Poems From Aba

We own two bookshelves that have inspired two homes. The mahogany stretches from the floor to the heavens, decorated with classic English novels, winemaking journals, prayer books, and Hebrew literature. Partaking in study and profound thought is a fundamental Jewish value, and one my father takes to heart. Aba is a winemaker, but he’d rather replace the chemical formulas with prosodic puzzles. He loves wine for its flavors, its traditions, the fertile land it grows on, and the music it inspires.  Over the dinner table, he brings ancient stories to life, but even more so, he loves to recite modern miracles too.

My father grew up in Rockland County, New York. He dated my mother in high school, and they found each other again by the end of college. Eventually the couple moved to Israel, where my father served as a paratrooper and my mother worked for the Jerusalem Post. After six years, circumstances drew my parents back to the US, one of which being my father’s desire to receive a master’s degree in viticulture and enology. He began studying at Fresno State in 2002, and in May 2005, had his first and only daughter.

Childhood was simple and comfortable in northeast Fresno. My parents infused Judaism into our lives , making every holiday and Shabbat feel special in our household. However, by the time I was in kindergarten, my parents longed to return to Israel, and I grew up being told that Fresno was only our temporary home. We frequently discussed leaving, but never did. By the time I graduated high school, I was fatigued by Fresno’s small town feel, and excited to immerse myself in other places. So, before heading off to college, I decided to take a gap year in Israel. 

I’d only been living in Jerusalem for a month when Hamas terrorists infiltrated the southern border, kidnapping and murdering thousands of people. Israel would soon engage in war, and so would the entire online world. Antisemitism and Islamophobia become more prevalent than ever, and my optimism in humanity begins to falter. In the days following October 7th, 2023, my father sends me a poem by the renowned Israeli poet Yehudi Amichai. 

An Arab Shepherd is Searching for His Goat on Mount Zion

An Arab shepherd is searching for his goat on Mount Zion

And on the opposite hill I am searching for my little boy.

An Arab shepherd and a Jewish father

Both in their temporary failure.

Our two voices met above

The Sultan's Pool in the valley between us.

Neither of us wants the boy or the goat

To get caught in the wheels

Of the "Had Gadya" machine.

Afterward we found them among the bushes,

And our voices came back inside us

Laughing and crying.

Searching for a goat or for a child has always been

The beginning of a new religion in these mountains.

Amichai was born in Germany in 1924, but lived in Israel for most of his life. He fought in the 1948 Independence War, an experience that began to craft his voice. Amichai makes the claim that “all poetry is political,” as everyday life is a reaction to politics, and poetry is a reaction to life. “An Arab Shepherd is Searching for His Goat on Mount Zion,” published in 1987, is a literal representation of the political landscape. There stands two people with a valley of religious and cultural differences between them, but in that same valley is a universally understood love. The “Had Gadya machine” is in reference to the song that concludes the Passover seder, themed with the cyclical nature of persecution and violence. In this poem, both the Arab shepherd and Jewish father meet in the space between their two worlds in pursuit of saving a loved one. It is often in this space between where people become defensive, choosing to send a dog to “bite the cat that ate the goat,” like sung in “Had Gadya,” in order to protect their own. Amichai challenges this trope. 

Amichai provides an alternative definition of faith. Religion is not extensive customs and rituals, but how we behave in intimate circumstances. It is how we treat our neighbor, especially when they face the valley opposite from us. Humanity “has always been the beginning of a new religion,” Amichai attests through his poetry. This is what my father assures me of, when I decide to remain in Israel and grapple with the aftermath of tragedy. He tells me that I embody the Jewish value of tikkun olam (repairing the world), when I volunteer in agricultural, childcare, and hospitality roles in place of those who are displaced or called to military reserves. At this time, I lose touch with childhood friends who are more comfortable placing blame than making the effort to understand. Aba reminds me that wickedness is taught, and that human nature is kind. I wrestle with nuance while I recognize education and empathy as a language of love. It is one of the most difficult chapters of my life, but it is not lonely. My father is present through the lines of poetry. I find a wholehearted appreciation that I was raised to greet the world with open arms, and that the word “hate” never knelled through the walls of my Fresno home.

Nor would it echo through our new, unfurnished hallways. October 7th provides my parents with a novel urgency to move back to Israel, a plan set in motion while I complete my first year at UCSB. The act of moving to a country at war is counter-intuitive, and especially upsetting for my nine-year-old brother. However, my father promises that we are moving to “contribute to the goodness of the country,” a statement that resonates with us all. It is the summer of 2025 when our tall, yellow walls are lined with boxes, and Aba forwards me a poem by the author Taha Muhamad Ali. 

Twigs

Neither music,

fame, nor wealth,

not even poetry itself,

could provide consolation

for life’s brevity,

or the fact that King Lear

is a mere eighty pages long and comes to an end,

and for the thought that one might suffer greatly

on account of a rebellious child.

My love for you

is what’s magnificent,

but I, you, and the others,

most likely,

are ordinary people.

My poem

goes beyond poetry

because you

exist

beyond the realm of women.

