every time I read something from the NRA or from a conservative commentator, it is all about the second amendment and then I’ll see Delaney, or Ryan or Emma immediately shoot back and say “Look, we’re not trying to take your guns people.” We are trying to change the argument, in a positive way. We want to say: “We want A, B, C, and D. You can own your hunting rifles, you can have as many guns as you want. Just not these types of guns.”

Q. Could you tell me about the prominent argument in the media, which is: should teachers be armed? What are the possible negative or positive consequences of that.

Foster: We are going back Monday, and apparently we are going to be “wanded” when we walk into school, which is a big change for us. An email went out, a lot of teachers are upset about it and a lot of teachers are happy about it. As for arming teachers, I would say it is about 80:20 in our school against it. There are definitely teachers who think that it is a good idea, I am not one of them. I do believe though that we should have more security at the school. If the school resource officer had reacted, maybe it could have been handled. In Maryland [more recent school shooting], the [armed security] person did their job and the shooter still killed multiple people. I have a few good friends who think teachers should be armed. Then you have people on campus with guns so instead of waiting five minutes for the cops to get there, you’ve got people who are essentially ready to defend on the spot in any are within a minute. The negative side is the fear factor of teachers having guns. Obviously, anyone can lose their mind at any point. Just putting another less-qualified adult with a weapon on campus does not make much sense. I don’t agree with this, but I’ll say it: maybe a teacher would overreact to a minority student, and we see what happens in these cities like what happened in Sacramento the other day.

If we can afford to pay teachers, why don’t we just train or even get officers in town to volunteer once a week just be an extra presence on campus. I have a friend who is a police officer who I guarantee would give up six hours of his day just to walk around campus, armed. It would be a lot more safe. I know for a fact that there are police officers from different cities whose kids go to our school who would volunteer. Arming teachers is a cheap way to get away with it [security].

Q. Did you attend the CNN Town Hall? (To which he responds, yes). Can you tell about your thoughts of Rubio’s remarks, or the NRA representative’s?

Foster: I actually supported Rubio when he ran for president years ago. I am a Republican. I thought he was a good vote for the party because he had not said anything inflammatory yet. He has kind of gone the wrong way for me, unfortunately, now. I appreciate that he showed up, I thought some of the remarks from the parents and kids… I mean to say he killed kids is a bit of a reach. Did he take money from the NRA? Sure he did. I don’t want to say the NRA has been positive in this, but I think that the majority of the members of the NRA are not bad people. To say that just because he took money from the NRA that he is a child-killer might be taking it a little far. At the same time he is digging his own grave by making certain remarks about the kids. It would be hard to support him again in any race that he runs in the State of Florida. The fact that he showed up was impressive, and I thought he had some decent answers that night. They [Rubio and NRA spokeswoman] backtracked a lot on what they said. They were the ones acting like the children. I thought he held his ground okay. How is he going to look, he can’t put a sixteen year old in his place while looking good. Some of the things that he has done and said, have tarnished his reputation in my head. He is actually meeting with one of my students today, so we will see. I got a phone call from the student asking me what to say, and if his notes were good. When kids send me stuff, I say “send me what you’ve got” and 99% of the time I just say it looks awesome. I don’t want to be their voice. If they need me to have confidence that what they are saying is right, I am happy to be there to proofread. I’ve done that with a bunch of speeches, and a bunch of pre-meeting type stuff. I respect that they love me enough to reach out to me.

Q. How is it logistically operating in the high school? Are students working? Are they going to get ready for their APs in time?

Foster: I would say no to the [AP] question. In my geography class, we are not doing much yet. In AP, at least in my class, some of my kids are so involved in the movement that I will try to do a little review, and then we will just devolve into discussion about what’s going on. I told them that when we get back from Spring Break we are going to push, and push and push. That’s going to be difficult, because some of these kids are so occupied. We are having town halls next week, organized by David. How the hell is David going to prep for his four or five AP classes. We are striving to make it normal, but normal for us is not what it was before February 14 obviously. It is very difficult to hold some of these kids accountable for studying and grades. So, instead of giving practice exams individually, I might do them in groups. It’s a little less stressful for them.

I’m not that concerned about their grades, I am more concerned about their mental health right now. I assume that this will be my lowest pass percentage on the AP test in a lot of years, even though I have these amazing kids. We have lost four weeks of school now. The first week back we built puzzles, and we talked, and we played UNO while organizing the trip [to the March]. Whatever they get [grades] will be good enough for us this year.

