As April comes to a close, the Jewish Gauchos are reflecting on many a Passover memory of this month, and Pesachs of years past. And as for the future, L’chaim to next year in Jerusalem! We asked and you answered! Here are the results of our passover preferences poll… Matzah Brei should be.... Do you eat matzah outside of Pesach? How long is your seder before the meal comes out? I prefer to finish my seder off with a few rounds of rage cage Pesach is one of the more accessible Jewish holidays for introducing non-Jews to our tradition. They get to join us in the seder, where we explain every drop of wine we consume and tell the story that will take them on the path of most guilt as they dip parsley in the symbolic tears of our ancestors. Yes, a little crazy for an intro to Judaism, but accessible nonetheless! For the first time during college, I was able to go home for a seder with my family and friends. This year, as my brother and I’s friends now fall into the adult category, the Breier siblings have begun a new tradition of leaving wine glasses at the table, trading them for red solo cups on the patio, and finding our afikomen in liquid form. My parents have long been maintaining the tradition of welcoming our non-Jewish friends to our seders, perhaps because we could all use a tiny break from the big family gathering chaos. But it’s also because our friends have enjoyed learning about our traditions through seder participation so much that they ask to come again each year. Since graduating college and being farther from many of his close friends, my brother has had to get creative and intentional with his social time and welcoming friends to our house to hang out (or pregame). It only takes a few red solo cups, that my mom then washes for him to reuse, to transform our backyard table and bring a taste of college to home. With a family friend about to graduate college, and her younger brother about to go off to college, we banded together after the seder to give young Elliot a little college orientation. His big sis even took down a bitch cup for him. The child too young to ask has now gained wisdom to spread to the socially dead of UCSD in the fall. My family’s deep value for sharing our home and our traditions has carried on throughout my life, and I carry it with me here at UCSB, inviting all friends to join me in my celebrations of community at Chabad and Hillel. Creating new traditions may A Pandemic Passover, contributed by Nadiv Meltzer In 2020, the world shut down right before Pesach. Amongst heart breaking losses such as not getting my driver’s license and missing the dissection unit in Chemistry, it also meant that my family could not get together for the first night Seder, a tradition I have looked forward to every single year I can remember. Now, I’m “lucky” enough to be from a big family, so my grandma, parents, three sisters, and I all gathered around the table. Because my father is a Rabbi, he utilized Zoom and streamed the seder to our entire congregation. The local newspaper decided to run a story about it, which meant we had a socially-distanced photographer stand in our side yard and take a picture of us, sitting around the Seder table, with the laptop Zoom-ing to the whole congregation. I wore basketball shorts with my button-up shirt, as was the Zoom fashion. Nowadays, although Pesach is one of my absolute favorite holidays because the whole family gets together in person, our 2020 Zoom Seder is a fond memory and perhaps even a microcosm of the perseverance and resilience of spirit that is so embodied by the story of the Israelite’s Exodus from Egypt. Maya’s Matzah Meals Pesach is always a time to get creative, from the classics like matzah pizza, to more elaborate and honestly unnecessary innovations like Matzah sushi. When you’re camping on Pesach, it might take putting yourself back into the sandals of the Israelites walking through the desert to piece together some meals with your matzah. Fig and Vine editor and resident adventurer Maya Kaye is no stranger to getting scrappy and making do with what you’ve got in the name of an excursion. When her camping trip with the excursion club overlapped with Pesach, she knew that at least no bears or fellow campers would be fighting for her stash of matzah. First on the menu for the excursion was chili, vegetarian for Maya. Cornbread or biscuits were replaced with the delightful dip of cardboard! I mean, matzah. Maya’s dipper was the talk of the group, getting those excursioners to adventure with their food. Up next was sandwiches to fuel the day of hiking. The fuel came in the form of turkey and bread, but no Kosher meat meant that cheese and lettuce had to take the spotlight in Maya’s sandwich. Matzah is not great for many things, but it makes a great mess of crumbs. Nothing like a dry pile of matzah, lettuce, and cheese to make you appreciate the outdoors. Maya’s cheese, lettuce, and matzah sandwich… well, sand.

This risograph zine is a reflection on my grandparents, their home in Israel, and the memories held within it. I was born in Israel and moved to the United States with my family when I was six years old. Immigrating here, we left behind our family, friends, language, and sense of place. As months turned into years, California eventually became my home. Although I've spent the majority of my life in the U.S., my Israeli identity is just as important, as my family has maintained our culture, language, and values within our home. Whenever I return to Israel, I stay with my grandparents in their apartment, a space that holds years of personal and collective memory. Their home is deeply tied to my sense of family and belonging. The building itself is old, and they are now, after more than 50 years, mandated to move out permanently so it can be renovated. They must say goodbye to the place they have long called home. This past year, my family has experienced significant loss and grief. Alongside the loss of loved ones, the displacement from this home has further deepened that sense of rupture. This book is an attempt to hold onto what remains, to reflect on memory, family, and the complicated process of loss.