And so

it has taken me

all of sixty years

to understand

that water is the finest drink,

and bread the most delicious food,

and that art is worthless

unless it plants

a measure of splendor in people’s hearts.

After we die,

and the weary heart

has lowered its final eyelid

on all that we’ve done,

and on all that we’ve longed for,

on all that we’ve dreamt of,

all we’ve desired

or felt,

hate will be

the first thing

to putrefy

within us.

Ali was a Palestinian poet born in 1931 and raised the Galilee. Upon the 1948 war, he and his family fled to Lebanon before settling in Nazareth a year later. Ali was self-educated and a lover of both Arabic and English literature. Displacement from his hometown lended itself to a challenging childhood. While Ali releases this pain through his poetry, he is quick to expose what he relishes in life as omnipresent, and that saving space for hatred is proportionally pointless. “Twigs” is Ali’s most distinguished piece, which grapples with “life’s brevity.” The poet suggests that everything is art, though its worth lies in the eyes of its beholder. Ali has come to realize that the simplest elements, such as water and bread, are truly most exceptional if assessed through a tender lens. To preface this, he examines the existential awe that people experience in romantic love. He describes his love as “magnificent,” although this feeling belongs to “ordinary people.” In the final stanza of  “Twigs,” Ali presents the aftermath of our lives. He claims that the commodities, endeavors, and people that are perceived in magnificence linger in memory, while the things we choose to hate are what begin our decay. My father loves this piece simply because it is beautiful. He believes in every word, and commends Ali’s rejection of dehumanization. 

Shortly after my family’s move, I embark on a ten day tour called Perspectives, traveling throughout Israel with a cohort of Jewish and non-Jewish students from UCSB. On this trip, we gather stories about life in Israel from people with diverse religions, cultures, backgrounds, and occupations. Two individuals that we meet with are Palestinians living in East Jerusalem. They are transparent about the hardships they’ve faced and some resentment they hold, but they are willing to greet us with open hearts. I think about Ali’s differentiation of anger and hatred as the group brainstorms ways to facilitate more nuanced conversations regarding the Middle East on our college campus. At various points on this program, a burst of overwhelming gratitude hits me. How lucky I am to intimately know the stunning mosaic that resembles the land of Israel! How lucky I am to be a part of it. 

As the trip concludes and I begin the school year, something remains unresolved. I find that my Israeli identity, as well as my relationship with my family, has been colored with complications. As the third generation of my family to grow up in the United States, I feel so blatantly American in my accent, mannerisms, and values. When I attempt to speak Hebrew, my brain screeches to a halt and my tongue twists in knots. I worry that I will never be ‘Israeli enough.’ My parents were able to spend extensive time there as a young couple, and now my brother is spending the latter half of his childhood immersed in the language and culture of Israel. Meanwhile, I still feel like a tourist when I visit. Aba tells me that the only way to fix this is through the commitment of time. 

Lately, my father and I have not been seeing eye to eye about the definition of home. Living in Santa Barbara has brought me heaps of joy and countless opportunities. This place has allowed me to get involved in leadership in many spheres, including outdoor recreation, Jewish life, and magazine publication. It has also provided me with the closest friendships I’ve ever experienced, as well as a long-term romantic relationship. As I have expressed my profound love for the California coast to my father, he reminds me that college is temporary, and that my bedroom is waiting for me in Israel. I understand that he adores his family, and longs for us to belong in the same space. I also understand that for him, like for any father, witnessing his daughter grow up is an emotional stretch mark. 

Recently, a childhood lullaby visited my late night psyche. When I was young, my parents would take turns singing “Maya,” by Shalom Hanoch, as I melted into sleep. The English translation is as follows. 

Maya 

Mai, Mai, Maya

Maya, my little one.

What are you thinking?

What do you love about me? 

What was it about me Maya?

What has changed about me? 

Maya, reveal to me,

My little chickadee

Maya, Maya 

Nothing sounds 

As beautiful as calling you 

My girl 

Mai, Mai, Maya

Here, you’re 20 years old 

So what are you thinking?

What do you love about me? 

What was it about me, Maya? 

What has changed about me? 

Maya, reveal to me, 

My darling. 

Maya, Maya

Nothing was 

As beautiful as calling you

Maya, Maya

The lyrics reveal the relationship between Hanoch and his own Maya, which happens to parallel the relationship between my Aba and I. While he loves me unconditionally, he feels sentimental for the innocence and wonder I held as a child. The line “here you are at twenty years old,” continues to yank on my heartstrings. Twenty was such a distant age, but now I am living it. Shabbat with my family was every Friday night, but now it is only a few times a year. I knew I’d be far from home, but 7,500 miles is a gaping aerospace that makes itself felt. I wipe tears in both directions. Aba reminds me that I’ve always cultivated vineyards with my sunshine smile and emotive eyes. He knows I am able to make any place my home. 

I am twenty, and Aba spends his days among grapevines on the other side of the globe. I am twenty, and Aba continues to send poetry as a reminder of love, and to inspire my openness toward the world. I am twenty, and I am able to exist in two different homes decorated with words and wisdom. I am twenty, and my blessings have changed and grown. L’chaim!