Q. Do you have any other things you’d like to share with me about what it has been like being a teacher throughout this process?

Foster: I don’t want to say that there is any good that comes out of this. We all wish that this had never happened. But, the closeness of the community from the kids, to the parents, to the teachers to the alumni. We have something now, because of this awful massacre, that we treasure. I probably ran into a thousand kids I’ve had over the years, and had meaningful conversations with them. Those would probably be a thousand conversations I would never have had with them for the rest of their lives. It’s just nice, I wish it never happened, but it’s been nice to reconnect with my old students. The bond I have with this group will be unique forever. It’s a unique, special and sad bond. I’ve never been closer to the community of Douglas in my life.

Q. Have you spoken with your students about what it is going to be like after the media explosion dies down?

Foster: I’ve spoken to some of them. We have all kind of been wondering that. David and Emma and Delaney and Ryan are the four I have in class, we have talked about it and they have great families and a great support system. I don’t know if it is going away any time soon, because the majority of them [students] want to get into poly-sci now and this could be a life mission for most of them. They’re not going to be on CNN every night for the rest of their lives. But I think they’re going to etch in the public consciousness. I don’t think these kids are going away time soon. I am a little worried, because at some point they’ve got to grieve.

Posted on Literature

Youth, Israel and the Poetry of Yehuda Amichai

I bent down, sifting through the dirt until my fingers landed upon a smooth stone. It felt heavy for its size, weighing down my hand and coating it with dust. Stone in tow, I walked back to the group. Their bodies were small, overshadowed by towering hills.

“Rimon,” the tour guide said in Hebrew. The group listened closely, peering at the pomegranate in his hand. It was overripe, bursting with blood-colored seeds. The guide’s voice trailed off, the faint rhythm of faraway bombs detonating to the north in Syria distracted me. I turned the stone over in my hand again before pocketing it: my small token of a tired land. 

Days later, I went through my souvenirs one by one. A salt crystal from the Dead Sea, a leaf from Jerusalem, a sliver of concrete from a crumbling apartment complex in Tel Aviv. The heavy rock from the Golan, once Syria, now Israel, covered in dust.

Three years later, I lingered after hours at my college Jewish center. Its small library, usually full of bright chatter, was silent. I walked along the rows of books, trailing my fingers on Hebrew and English volumes and wiping the dust on my jeans. Landing upon a worn collection by celebrated Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai, I removed it and sat down. I flew through one poem, then another.  

My trip to Israel had been a blur. Moving through Amichai’s verse for the first time, I was struck by the intensity of my recollections. Israel’s rolling hills, which I had observed in my adolescence, became illustrated in my mind by Amichai’s poem “God Full of Mercy.” Amichai writes, “I, who plucked flowers in the hills / And looked down into all the valleys, / I, who brought corpses down from the hills.” The hills brimming in his poems with flowers and optimism, also once produced corpses. As I moved through the lines, I felt both hollow and whole.

That morning in the Golan, I remember that my grandmother stood solemnly, wearing a thin jacket and donning wide brown sunglasses which contrasted her Ashkenazi complexion. She read a poem off a laminated sheet, probably the type handed to every tourist. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with  beige foundation. 

I forget the poem’s title, and its words. I like to think it could easily have been Amichai’s poem, “Jews in the Land of Israel,” in which he writes, “We forget where we came from / Our Jewish names from the Exile give us away.” Amichai was born into the rising Third Reich in Germany as Ludwig Pfeuffer, dying in Israel with his adopted name, which roughly translates to “Praise, my people live.” I thought of my own name: Jacob, an anglicization of Ya’acov, a hint of ancient roots. For two thousand years my ancestors had lived outside of the land of Israel; they too lost themselves in exile and history. Their names and rituals became reminders of their origin. 

In “Temporary Poem of My Time,” Amichai calls out the stones of Israel, describing the land as a place of endless battle, of constantly thrown rocks which predate and outlast us. Naturally, I thought of my stone from the Golan.  “Is there in this land / A stone that was never thrown / And never built and never overturned … And never screamed from a wall and never discarded by the builders / And never closed on top of a grave and never lay under lovers.” Where had my stone been? I sat and thought about it. I imagined it being trampled by young Israeli soldiers, clad in green and imprinted with passion, boots kicking up dust. Or had it once been laid upon by young lovers under a knowing sky, or shoveled over a forgotten grave?