The Heart I grew up savoring vegetables because of Ema. As a vegetarian, she insisted that her veggie dishes never sit politely as a side, but eloquently speak for themselves. Beet salad with an arugula base, eggplant topped with honey and goat cheese, and zucchini layered lasagna were all household delicacies. However, there was nothing I loved more than my mother’s artichoke. Perhaps what made it special was its simple preparation: a single glide of the knife to remove the vegetable’s thorny crown, followed by a 45 minute boil. She would then make two dipping sauces, one being the juice of a freshly squeezed lemon, the other a blend of seeded dijon mustard and mayo. Artichoke would appear on the table for every little occasion, such as straight A’s, birthdays, and Shabbat dinners. With an artichoke placed upon it, my plate became a swirling volute, generating and propelling my life. My parents were born and raised in Rockland County, New York. They were high school sweethearts, on and off through 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 (and a wedding facing the Jerusalem skyline), 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. Meanwhile, my mother worked as a graphic designer, though she enjoyed tangible mediums as well. Just as I completed kindergarten, we upgraded from our dreary rental and purchased a sunny, yellow home. Ema was immediately putting paintbrush to canvas, conjuring abstractions of her favorite places to hang perpendicularly to our new front door. Both my parents loved to keep their hands busy. When Aba wasn’t at the winery or on his desktop, he was in the kitchen. My father absorbed his culinary skillset from undergraduate courses in hospitality. He never shied away from an extra sprinkle of paprika or splash of olive oil to enhance flavor. He also insisted that time is an essential ingredient of every dish. Whenever Aba made challah, the dough would sit out for hours to rise both before and after being shaped. I love challah as an intersection of food and art. I was taught how to braid challah before I knew how to braid my own hair. The under-over motions ebb through me, and so does the spiral pull-apart of an artichoke. I do not remember the first time my parents and I sat around our kitchen table, each undertaking the globe, rapidly contributing to the pile of discarded bracts. Artichoke is a vegetable that takes effort. It requires the labor of both hands and the lower jaw to even graze at its quiddity. A special intimacy exists in conversation interwoven with unfastening, scraping, and relinquishing every layer of artichoke, until all impedimenta is placed in the center of the table, and a soft heart is pulsing on each plate. The Stem A facet of my childhood was accompanying Aba on vineyard visits across California. I became thoroughly familiar with the highways leaving the Central Valley, and with the varieties of crops grown beside the road. Aba would quiz me constantly. Are these pistachios or almonds? Clementines or lemons? Lettuce or kale? On our way to a plot in Salinas, we passed endless fields dabbed with purple and brushstroked with green. “Look Maya, these are where your artichokes come from.” However, Central Coast farm to Central Valley table only sits at the end of the story. Artichokes originate from western Mediterranean and North African domains. They were incipiently enjoyed for their spiny leaves, rather than the bud of the immature flower that we cherish today. In ancient Rome, the archaic artichoke was an adoration of the noble and wealthy. Artichokes lost popularity after the fall of the Roman empire, but continued to be cultivated by Arabs, who eventually brought them to Spain. Artichokes reappeared in Italy during the Renaissance period, having now developed its modern, spherical flower head. It wasn’t long until the thistle gained traction in France as well. Around the same time, Spanish settlers began introducing artichokes to the California coast, as the mild, foggy climate allowed for the cultivation of a taste of home. However, the California artichoke only became a thriving industry decades after the arrival of Italian immigrants in the late 1800s. By 1910, artichokes were shipped to Italian communities on the East Coast, and by 1920, the town of Castroville was supplying the United States with two thirds of its artichokes. Today, California grows nearly 100% of the artichokes that appear in supermarkets across the nation. The Outer Bracts On drives home, I would slump in the backseat while my father played Hebrew CDs. He sang along with ease while I choked on velar fricatives. Fresno has a Jewish population of 0.4%, so a large portion of my Jewish and Israeli identity felt insulated in our home. However, my parents did a phenomenal job of nurturing Jewish joy, rather than buckling into our otherness. We had Shabbat dinner each Friday night, and we committed ourselves to the spirit of every holiday. Judaism just so happens to demand food-centric tradition, although my parents have added their own flair. Apple turnip soup on Rosh HaShanah, roasted root vegetables on Passover, and homemade cheesecake on Shavuot represents Jewish prosperity through a story of flavors. From slavery in Egypt to the Holocaust, a pride in our peoplehood has always existed, despite all odds. Judaism is a dichotomy of the most vanquishing sorrows and uproarious jubilations. We take this in stride. To summarize the lion’s share of Jewish holidays, there’s a saying that goes, “they tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat!” “We need to eat to survive,” voiced Roman Jews. In 1555, Pope Paulus IV issued Cum Nimis Absurdum, walling Jews into a seven acre (0.01 square mile) ghetto. Over 300 years, the ghetto’s population rose to 8,000 as Jews continued to lose more of their rights, such as the attainability of many ingredients in their living quarters. However, Sephardic Jews exiled from the Iberian Peninsula had just reintroduced artichokes to Italy. Non-Jewish Italians were intimidated by the prickly thistle, and therefore artichokes were allocated for the Jews. They had to be creative in how they prepared these vegetables, minding kashrut while making the most of their limited ingredients. Taking inspiration from Roman fried food, Carciofi alla Giudia (which translates to Jewish-style artichokes) became a staple in the ghetto. Carciofi alla Giudia requires few components as a double-deep-fried artichoke, sometimes garnished with lemon and salt. The dish immediately became a sensation across all of Rome. The ghetto was liberated in 1888 and today, Carciofi alla Giudia is a representation of Jewish tenacity at a dire time. The Inner Bracts Half a century later, Jews across Europe were faced with the horrors of the Holocaust. A multitude of miracles allowed for all of my great grandparents to enter the United States by the 1930s. My dad’s side came from Germany and Poland, and my mom’s side from Russia, Czechoslovakia, and Romania. Their beginnings in the US weren't easy, and my parents were the first generation to not grow up at poverty’s whim. Despite the hardships of relocating and entering new livelihoods, my great grandparents valued the continuation of our Jewish tradition. A way they brought this to forethought was through their diet. I come from a lineage of kosher kitchens, though with various levels of rigidity. In the sun-flooded kitchen where I grew up, my family only ate certified kosher meats, never mixed meat and dairy, and had separate dishes for meat and dairy meals. Since moving out, I’ve made a home in other kitchens, but have opted to observe kashrut just the same. I choose to keep kosher for its nod to my identity, its religious implications, and its guidelines to consume healthily and ethically. The Leaves Although my parents observed kashrut, their childhood menus looked much different than mine. Aba recalls a plentitude of carbs paired with soggy, overcooked vegetables – typical American home cuisine during the 70s-80s. His parents didn’t invest in a microwave until later, so his meals were prepared in the oven or on the stovetop. He grew up with broccoli, carrots, potatoes, celery, green peppers, and robust American cucumbers. He reports never seeing an avocado, eggplant, or mushroom at home, never mind an artichoke. In young adulthood, Aba worked in restaurants and participated in the Food and Beverage program at Rockland Community College. “I started bringing home these ‘strange’ vegetables to my parents house. They started to use them but it was problematic because my parents had an aversion to onions and garlic and all these vegetables are complemented by them. My parents, being very Ashkenazi, cooked everything in either corn oil or margarine, and there were very few herbs and spices,” he