The poems in this post are part of a special section, curated by Ori Z Soltes and Robert Bettmann, The Jewish Experience.
the death of hope
and this,
she tells me,
might be the saddest part:
the kibbutzim burned,
the inhabitants reduced
to anonymous ashes,
the parents of those
innocent babies
ripped from their beds,
the elderly dragged like rag-dolls
tossed on motorcycles,
chained in dark tunnels,
the young women raped
mercilessly, repeatedly,
blood streaming down their legs,
that young man who had
his arm blown off, the
youth who were just
trying to dance,
they were the peacemakers,
the yearners, the dreamers,
the ones who would drive
Palestinians across the border for medical treatment,
the ones who organized soccer games
to unite Israeli and Palestinian children,
they were the ones
who were on “their sides”
the true pro-Palestine;
and now
she says,
despair haunting her eyes,
they’re dead.
these days
here are our days, every day:
wake up. remember. pain in my chest.
pray I don’t see the names of
our cousins, our friends
on the list of the dead.
feel guilty because why should any
mother-brother-father-husband-wife
have to suffer that?
why should any of us feel relief
when every single one of them is family?
these days
the pain beats
like an extra heart
a pain twice desecrated
when people I used to call friends
only fill their Instagram stories
with “free Palestine”
and it never ends with
“from Hamas”
and they never march to free the
240 innocents ripped from their
homes, their cribs, their beds and
they never condemn the horrific
torture, rape, slaughter of young
men and women who just wanted
to dance.
is it because they’re ignorant?
is it the news’ bias?
did they just join the bandwagon of blame?
(is it still that easy, a mere 80 years after “never again?”)
if it weren’t my family, my friends, my nation
would I fall into the same trap?
or do they really hate us so much
that they can justify
the hunting down of innocents
as long as those innocents bear
a blue and white stamp?
i’m constantly oscillating between
pain-hurt-rage
constantly begging for at least
a silent majority
that’s quietly enraged
desperate for reassurance that
it’s just the extremists
that most know the difference
between a four year-old child
stolen from her bed
and an adult in jail
for stabbing
because anything’s better
than knowing that they saw
this all happen
that they understand
and still—again—
they turned away;
still—again—
they ignored it.
anything’s better
than wondering
if they actually do hate
us that much,
actually do
hate me.
prove me wrong.
please.
i’m begging.
there are no words in English
for this despair; only
from the ancients:
“zeakah”—
a primal scream.
in the merit of our forefathers
genesis 22:1-18
and it came to pass
after Abraham had
faced the flames
and the famine,
abandoned his father’s land,
fought the four and five,
endangered his wife,
sent away his firstborn son
to starve in the desert sun,
that’s when the G-d of Justice
threw the real test at him,
asked him to offer up
his only remaining love,
as if his own scarred flesh
wasn’t enough.
and how could he turn back,
after all of that?
so early in the morning
he arose, saddled his ass,
plucked along his two servants
and his beloved son,
flung the wood into his sack.
hey came to the place
after three days
and Yitzhak stood, stunned,
as his father solemnly
arranged the wood.
there’s never a good time
to become a sacrifice,
so Abraham withdrew
the knife
without delay,
hoping that the protests
of the Merciful One
might stand in his way.
but this time
even the Mercy of Heaven
could not deign to stop him,
HaShem turned away His face
and only His angels were left
to prevent the bloodbath.
but though the boy lay
heaving on the table,
the breath of life
still in his struggling lungs,
it was already
too late.
the damage
had been done
for generations
to come.
by Myself, I swear,
declared the no longer Merciful One,
that because you have done this
and not held back your son,
your only son, the one you loved,
forever will your children suffer.
through your descendants,
every single nation of the earth
will single you out
for persecution and annihilation,
without repentance or regret.
just as you did not show mercy
to your own flesh and blood
your people will receive the mercy
of no one, forever damned
to face blame.
this will not be the last altar you will build,
you will not be the last parent to lay weeping
over your child’s lifeless body.
forever will your children
be condemned as sacrifices.
and Abraham called that place,
“The G-d of Mercy will see,”
but that G-d of Mercy was
never again witnessed,
and that altar
became the place
of our national
unraveling.

Danielle Fisher’s work has been published in Valiant Scribe, The Sunlight Press, Intrinsick Magazine, JewishFiction.net, The Jewish Literary Journal, JOFA Journal, Poetica, Hevria Magazine, and Aish.com. Her fiction manuscript about a small Jewish town who discovers their Torah magically growing– for which she is currently seeking publication–was recognized as the winning historical fiction manuscript of the Writer League of Texas’ 2020 Manuscript Contest and a finalist in the fantasy category. Additionally, her short story, “Soles and Souls,” excerpted from the manuscript, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. You can read her work at danielleresh.com.
Featured image in this post: The first soccer match on the Y.M.C.A. athletic field in Jerusalem: finals of the Palestine police, GPO photographer, creative commons via wikimedia commons.