Amichai returns to the motif of youth to note the common humanity of Israel’s diverse, and often sparring, inhabitants. In “An Arab Shepherd Is Searching For His Goat On Mount Zion,” Amichai writes of his search for his “little boy,” noting an Arab Shepherd searching for his goat on the opposite hill. The two join briefly in their “temporary failure.” Both cry out for their charges, their voices “meet above.” 

The verses moved me to the Golan, its tall hills which carry the echoes of bombs while smothering cries in different languages to the same Divine presence, lingering “above.” In a land divided by violence, Amichai provides a moment of poetic respite, stripping different peoples down to a common search in the same Eastern landscape. Poet and literary critic Adam Kirsch notes in Tablet that Amichai wrote in a world reeling from the horrors of the Holocaust, meditating not on “God’s power” but instead on, “His absence, or indifference, or simple debility.” Amichai provokes my own quiet anger at Divine futility in his writing with his mentions of mourning and suffering children, caught in the “wheels” of the “machine.”

That day in the Golan I had seen smiling children; we had whirred by them on a 4×4. Some had flaxen hair, all had toothy grins, brightened with naïveté. They played by a stream adjacent to their farm, jumping off idle military equipment stored on the bank. Battleground, turned playground. Children damned before birth, and if born, taken too early by war. Amichai hovers on the sobering nature of conflict; he wonders, perhaps in anguish, if “behind all this some great happiness is hiding.” 

In “Memorial Day for the War Dead,” Amichai speaks to youthful innocence: “Children with a grief not their own march slowly / like stepping over broken glass.” Here, the children lack a nationality: they could be Israelis, “broken glass” bringing forth collective memories of Kristallnacht or Intifadas, or Palestinians, wandering among the ruins of a house destroyed by conflict out of their control. Before I discovered Amichai, a rosy Israel had filled the blurred memories of my youth. That day in the library, Amichai did not seek to change my mind about Israel’s beauty and its singular importance to “Am Yisrael,” the Jewish people. In highlighting the child’s innocence broken by conflict, Amichai replaced my boyhood understanding of a complicated land with a mature one. 

In “Memorial Day for the War Dead,” Amichai also mocks the land of milk and honey mentioned annually at my family’s Passover seder. He laments, “Oh, sweet world soaked, like bread, / in sweet milk for the terrible toothless God.” The precious land promised to the Jews in Exodus is here soaked with childrens’ pain, in front of an aging and decaying G-d. Yes, the land of Israel is sweet. It had stung my grandmother to tears and filled me with pride in a wandering people, restored. So too may tanks once again thunder across the soil where I found the stone in my youth, another effort to settle grievances formed before my birth. 

Amichai rounds out the poem, “An Arab Shepherd Is Searching for His Goat on Mount Zion,” by associating children with the birth of new faith, noting that, “Searching for a goat or for a child has always been / The beginning of a new religion in these mountains.” Armed with Amichai’s tender verse, I wonder what my next visit to the Golan or other places in Israel will be like. Though my experiences may fall short of the poetic or prophetic, perhaps I will find new beliefs in my budding adulthood, or lose old ones anchored to my youth. 

A year after I wrote this story, I learned enough Hebrew to translate one of Amichai’s poems on my own. Check it out.

Works Cited

https://www.poemhunter.com/i/ebooks/pdf/yehuda_amichai_2004_9.pdf

Posted on Creative Writing

Translating a poem

Here, I try my hand at translating some poetry by Yehuda Amichai, the late Israeli poet whose casual integration of Biblical Hebrew into the modern canon revolutionized Israeli poetry. Read an essay I wrote on Amichai here, or browse through my presentation with some more examples of his poetry and a few of my own notes. 

12.

Jerusalem’s foundation flinches, alone in her pain.
Deep within her, a tangle of nerves.
Occasionally among the eons, masses gather:
into writhing, mobs: a new Tower of Babel.
But, God-the-Police beats them down.
Walls breached and houses laid waste.
And after, the city unravels again, while muttering
Prayers of protest, scattered cries from the churches
and synagogues, and screams from the mosque minarets
Each, an other, in his place. 

Hebrew, Yehuda Amichai

Posted on Creative Writing

Victoria

It was the first morning. I, a ninth-grader, watched cautiously as a jet-lagged stranger spread fish on crackers for breakfast in our kitchen, before sprinkling green powder on them.