humorously recounts. Ema delineates a similar familiarity of produce in her childhood kitchen. She describes steamed frozen vegetables, string beans, and potatoes. She emphasizes the waxiness of the American cucumber, as well as her nostalgia for spitting out black watermelon seeds. Ema also mentions her parents’ love for making traditional Ashkenazi dishes. Matzah ball soup and cinnamon egg-noodle kugel were childhood staples, but she especially enjoyed my Pop-Pop’s matzah brie during Passover. At age 13, my mother made the choice to be vegetarian. For protein, she leaned on beans, especially chickpeas. “It starts with chickpeas and ends in bliss,” she proclaims. The Choke My parents broke out culinarily when they lived together in Jerusalem. They frequented Shuk Machane Yehuda, Jerusalem’s renowned outdoor market, purchasing uncharted produce and spices to experiment with at home. Persimmons, figs, and avocados added fresh new flavors, while cumin and za’atar enhanced the dishes they already loved. My parents shared their first artichoke at a friend’s apartment in 1997. They took more interest in the fibrous thistle after noticing the vibrant purple blooms of wild varieties among the countryside during a shmita year (Sabbatical year in which the land lies fallow). The Bible notes that when Adam and Eve were exiled from the Garden of Eden, God vowed to make the real world much more toilsome than their verdant paradise. Instead of fertile soil, Adam and Eve found themselves tending rocky, unyielding ground. According to Genesis 2:18, God told Adam that the ground would only spout kotz v’dardar (thorns and thistles), making food not impossible, but effortful to grow. It is only fitting that Jewish tradition recalls this tough flora as artichokes, a plant that has remained persistent since the creation of woman and man. The Talmud describes an abundance of artichokes throughout the Land of Israel in ancient times. They grew wild in the Galilee, but a cultivated alteration called kinras were commonly gathered as a food source. Today, the native wild species are still found across the country, as well as Globe and Violetto artichokes as modern cultivated varieties. It is mentioned in the Talmud that several rabbinic sages enjoyed kinras at their dinner tables. However, the labor that went into the harvest and preparation of the vegetable is emphasized. Artichokes are a complex gyre representing Jewish tradition and history. While the thistle challenges those who harvest, cook, and consume its contents, it has provided the Jewish people with nourishment for centuries. As the Romans forced Jews out of Israel upon destroying the Second Temple in 70 CE, then later the Bar Kokhba Revolt by 135 CE, the artichoke became a symbol of resilience in the diaspora. Tough outer bracts conceal the sharp pain of struggle and loss. However, the protective choke is thin compared to the heart – pride, tradition, song, peoplehood, and togetherness. The artichoke originated in the Mediterranean, and eventually spread westward to California. It paralleled the path of my ancestral and generational lineage. Finally, my parents returned to Israel, relishing in the sweet and nutty notes of the native vegetable, embracing the flavor of home, and later, infusing it into my Golden State upbringing. Bless you Adonai, ruler of the universe, who creates the fruits of the ground. ברוך אתה אדוני אלוהינו מלך העולם בורא פרי האדמה. Cynarine My tiny fingers dance around the artichoke. I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve, but I am face-to-face with a vegetable that protects it at all costs. I take a swig of water, and it is sweet. Little do I know about cynarine, a compound that exists within the premature blossom that inhibits the sweet flavor receptors on my tongue. Whatever next greets the backside of my teeth reawakens my taste buds, as if steeped in sucrose or coated in honey. This is the secret of the artichoke; it shares its magic with everything else. Sunlight streaming into our yellow kitchen illuminates cherished memories of learning to cook and bake. Since then, I have exchanged recipes, including the simple boiled artichoke, with all the people I’ve come to love. How wonderful it was to grow up nestled between the artichoke leaves, deriving sweetness from every word exchanged over steamy bites. How miraculous it was to grow up nestled between the artichoke leaves, sanctioned to live softly, to divulge every fiber of my heart.

The Portland Trail Blazers lost; they’re out of the NBA Playoffs. This hasn’t come as a surprise. The seventh-seeded Blazers were eliminated after scraping one win off of the San Antonio Spurs, the team currently boasting the second-highest odds at winning the championship. Any other year and casual NBA fans from around the country would collectively shrug as another wanna-be-underdog-story ends anticlimatically. But this year, many flooded to social media sites like X in a crude celebration not for the victory of the young and talented Spurs, but for the demise of the “zionist apologist,” “war criminal,” “IDF terrorist” Deni Avdija (all tweets from the last 24 hours). Politics were never Deni’s intention. He served part of his mandatory service in the IDF before his “exceptional athlete” exemption let him leave early. “I obviously stand for my country,” said the Blazer forward in a January interview with the Basketball Network. But still, even for that interview, Deni continues to get online hate simply because he is Israeli. This is an all-too-common story for Israelis in American culture. So as a small todah to all of these brave representatives who have faced xenophobia in the wake of their successes, I’ve compiled a list of some of the most prominent young Israelis today, from athletes to movie stars. Deni Avdija We had to start the list with Deni, who just this year became the first ever Israeli all-star in the NBA. In the last month, Deni had the second-highest scoring playoff debut game of all time with 41 points, brought the Trail Blazers to their first playoff appearance in five years, and finished third in the voting for Most Improved Player. He has been representing his country strongly, having won gold in back-to-back U20 European championships in 2018 and 2019. The 25-year-old had by far the best season of his career, despite all the hate. Ben Saraf / Danny Wolf These two Israeli rookies combine with Deni as the only three Israeli players in the NBA. At three, they set the record for the most Israelis ever in the league. Both these pros play in Brooklyn, which has seen an alarming uptick in anti-semitic events. Yet to truly feature in the Nets’ squad, Saraf and Wolf will appreciate the two more seasons before Israel challenges for a medal at the 2028 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles. Anastasia Gorbenko Gobrenko is a 22-year-old swimmer from Haifa. Already, she has won 8 World and European gold medals while breaking most of the Israeli national records for women’s swimming. After winning silver in the 2024 World Aquatics Championships in Qatar, Gorbenko was booed while on the podium. “I’m proud to represent my country,” said Gorbenko after the ceremony. An Israeli of Ukrainian heritage, Gorbenko has had to stay remarkably strong to exist in this world, let alone to break swimming records. Odeya Rush The 28-year-old Israeli actress is quickly becoming a household name. With major roles in The Giver, Goosebumps, and Lady Bird in the mid-2010s, Rush is now a star-level actress. She has the lead role in the new comedy-horror Corporate Retreat which has already debuted at the Brussels International Fantastic Film Festival and is coming out on May 22nd in the U.S. Rush lived in Haifa until her family moved to Alabama when she was nine. She is unapologetic about her support for Israel, often helping bridge the gap between America’s sensationalized media and real events happening in Israel. Max Oleartchik Max is the oldest person on this list. He is a 39-year-old bassist from a musical family. His father, Alon Oleartchik, has been a Polish-Israeli rock singer since the 1970s. Alon’s father, Max Olearczyk, was a Polish composer in the 1940s and 1950s. Grandson Max was part of the four-piece indie-rock band Big Thief from 2016-2024. As a founding member of the band, he was a massive part of their first five albums. Their most recent album, Double Infinity, which he was not involved in the creation of, features lines that seem to reference him and his absence. The song Los Angeles in particular, with lines like “two years feels like forever,” seems to be about Max. Today, Oleartchik is an active advocate for peace in the Middle East. He shows how to openly show frustration with the Israeli government while still remaining a proud Israeli individual.