At eighteen, Victoria had packed her suitcase in rural Sweden and flown halfway across the world to live with us for a year. We were her host family, and she was to study in the United States and teach us about her culture while she learned about ours. Through the ensuing series of misadventures, memories and experiences, Victoria instilled in me her joy in life, a passion for exploration, and a sense of wanderlust which has changed my worldview ever since.

That first morning, she offered me one of the crackers, holding up the stinky substance before my scrunched-up nose. “​Surströmming​?” she asked. Pickled herring​.​ I shook my head at this offering. She laughed and insisted I try it. Relenting, I took a tiny bite, then a bigger one. My former hesitation morphed into enthusiasm (it was delicious).

Soon, the distractions of breakfast had passed, and Victoria sat on the couch across from me: silence ensued. It was a sleepy weekend, so she suggested we go on a drive. She, my father and I piled into the car. Victoria, reaching for the clutch she was used to in Europe, accidentally slammed on the brake and we lurched forward. Driving would have to wait.

Over the subsequent months, which turned into a year, and then another, Victoria became a part of our family. I showed her things I was proud of: the warmth of the Hanukkah candles or my collection of favorite novels, which poured out of my overflowing “book closet.” I brought her stacks of my old photography, music and travel magazines. My brother and I showed her our favorite card games and bicycle paths: our July and August afternoons were a blur of biking through green trees and over bridges, with quick breaks for Swedish snacks from a shop in the city. Later, in the dead of winter, we drank ​julmust, ​Scandinavian holiday soda.

Victoria showed me it is okay to take risks, like she did by leaving Sweden and traveling to the U.S. just a month after high school. She encouraged me study passionately but leave time to explore. Victoria taught me to go forth into the world. Sometimes, we would grab our cameras or buy a disposable camera and go into New York City. Victoria would cover her eyes, point to a part of the subway map, and as she put it: “let the winds take us there.” On these trips we found old antique shops, hidden delis, new streets and sounds and smells. I documented it all on my camera and in my mind, capturing faces, buildings and street art to keep for later. As a journalist, I am a storyteller, and Victoria showed me that I can write my own life’s story, so long as I take the first step and try.

Victoria left recently; the winds took her elsewhere. She now pops up on my phone in pictures taken in Copenhagen, or a video posted from Crete. As of right now, she is somewhere in Thailand, probably inspiring others with her joy for living and travel, her understanding that time is in the present.

Someday I will live like Victoria, even if just for a little while. I am a journalist, writer and language-nerd. I yearn to see new places, meet new people and learn more things. I dream of colorful markets, unfamiliar cities and new museums. Victoria showed me to take my best qualities and set myself loose on the world, to breathe free and dance in the sunlight.

Posted on Creative Writing

Naubelt Saintil

My knee scraped on the curb as I knelt beside Naubelt Saintil’s taxi, but I wouldn’t notice the bruise until later. I was fixated on his story, and struggling to capture as much of it as I could in my reporter’s notebook. I wrote furiously, perspiring in the July sunlight. My journalistic senses were taking in his words, the frayed French Bible on his lap, and the multicolored idol of the Virgin Mary swinging from his rearview mirror.

Moments earlier, I had been wandering the unfamiliar streets of Evanston, Illinois, searching for a compelling feature article for my journalism class. The assignment, given that morning, was to report on an undiscovered niche in the city; my first draft would be due in eight hours.

A group of hair salons, located in a row, caught my eye: could there be a story here about business competition? I stepped into the first salon, ringing the bell as I entered, and found myself being sized up by a group of sharp-eyed Midwestern women. A teenage boy with a notebook and a backpack: I wasn’t there for a blow-out. One hairdresser, with bright blue eyeshadow and glossy black hair whipped into a halo around her head, asked, “Could ya come back next month?” My other inquiries for an interview were met with an echo of blunt refusals.

With just a few hours left, I returned to the street empty-handed. When I am on a deadline, I have no time to waste. I needed a story.

I scoured my surroundings, pausing to survey the street around me for something out of place, a hint of anything unusual.

As I passed the local Hilton I saw a line of idling taxis, each with an equally idle driver. Had they been put out of business by ride-sharing apps like Uber? Cautiously, I approached the first driver in the line. She frowned, answered a few questions curtly, and looked away. Undeterred, I moved to the next unenthusiastic driver, and the next. Still, there had to be something here, and I was going to find it.

Then I met Saintil.