Beth, a young Ashkenazi-German Jewish woman who was raised in Berlin in the early 2000s. She went to college in California, where she met her now wife, Abaynesh. She loves to travel and spend all her time outdoors. Abaynesh: A Beta-Israel Jewish woman who was raised in Tel Aviv in the early 2000s before her family moved to California. She loves art and culture, bringing a new life to everything that she touches. Spotify- Not Perfect, Still Ours Let’s set the scene! Beth and Abaynesh just got home from their honeymoon abroad! They’ve planned a special Shabbat with both of their families at their newly established home in rural California. The gravel crunched louder than Beth expected. She stood in the doorway of their small rural California house, dish towel in hand, watching the first car pull up in a cloud of pale dust. The late afternoon light stretched everything long and golden—the fence posts, the oak trees, the thin line of smoke already curling from the kitchen window. “They’re early,” she said, half to herself. “They’re always early,” Abaynesh replied from behind her, not looking up from the cutting board. “Your mother believes in preparedness as a spiritual value.” Beth turned, managing a tight smile. “It is a spiritual value.” Abaynesh grinned. “So is arriving with ten people at once and no warning.” As if on cue, a second car appeared behind the first. Beth groaned softly. “Oh no.” The door barely had time to open before voices filled the house. “Bethy!” Her mother stepped in first, arms already outstretched, carrying a covered dish balanced precariously in one hand. Behind her came her father, quieter, scanning the space with soft curiosity. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” her mother said immediately, already moving past Beth into the kitchen. “Smaller than I imagined, but charming.” “It’s exactly what we wanted,” Beth said, closing the door against the breeze. Before she could say anything else, the second car doors slammed in quick succession, and laughter—loud, overlapping, musical—carried up the path. Abaynesh didn’t wait. She slipped past Beth and flung the door open just as her family approached. “Enat!” she called, pulling her mother into a hug that seemed to fold time in on itself. Greetings overlapped—Hebrew, Amharic, English blending into something fluid and warm. Someone kissed cheeks, someone clasped hands, someone pressed a container into Beth’s arms before she could even register who had given it to her. For a moment, everyone crowded in the doorway. Then there was a pause—subtle, but real. Beth’s mother and Abaynesh’s mother both stepped toward the kitchen at the same time. They stopped. “Oh—please,” Beth’s mother said, gesturing. “No, no,” Abaynesh’s mother replied, smiling just as politely. Beth felt it like a held breath. Abaynesh broke it easily. “Or,” she said, slipping between them and taking both dishes, “we all go in and make a mess together.” The kitchen filled quickly. Beth tried to keep track of everything—what was going in the oven, what needed chopping, who needed space—but the rhythm she was used to kept slipping out of reach. Her mother measured carefully, narrating as she went. “If the oven runs even a little hot, it will burn the bottom—” Abaynesh’s aunt, beside her, added a handful of spice to a simmering pot without measuring at all. “It will be fine,” she said, tasting and adjusting again. “What is that?” Beth asked, hovering. “Just something small,” Abaynesh said, not looking up. “Taste.” Beth did. It was rich, unfamiliar, layered in a way she couldn’t immediately name. “It’s not what I expected,” she admitted. Abaynesh smiled. “That’s the point.” Beth laughed, but her eyes flicked to the oven. She forgot the challah. Not completely—just long enough. It was the smell that caught her, sharp and unmistakable. “Oh—no, no, no—” She rushed to the oven, pulling the loaf out too quickly, setting it down with a dull thud. The bottom was dark—too dark. Her chest tightened. “I ruined it.” “It’s not ruined,” Abaynesh said, glancing over. “It’s burnt.” “Only a little.” “It was supposed to be—” Beth stopped herself. Perfect, she almost said. Like home. Abaynesh took a knife, sliced off the worst of the bottom, and broke off a piece. She tasted it, chewed thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Still bread,” she said. “Still Shabbat.” Beth let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. As the sun dipped lower, the house shifted. Voices softened. Movements slowed. The table, mismatched and slightly too small, was filled with dishes that didn’t quite belong together and yet somehow did. When it was time, Beth reached instinctively for the matches. Abaynesh’s hand hovered near hers. They paused. Beth glanced up. There it was—the quiet question neither of them had fully asked yet. Whose way? Which words? Which rhythm? “Together?” Abaynesh said. Beth nodded. They lit the candles side by side. The blessing came out slightly uneven—Beth starting a fraction earlier, Abaynesh’s cadence different, their voices overlapping and then finding each other again. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t practiced. It was theirs. The candle tipped just after. A small, sudden shift—the table leg catching unevenly on the floor, or someone brushing past too quickly. The flame wavered, then leaned, wax spilling onto the table. “Wait—” “Careful—” Hands moved all at once, voices rising, chairs scraping. Then it was upright again. The flame steadied. Silence hung for half a second longer than necessary— —and then someone laughed. Soft at first, then louder. Another joined in. Soon, the whole table was laughing, the tension dissolving into something easier, lighter. Beth found herself laughing too, breathless. Dinner unfolded in layers. Dishes passed back and forth—some familiar, some entirely new. The flavors didn’t match in any traditional sense, but no one seemed to mind. Stories surfaced. Beth’s father spoke about Berlin winters, small Shabbat tables, and the careful preservation of tradition. Abaynesh’s mother spoke about Tel Aviv, about movement, about the older stories carried from Ethiopia. At first, people listened politely. Then they leaned in. Questions came—curious, not cautious. Laughter threaded through the heavier moments. Connections formed in unexpected places. Beth looked around the table and felt something shift—this wasn’t just a gathering. It was a weaving. She slipped into the kitchen without announcing it. The quiet hit her all at once. The hum of conversation dulled behind the wall, replaced by the soft clink of dishes and the faint crackle of candlelight. She leaned against the counter. “It’s a lot,” Abaynesh said from the doorway. Beth turned. “I wanted it to be perfect.” Abaynesh tilted her head. “Why?” “Because it’s our first one. Because both our families are here. Because—” Beth gestured vaguely toward the other room. “This matters.” Abaynesh stepped closer. “It is perfect.” Beth shook her head, half-laughing. “The challah is burnt. The candles almost fell over. I don’t even know if we did the blessing right.” Abaynesh reached past her, breaking off another piece of challah. She handed it to Beth. “Eat.” Beth did. “It tastes fine,” she admitted. “Exactly.” Beth looked at her. “You’re very relaxed about all of this.” “I’m not relaxed,” Abaynesh said. “I just don’t think perfect is the goal.” “Then what is?” Abaynesh smiled, glancing back toward the other room. “This.” It started with a voice—low, steady. A song Beth half-recognized. Someone else joined in, then another. The melody shifted slightly as it grew, different harmonies folding over each other. Hebrew words anchored it, but the tune moved—stretching, adapting. Abaynesh took Beth’s hand and pulled her back into the room. They stood at the edge at first, listening. Then Beth joined—tentative, then stronger. Abaynesh’s voice came in beside hers, different but fitting. It shouldn’t have worked, all those variations layered together. But it did. It filled the room. Later, the table broke into smaller circles. Parents compared stories. Siblings joked. Someone asked Beth what it had been like growing up Jewish in Berlin. Someone else asked Abaynesh about traditions Beth had never even heard of. The questions weren’t careful anymore. They were open. Beth sat back, watching it all. By the time the last car pulled away, the house was quiet again. The table was a mess—wax hardened in uneven pools, dishes stacked precariously, crumbs scattered everywhere. The challah, what remained of it, sat slightly lopsided on the counter. Beth looked at it and sighed. “I’m sorry.” Abaynesh raised an eyebrow. “For what?” “For… all of it not being—” She stopped herself. Abaynesh crossed the room, broke off the last piece of challah, and handed half to Beth. They stood there in the dim light, eating. “It didn’t go how I planned,” Beth said. “No,” Abaynesh agreed. Beth looked around—the mess, the remnants, the quiet after something full. “Everything that mattered still happened,” she said slowly. Abaynesh smiled. “Yes.” Beth leaned against her, the weight of the evening settling into something warm and steady. In the stillness of their home—the one they had just begun to build—nothing felt mismatched anymore.

I’ve always loved photography and the act of capturing bits and pieces of our busy lives. Taking a moment to pause is something that I think is so crucial and beautiful. That being said, here's a few moments I captured during spring break! Late night drag show - On the way to the drag show in North Hollywood, I noticed this eclectic window display for Saint Patricks day that I absolutely loved. It's a little disquieting but every piece fits uniformly in its place. Sunsets in my backyard - sunsets like these in my backyard in Thousand Oaks make me step out of my house and take a second to enjoy this beautiful moment with my family. Flowers in my front yard - The roses are in bloom this time of year. When I’m typically leaving my house in a hurry, noticing the roses makes me pause and appreciate the beauty only a few feet from my front door. Beach date - My boyfriend and I’s favorite beach in Malibu is so picturesque. We traditionally go there for sunset and bring a picnic with us. I feel so lucky to live in California where this beach is only 40 minutes from where I live at home. Goose! - The excitement of this moment is pretty self explanatory but the Disneyland geese and ducks are always a highlight of my trips to Anaheim. Fireworks over Matterhorn - Another picture from that same trip to Disneyland over spring break. I caught the tail end of the fireworks show from Tomorrowland, where the fireworks rise out over the Matterhorn in a breathtaking display. Back home - Returning to IV after spring break ended. I feel so lucky to be part of the incredible Jewish community we have here, one that makes me feel like when I am returning, I’m returning home.

Dearest Readers of Fig and Vine, You’ve made it through another February. It was a tough one, each year filled with more Instagram Valentine launches than the last. Did you find yourself thinking, when will it be my turn? When will I get to be the gross couple on some sad single soul’s Instagram feed? I’m here to help! Here is a Sonnet of love and deep desire, sure to lift you out of your lonely lull. Simply fill in the blanks, and to me you’ll be sharing your thanks. Sonnet 155 Oh _____ , the matzo ball of my eye! Down Camino Pescadero we go, As I confess_____, awaiting thy reply. Under Chabad lights, I stare at your punim aglow. Thou could be the Fig to my Vine, And we shall harvest a love full of _____. A love so fruitful we could boast it online, We’d decorate our feed with _____. Sure, we’re no Maya and Allen, Their roadtrip filled love measured by the gallon. But at least I’m no ginger, And you’re more than O-Kaye. Cupid points me straight to your _____. Boy am I glad that we matched on _____!

As a result of ongoing conflict surrounding Israel, the concept of “Zionism” is constantly being defined and redefined to fit different agendas. Although peaceful realization has long been an important aspiration, as it is for any project of national self-determination , Zionism does not demand blind faith in peace with those who violently deny Jewish indigenous rights, nor an unconditional commitment to political arrangements detached from conditions on the grounds.   Unfortunately, this idea was muddled in a recent articl e  in the JTA by Shanie Reichman.  She argues that Zionism entails a political resolution with Palestine as a necessary condition of the belief itself. She frames older generations of Jews, who have understandably become skeptical that peace is attainable as having “abandoned Zionism.”  This argument is flawed for so many reasons.  It’s worth saying explicitly that wanting peace is entirely consistent with Zionism, since the movement is fundamentally about Jews living freely and securely in Israel, and peaceful relations are often the most effective way to achieve that end. But Zionism has never demanded pacifism, nor does it obligate Jews or Israelis to pursue peace at any cost, regardless of violence, ideology, or repeated rejection by the other side.  Reichman bases her argument on the observation that support for Israel has declined sharply among younger generations of American Jews. While she claims that 69% say it’s important to stand up for Palestinians and 67% say it’s important to support Israel,  the embedded link to these statistics is dead  and could not be independently verified. Even if we assume that such data is correct, her analysis is questionable. “Standing up for Palestinians” can mean a variety of different things and does not necessarily mean opposing Israel’s existence or Zionism. For many Jews, standing up for Palestinians could mean pushing back against Hamas , or supporting humanitarian aid, or expressing moral issues with how easily civilians are affected by war. The author is using these statistics as if they are undeniable proof of this abandonment of Zionism, when this isn’t the case at all. Skepticism about achievable peace between Israelis and Palestinians does not negate Zionism; it only reflects an apt assessment of the current political reality. As a reminder, this reality has been shaped by decades of rejected peace deals , violence, and failed negotiations. No one is saying Israel is perfect, but putting most of the blame on them is ahistorical and unhelpful.  How can Reichman expect Israelis to live side-by-side with people who want nothing else other than to kill them? This is the core issue. Her entire article implies that the growing lack of Jewish faith in peace is the main problem, not the ideology driving Palestinian nationalist antizionism. She's confused the chicken for the egg. Israel is constantly being held to a standard of perfect optimism or nonviolence, which creates an unrealistic and unfair expectation that is not applied to other national movements. No other countries are expected to continuously seek peace, let alone send aid to a Terror organization which exists to kill them.  One line toward the end of the article encapsulates this misguided logic fairly well: “ giving up on the possibility of a political resolution is not pragmatism; it is surrender. ” This claim completely conflates acknowledging a political reality with completely abandoning values or a Zionist identity. A political resolution between Israel and Palestinians would require so much compromise on both sides, a compromise that Hamas and the PA have shown time and time again it is unwilling to make.  If Israelis were to accept these claims as a reality, this would essentially handcuff them to peace process strategies that we know from experience don't work . Instead of making Zionism conditional on how the rest of the world treats Jews, we could support Jewish self-determination regardless.  When skepticism about the prospect of peace or concerns for Israeli security is conflated with an abandonment of Zionism itself, we lose the ability to distinguish specific policy critiques from the type of dehumanization that antizionist bigotry promotes. In the world that offers Jews little margin for error, this is simply tacking on one more way in which we are judged. Ultimately, debates over the popularity of Zionism are a distraction. Mo ving past these arguments about Israel’s right to exist would allow far more energy to be directed toward the difficult work of building a future grounded in security, dignity, and peaceful coexistence.