The rumble of his taxi’s engine melted into the faint radio static. He returned my greeting with a resonant Haitian accent. “Parlez-vous français?” I asked, to his surprise. “Oui,” he said, sitting up in his seat and grinning. Saintil and I spoke for a few minutes in French, as I tried to establish the rapport vital to a good interview.

Switching to English, Saintil told me about his children, their needs, and his worries about finding a new job at the age of 60 as his business stagnates. He spoke of days when whole mornings would pass by without a customer, and of hotel guests who wait an hour for Ubers instead of using his available taxi.

I interviewed other drivers, including a Nigerian-American real estate agent and father of five, and a quiet, middle-aged single mother worried about supporting her family. One driver told me he had been on the streets since before sunrise, and had yet to find a passenger. There was a trend appearing here. I knew I had found a story.

I returned to class that evening with a notebook filled with the vibrant stories of once thriving drivers, who are now struggling to survive. I witnessed the human side of a collapsing industry. With their life experiences in my voice recorder and notes, it became my journalistic duty and privilege to make their stories tangible; their struggles and successes read, recorded and remembered. Though Saintil thanked me when we finished our interview, I realized that I was more grateful to him, for giving me, and the world, his story.

Posted on Creative Writing

night in the hills

next to us, an abandoned car adorned with na, na, nachma, nachman…
we had seen them around, read their slogan plastered on alley bricks
those crazy men, with their joy and certainty and sabbath cheer
we brushed them off, extremists, as we peered into our phones, searching for meaning
on friday nights and the extremists peered into each other’s eyes, having found it already…

they came through the streets, white caps topped with string, yelling
they were drunk, elhanan said, they used drugs and called it religion
the men jumped and ran in circles, grabbing each other and holding on
they made their way down mahane yehuda, through the shuk,
their bodies expressed their joy, their voices rose up in unison

the men were happy. the wome—

we had heard the na, na, nachma, nachman hasidim camping in the judean
mountains, that night.
we had pitched our tents, shaken ants from our pads and pillowcases
clutched each other in the dark, listening to their chanting

they clamored for hours, screaming and whooping
they had set up camp in the mountains, their cars adorned with graffiti,
parked by their encampment. they set up speakers, heavy with bass and whining with treble,
blasting rhythmic music
into the mountains of their quiet ancestors
we’re back, they screamed, without words, their beat shook our tent
their hopes have their home in the hills.
they danced and sang as i truly wished to dance and sing
i fell asleep, longing.

•••

the mystics descended to the mountain spring
the night had shaken with the breslover beats
we wiped sleep, little of it, from our eyes
we made eye contact with the men at the spring

g-d’s breath, a flash of sunlight too bright

a brief nod, a smile
at this spring, this ancient mikveh, i washed the fatigue from my body
the men took off their knit kippot, leaving them on folded trousers
they stood in the sun, immersing one by one in the frigid waters

Posted on Creative Writing

friday, jerusalem

it’s this way, Jeremy pointed, our eyes met his long finger
the masses all moved in one direction, long black skirts brush bricks
the whole world felt like it was closing in on m—
we merged inwards, absorbed by the mass, we made it to the left lane
i’m suffocating there are too many people, too much to think about
cars stop on shabbat but no one mentions the human traffic
we continue downwards, labyrinthine streets lit by belief—
people running somewhere, we’re all from here right, why do i feel so lost the old city feels like it’s mourning something, i don’t know what
the unknowable, untouchable Divine made himself present here?
only a few feet away g-d was right up there on top of that—
my great-great-grandfather dreamt about this place as he bound
pale, shtetl arms in the leather strappings of our—
gam al ha’af, the soldier yells, i pull my mask up over my nose
we turn the corner the throbbing crowd, screaming at g-d
pushed into one corral of prayer we stand and begin to sing
a group of men with black hats grab each other, sweating, vibrating
•••
a glimmer of the dome up above looks down upon us—
my friend, wouldn’t hurt a fly, points to it—
“one day, one day,”
“one day what?” I ask, knowing the response
“one day it will be ours”
but isn’t it idolatry to focus on this one pl—
won’t that involve unnecessary bloodshe—
•••
the merrymakers below are oblivious to the eyes above,
watching the streams of humans, the huddled masses
as they celebrate, but mostly writhe and sob and wander, utterly lost—
the eyes above could be g-d or could be soldiers with uzis does it
really matter, if both can smite—
•••
a knowing eye looks down upon us
and smiles at our innocence