“Has anyone visited Israel?"  That was the question my professor asked to the class as we were discussing  cultural differences. The question seemed innocent. Academic. In good faith.  Then someone laughed.  Not loudly. Not aggressively. Just enough. A few others joined in.  I was hesitant to raise my hand. but I did anyway.  I was the only one in my class that did. Maybe the laughter didn’t mean anything, I thought to myself. Or maybe it did. Even though I knew I was safe, I felt the mood of the room shift.  I was now visible to my class. Not as a student. But as a Jew.  The University of California, Santa Barbara has a strong population of Jewish  students.  Students who understand my identity. People who will be there for me when it’s  sometimes difficult to be open about my religion.  Except, I don’t go to UCSB. I go to the City College not far from it.  Where there aren’t as many students who resonate with my background.  Where there is not a circle that I feel understood.  Where I have to explain myself to my classmates who are unfamiliar with my religion. Religion?  That’s something studied, debated, and historical. Not lived.  And definitely no discussion about God, unless it's ironic.  Religion feels outdated here.  Discussion feels embarrassing.  No one says anything to you directly, But you notice.  You notice what gets laughed at. You notice what gets dismissed.  As I scroll later in the night, I see clips of a random podcast. AI generated videos. Conspiracy theories. All with millions of views.  That would have been enough. But the comments fill the rest.  I have always felt secure.  I walk on campus and speak freely. Yet, there is an awareness that comes with being Jewish. Jewish history is filled with places that once felt permanent. Comfortable. Integrated. Flourishing. Until they weren’t.  I don’t say that dramatically. I say it humbly. Because to be jewish is to carry a memory.  Not fear.  Memory. That does not make me want to hide.  If anything It gives me the strength to stand up straighter.  To wear my Magen David louder.  To raise my hand higher. That laughter in the room clarified that I don’t raise my hand because it’s easy,  But because it's true.  I have been to Israel.  I am proud of my identity.  I welcome the Shabbat Bride. I show up, even in the dark. Being one of the only Jews that go to my college can feel isolating, but  Judaism has taught me that my culture has never been dependent on numbers.  It has been dependent on continuity. Lighting candles. Asking questions. Being with the community.  I'm not sure what the world will look like in 50 years. Nor will anyone. But I know Judaism has not rested on comfort.  It rests on commitment. Commitment most days can look small. A personal prayer. A simple Shabbat meal with your friends. Or a hand raised in a classroom.

I recently attended UCSB’s The Rocky Horror Picture Show  Shadow Cast production, which UCSB’s Creatures of the Night Production Company puts on once every quarter. Customarily, attendees of the night's event dress up in Rocky Horror attire (or dressing in as much red, leather, and fishnets as one owns, often donning heavy smoky eyes and big red Vs or Ss depending on whether you’ve been to a live shadow cast production or not). Then at the actual event, the audiences watch in total captivation as a cast acts out The Rocky Horror Picture Show in front of the movie playing with… added elements, which often become more and more exaggerated at each rendition. This customary retelling of a wildly popular story reminds me of another story, the story of Purim. While this may be a wild comparison, the more you compare the themes of the two stories and the traditions behind them, the more you can see the picture. Purim at its core is the story of good versus evil. It tells the story of King Ahasuerus’s advisor Haman’s plot to exterminate the Jewish community and how Queen Esther stands in his way and exposes his plans to the king. This is a broad retelling, but the driving point from the story is the expectation placed on all of us to stand up against injustice and fight for human rights around the globe. Today though, Purim is celebrated through ritual retelling of the story of Queen Esther. This is commonly done through participatory storytelling where listeners of the story make noise when Haman’s name is read through the use of groggers and shouting. Costumes are another central element to the holiday, allowing people to step out of “every day wear” and embrace the story. Hmm.. what does this sound like? Sounds pretty similar to Rocky Horror now doesn’t it? Rocky Horror, like Purim, is a form of participatory theatre. People are instructed to shout “Asshole” when they see the character Brad pop up on screen and “Slut” when the character Janet is on screen very much like Haman’s groggers. As the story is retold over and over, there are subtle variations in the way the performers decide to tell the story in a similar way to the way the Purim story is retold over the years with variation. Both the story of Rocky Horror and the story of Purim reinforce the idea of belonging to community, with Purim being the resilience of the Jewish people, and Rocky Horror shadow casts being a queer-affirming space which celebrates liberation of sexuality. Both create a pocket dimension of being able to live in the fantasy of your choosing throughout the duration of the theatrical experience and hopefully let you bring a bit of that queer and/or Jewish joy out into the world with you when you leave.

An excerpt from an in-progress piece by Lee Ellis, which explores grief and mourning within Jewish Culture.  Aboard the SS Joyce, Fall  1920 The sky was unnervingly clear after four days of nothing but fog and clouds. I wandered the ship's halls, learning and relearning the passages that wound through and around the heart, like veins pumping blood. As I wandered, tracing the patterns of the wallpaper with my fingers, I heard something thud behind me.  I spun around and saw nothing, no person, no object, so I turned back around and continued my wandering. Then I heard it, a whisper right next to my ear.  “Madmoiselle.” I turned my head and saw nothing. My heart was racing, and I couldn’t help but spin around again.  “Please.” This voice felt further, weaker. Within moments, there was another voice, and another. They weren’t loud, not violent. They were polite, begging quietly, the kind of voices that feel like someone tugging at your sleeve in a crowded room.  I kept walking, picking up my pace until I entered the main hall. The grand staircases wound up, the giant chandelier dripping down, reflecting sunlight like a million stars cascading down from the heavens.  Then I saw him, a soldier standing with perfect posture, his uniform ruined, soaked in rain or seawater. He looked at me like an eager child, waiting for his teacher to give him a gold star. The man opened his mouth, then promptly closed it, as if he had forgotten what he was going to say. Then: “Say it.” I stared back at him, confused.  “Please, say my name.” Before I could open my mouth again, the man stepped back, engulfed in shadow, and disappeared as if he had never stood in front of me. Later that Night I had long since gone to bed, the lights were out, and moonlight was pouring through the small window in my room, lighting the furniture with a sickly, pale glow. I turned over, barely awake, searching for what had woken me. Then I hear it, a soft sound from the hallway.  It wasn’t crying or wailing, not footsteps. It was a soft murmur like the hushed voices of the audience as the music crescendoed before a play. I slid out of bed, I grabbed my robe, and tiptoed to the door. I cracked the door open and peeked out. The corridor was dim, but I saw them, all of them.  Men. Boys. Nurses. Prisoners. Sailors. Dozens upon dozens of them, they all crowded around my door, watching, waiting. Their faces are blurred, water-damaged, distorted by death. Some are missing eyes. Some have bruises blooming across their throats like fingerprints. Many are missing limbs and are dressed in blood-soaked uniforms.  And yet they are not threatening.  They look desperate. Hungry. The closest ghost to me, a boy no more than 17 years old, takes a small but brave step forward. He’s shaking, and he looks at me with desperate, pleading eyes. “Please, please don’t shut the door.” I felt my grip tighten on the doorframe, my nails digging into the wood.  The boy’s lips quiver as if the words hurt to form. “Say it for me.” Confused, I blinked back at him. I wondered what he meant, and then he spoke again, softly.  “My name, please, Henri.” Then dozens of others start to speak up, softly, politely, not speaking over each other. “Jacques.” “Émile.” “Samuel.” Then they started to overlap, eager for me to hear their names.  “David ben—” “I don’t remember my surname—” “Please, please, I had a mother—” “Tell someone—” “Write it down—” “Say it—say it—say it—” Each of them grew louder, trying to speak over the others, trying to speak their message to me. To tell me of their family, their spouses, their siblings. To tell them that they were out there, dead, but not wanting to be forgotten.  The soldier, the one who begged me not to close the door, spoke again, “I can’t go until someone says it. Please, let me leave.” His words hit me as if I had fallen on my back, and the wind leaves my lungs. Because it’s true. The ship is a graveyard with no headstones. No one buried them. No one marked them. No one prayed over them. And now they exist in the limbo between worlds. They reached for me. Not violently. Not to grab my throat or tear at my skin. They reached like drowning people reaching for a rope. Their hands passed through one another, through the air, through the edges of my doorframe, as if they did not fully exist. Their fingers were pale, swollen, and bluish. Some were missing entire sections of flesh. One hand had only three fingers, the bones gleaming white at the tips. I backed into my cabin, trembling. “No—no, stop,” I whispered, voice breaking. But they only begged harder. Not for mercy. For recognition. For proof. Their voices rose, overlapping, frantic, filling my skull until it felt like my head would split open. “Say it!” “Say my name!” “I had a mother!” “I had a wife!” “I had a child!” “Please!” I clapped my hands over my ears. It did nothing. The sound was inside me now. Inside my bones. I sank to my knees in the doorway, shaking. “Why?” I sobbed. “Why are you doing this?” And then, through the storm of voices, one voice rose clearer than the rest. A woman. Her tone was not frantic. It was tired. Old. She spoke from somewhere deep in the crowd, where the shadows swallowed most of her body. “We are not remembered,” she said. The words cut through everything. The murmuring stopped. The hallway stilled. Even the ship seemed to pause, listening. The woman stepped forward. She wore a nurse’s uniform, though it was so darkly stained with old blood it looked almost black. Her cap hung crookedly. Her face was lined, hollowed, as if grief had carved her down to the bone. She looked directly at me. “We died,” she said. “And no one said our names. No one buried us. No one prayed. No stone. No record. No letter delivered home.” Her eyes narrowed, filling with something terrible. Not anger, desperation . “So we are not dead,” she whispered. “We are only… lost.”  My breath caught. Something about her words struck deep into the part of me that still believed in God, still believed the world had order. That death meant closure. But on the Joyce, death was unfinished. A door left open. A prayer never spoken. The nurse’s gaze dropped to my throat, to the chain I wore. The locket was resting against my collarbone. Her expression softened—almost pitying. “You remember someone,” she murmured. The crowd leaned in. They could sense it. Smell it, like sharks picking up the scent blood. Grief. Memory. Attachment. And in that instant, I understood: it was not only that they wanted their names spoken. They wanted someone to carry them. To keep them alive in the only way they could be kept alive.  The nurse stepped closer, her voice dropping to a gentle tone. “You can hear us,” she said. “That means you can help.” I shook my head, tears spilling freely now. “I can’t,” I whispered. “I can’t carry all of you. It’s too much, there’s too many of you.” A boy in the crowd began to cry, though his face did not move the way a living face would. The sound came out wet, like water bubbling from a throat. “I don’t want to be forgotten,” he sobbed. The words shattered something in me. Because I knew that fear, I knew it intimately. I had lived it since Verdun. Since my brother’s disappearance. Since the world had moved on without my family. My lips trembled. And before I could stop myself, I whispered a name. Not theirs. His. “Thomas…” The moment the name left my mouth, the ship groaned. Not the ordinary creak of wood. This was a low, aching sound—like the Joyce herself had sighed in pleasure. The corridor lights flickered. The air grew colder. The nurse’s eyes widened. And the crowd— The crowd went still. Every face turned toward me. Their mouths hung slightly open, as though they had tasted something in the air. The nurse spoke softly, almost tenderly. “Oh,” she said. “That one is important.”  A sound rose from the far end of the corridor. A slow, dragging footstep. Then another. And another. Something was coming. Something heavier than the rest. The dead began to part like water, stepping aside in a silent, instinctive fear. The nurse retreated. Her expression was no longer pleading. It was a warning. I scrambled backward into my cabin, slamming the door. The moment it shut, the murmuring stopped.  Silence.  I stood there shaking, my palms pressed against the wood. My heart pounded so hard it hurt. Then—  A soft knock came from the other side of the door. Not a fist. Not a slam. A gentle, patient tapping. As if someone was waiting to be invited in.  And a voice—so familiar it made my blood run cold—whispered through the crack of the frame: “Joséphine…” I froze. My throat tightened until I could barely breathe. The voice spoke again, warm and amused, like a memory from childhood. “Open the door.” I stood frozen on the other side of the door, not wanting to face the consequences of my grief so freely overflowing. Of voicing the fact that I still carried the pain of my brother’s death, and reappearance. Of the fact that I wasn’t sure if I’d even see him.  I took a steadying breath and pulled the door back, and I saw him. Not Thomas. Not my father. But Julien.  He looked disheveled, as if he had roused from sleep, as if the voices of the dead had echoed across the ship, summoning him.  I couldn’t stop the tears from returning; somewhere deep in my chest, I hoped that saying Thomas’s name would somehow summon him to me.  “Oh, I’m… I’m sorry, Joséphine.” All I could do was sob as he held me in his arms.  The Next Morning Today, the fog was back. It clung to the ship as if the Joyce had sailed into the throat of some great beast, and now we were trapped in its breath—cold, wet, and suffocating. The deck rails were slick with condensation, and the lamps along the promenade glowed like distant stars smothered behind clouds. Julien and I walked in silence at first, our shoulders nearly brushing, though neither of us dared to close the space entirely. The sea below was invisible. Only the sound of it remained—soft, constant, like whispering. I kept my arms folded tightly over my chest, not from cold alone, but from the heaviness that had lodged itself in me since the night of the corridor. The voices. The names. The way the ship seemed to respond  when I said Thomas’s. I could still hear it sometimes when I shut my eyes. A murmur beneath the hum of the engines, as if the dead had crawled into my skull and made themselves comfortable there. Julien slowed beside me. His gaze was fixed ahead, but his face looked pale, sharper than it had in the dining room days ago. There was something drawn in his expression, as though he was holding himself together by force alone. “You’re quiet,” he said softly. I swallowed, forcing a small smile. “I could say the same.” Julien’s mouth twitched, almost a laugh, but it never became one. He exhaled through his nose, then stopped walking altogether. I stopped too, turning toward him. The fog behind him blurred the lines of his figure until he seemed half-made of smoke. His dark coat hung too neatly on his frame, his hair slightly damp from the air. And his eyes— His eyes looked like they had seen too much. He stared at me for a long moment, and something in his expression shifted. Not charm. Not flirtation. Something raw. “Joséphine,” he murmured, and the way he said my name felt like a confession already. My heart stuttered. “Yes?” Julien’s hands flexed at his sides, as though he didn’t know what to do with them. Then he stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell him—cologne and sea salt, something warm beneath the cold air. “I’ve been trying,” he said, voice low, “to keep you distracted.” My brows drew together. “Distracted?” He nodded once, sharply, as if the word tasted bitter. “From the ship,” he said. “From what she is. From what she wants.” My breath caught. I glanced away instinctively, toward the railing, toward the blank white nothingness beyond it. Even now, speaking of the Joyce felt dangerous—as if the ship might hear, might take offense. But Julien’s voice held me in place. “I thought if I could keep you smiling,” he continued, “if I could keep you dancing… You wouldn’t notice how wrong it all is.” I looked back at him, my throat tightening. “And you? You noticed.” Julien’s smile was faint. Sad. “I noticed the moment I stepped aboard.” Something about the way he said it made my skin prickle. Not the words themselves. The certainty. The finality. Like he had known this ship his entire life. I forced myself to ask, “Julien… why are you really here?” His gaze flickered—just briefly—like a candle threatened by wind. Then he looked down at his hands, as if ashamed of them. “I wasn’t supposed to meet you,” he whispered. A chill ran down my spine. “Why?” I asked, but my voice came out thinner than I intended. Julien lifted his eyes to mine. And in them I saw fear. Not fear for himself. Fear for me .  “I didn’t want you to become attached,” he said. My lips parted, but no sound came out. He took another step forward. We were so close now that I could feel the heat of him, or perhaps the illusion of heat. His voice lowered further, as though the ship might steal the words from his mouth. “I didn’t want to care,” he admitted.  I felt something inside me twist painfully. “But you do.” Julien swallowed. His jaw clenched. Then, very slowly, he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I do.” The wind shifted. A drop of moisture slid down my cheek like a tear, though I hadn’t cried yet. Julien reached out—hesitated—then gently brushed it away with his thumb. The touch was careful. Reverent. As if he feared I might vanish if he pressed too hard. And in that single gesture, something inside me broke because no one had touched me like that in years. Not since before the war. Not since before everything had been torn from me and I had learned to live like a ghost myself. My voice trembled. “Julien… you shouldn’t.” His eyes softened, and his thumb lingered on my cheek. “I know,” he whispered. “That’s the problem.” My breath came unsteady. “I barely know you,” I said, though it sounded like a lie the moment I spoke it. Julien’s lips curved into something almost like a smile, but his eyes stayed sorrowful. “You know me more than anyone has in a long time,” he said. I shook my head weakly. “That isn’t possible.” “It is,” he replied. “Because you look at me like I’m human.” My stomach dropped. The fog seemed to thicken around us, muffling the ship’s distant sounds until it felt like the world had narrowed to this small stretch of deck. To the space between his breath and mine. I stared at him, my heart beating so loudly I thought he must hear it. “Julien,” I whispered. “What are you?” His face tightened, and for a moment it looked like he might retreat—like he might vanish into the fog and leave me with nothing but questions. But instead, he leaned closer. His forehead nearly touched mine. His voice was a ghost of a breath. “I’m someone who should not be here,” he said. “And yet I am. And the only reason I can still feel anything at all is because you’re here too.” My eyes burned. I hated myself for it—hated how quickly I had grown to need him. How easily my loneliness had made room for him, like a wound reopening for the sake of warmth. But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop looking at him, because when I did, I remembered the corridor full of dead men whispering names. I remembered Thomas’s voice at my cabin door. Julien was the only thing that felt real. “You make me forget,” I confessed, the words tumbling out before I could swallow them back. “You make me forget everything horrible, just for a moment. And I know I shouldn’t, but… I want to. I want to forget.” Julien’s eyes widened slightly, as though he hadn’t expected honesty. Then his expression crumpled into something unbearably tender. “Joséphine,” he murmured, voice breaking. “Don’t say that.” “Why?” I demanded, my voice rising with desperation. “Why not? Why can’t I have one thing? Just one—after all of this?” Julien’s hands came up then, both of them, and he cupped my face as if he could steady me. His palms were cool. Not cold. Cool, like marble warmed by sun. His eyes searched mine with a grief so deep it frightened me. “Because if you love me,” he whispered, “you will suffer.” The words struck me like a slap. I froze, tears spilling freely now. Julien’s thumb brushed them away, but there were too many. “I already suffer,” I said hoarsely. “I’ve been suffering for years. You’re the only person who has looked at me like I’m still alive.” His breath hitched. For the first time since I’d met him, his mask slipped entirely. No charm. No practiced ease. Only truth. He leaned in closer until his lips were a hair’s breadth from mine. And then he stopped, trembling, as though he couldn’t cross the line.  “I love you,” he said, voice barely audible. The fog swallowed the words, but I heard them anyway. I felt them in my ribs, in my throat, in my lungs. My heart lurched so hard I thought I might collapse. Julien looked at me as if he hated himself for saying it. “As God is my witness,” he whispered, “I have tried not to. I have tried every moment since we met. But you—” His voice cracked, and he shut his eyes, forehead resting against mine. “You feel like warmth,” he said. “Like a home I don’t deserve to return to.” My hands lifted, trembling, and I placed them against his chest. Beneath the fabric of his coat, I expected to feel the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. But there was only stillness. A terrible, aching stillness. And yet… he was here. He was real enough to hold me. Real enough to love me. I swallowed a sob. “I love you too,” I whispered. Julien’s eyes snapped open. For a moment, his face was filled with something like wonder—pure and boyish, as if he couldn’t believe the words had been spoken aloud.  Then his expression changed. Fear. Not of rejection. Of consequence. He pulled back just slightly, his hands still cradling my face.  “Don’t,” he pleaded. “Please, Joséphine. Don’t love me. It will only make her stronger.”  “Her?” I whispered. Julien’s gaze flickered past my shoulder, out into the fog, as though he could see the Joyce watching. “The ship,” he said, voice tight. “She feeds on it. Grief, longing… love. Anything that binds you to her. Anything that makes you hesitate. My chest tightened painfully. I wanted to deny it. To tell him he was wrong. To cling to the softness of this moment. But the fog shifted. And somewhere in the distance, deep within the belly of the ship, something groaned—a long, satisfied sound, like a creature stretching in its sleep. Julien stiffened. His hands dropped from my face. He stared past me with a look of pure dread. “Joséphine…” he whispered. I turned. At first, I saw only fog—then, faintly, impossibly—shapes. Figures standing just beyond the railing, clustered at the edge of visibility. Soldiers. Dozens of them. Watching. Silent. Waiting. And in the middle of them, a single figure stood stiller than the rest, his face pale as moonlight—a young man with familiar eyes. My breath caught. The locket at my throat grew cold. So cold it burned.  And then, from the fog, my brother’s voice drifted toward me—sweet, gentle, filled with longing. “Joséphine,” it called. Julien’s hand shot out, gripping my wrist hard enough to hurt. “Don’t answer,” he hissed. But my legs had already begun to move. Not forward. Not back. Just… drawn. As if the ship itself had taken my love confession and turned it into a rope around my throat.  The fog thickened. The dead watched. And somewhere deep inside the Joyce, the hum began again. Like a heartbeat. Like a bell about to toll. Julien’s voice broke, desperate. “Joséphine,” he whispered. “I meant it. I love you. But if you stay… You will never leave.”  My eyes stung. My brother’s voice called again, closer this time. “Come home.” And I realized with sick horror that the Joyce had been waiting for this moment all along. Not for my fear. Not for my prayers. But for my love. Because love was the strongest anchor of all.

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!