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.

ICE is attacking the American dream, politicized AI burner accounts are arguing with each other on X about it, all the while the president promises to find the gold from Fort Knox. Wars in the Middle East, Eastern Europe, and East Africa don’t even make the front page anymore. Literacy is down, hypocrisy is up, and people continue to increase their use of energy without care for the environment. Between all the racing rats and burning trees, it’s hard not to think of the 2020s as a wacked-out apocalypse. But the world has always had its fair share of crazy.   My dad grew up during the Vietnam War, when hippies combatted senseless violence with long hair and free love, while Nixon hijacked his opponent’s political strategy and recorded himself talking about it.  His dad grew up in the 1940s, when the Great Depression and World War II changed the meaning of good  and bad. It was in a Dutch attic in 1944 when Anne Frank wrote the words that began this article.  There is always crazy in the world we live in. And as much as we need to point out the specific craziness from time to time, it is unproductive. But, despite the craziness, there are people doing brilliant work to help brighten the world.  “ It is not your duty to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it”  This almost-two-thousand year old quote from the Pirkei Avot has helped guide Jewish people to create positive change across the world. In Medieval Europe, Jew like Maimonides contributed to medicine and philosophy. And, despite being sixty percent desert, Israel is the only country in the world to end the 20th century with more trees than it started with. Now in the 21st century, Adamah is helping American Jews fight against climate change.  Adamah on Campus Adamah is a national Jewish organization with a deep care in the “connection between people and planet, adam  and adamah ” in Hebrew ( Adamah.org ). Its mission is to help empower positive change in people’s treatment of the environment and to inspire more sustainable living practices.  Adamah on Campus is a program of Adamah’s designed specifically to engage college students. Starting in 2023, it now impressively has chapters in over 50 campuses across the U.S., and And starting in spring of 2026, it has a new chapter popping up in Santa Barbara!  Organizers of the SB chapter of AoC plan early on to focus on sharing sustainable living practices with the interested community. This will include programs teaching people how to make their own laundry detergent out of natural ingredients, or poetry out of scrap paper, or even fun crafts out of dried up pens and old clothes. But the chapter also hopes to help combat food waste, especially that which occurs in Isla Vista, by incorporating local businesses.  If you have a passion for the environment, or for sustainable arts and crafts, or just want to learn how to make a cheaper alternative for laundry detergent, make sure to check out Adamah on Campus in Santa Barbara in the Spring quarter. Information on the new chapter can be found at SB Hillel. And if you have any ideas for the club, even if you won’t have time to help implement them in the spring, Junior and Elana would love to hear your thoughts! Together, we can work to make this adamah (earth) a little less crazy.

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!

President of UCSB’s Jewish sisterhood, Achayot, and board member of just about every Jewish organization at UCSB and beyond, Corelle Gabay got together with Fig and Vine to tell our community about her experience in Israel at the Mayanot Institute for Jewish Studies over Winter Break.  The Mayanot Women's Program  offers the opportunity for young women to deeply immerse themselves into contemporary Jewish learning through classes like philosophy, Jewish mysticism, and Torah study. Corelle was drawn to it particularly for the chance to dive into Jewish studies in a place that welcomes any level of prior knowledge and experience.  “I felt like sometimes in my life, I missed out on a Jewish education and there were so many things I wished I knew more about.” Corelle’s curiosity had already led her to weekly meetings with our favorite Rebbetzin, Miri, where they engage in Jewish learning and its applications to our daily lives. Miri recommended Mayanot to Corelle, to immerse herself into Jewish studies with a cohort of equally driven and curious women (although Corelle is one of the most driven people I know, hard to match). She was hesitant at first. Learning with Miri was safe and familiar, but going away to study at an Institute of Jewish Studies was daunting, with fears of being behind looming. Nevertheless, her passion for learning and love for the land of Israel brought her to the Jerusalem campus in December.  When asked what her favorite memory for the trip was, Corelle took me by surprise when she began with, “I came to a point where I started to struggle with what I wanted this experience to project on my daily life.” She recalled feeling overwhelmed at a big group dinner in the middle of the trip, and she had to step away from the dinner early. Some of the other girls had noticed that she left, and joined her upstairs where they were staying.  “We ended up talking until 2 in the morning about religion in our lives, it was so special talking to other 20 year olds about something so beyond us.” This group of women was diverse in their religious backgrounds and relationships with Judaism going into the program. Corelle shared that many were already quite religious, but that in itself can have many different meanings person to person. One roommate felt similarly to Corelle, just looking for ways to learn more. One was struggling with some parts of religion. Another grew up in a very religious household, and the pressure turned her away from it, but she has since come back to it on her own.  “The teachers were so open and taught us how to apply it and make our lives better. I didn't feel like I had to practice a certain way to be a ‘good Jew’.” One of Corelle’s favorite lessons from her classes was discussing the depth of morning prayers. A teacher provided perspective through the example of Modeh Ani. They note that giving thanks is said before ‘I’, making thanks the first thing you say in the morning, rather than ‘I’ being the way you start your day. For Corelle, this framing means expanding her scope of gratitude beyond herself.  “This adds so much positivity in how I wake up every morning and reminds me I have a purpose every day to spread light in this world.” Corelle spends lots of her time spreading light around her, and has already brought some of her experiences and lessons learned at Mayanot back with her to Isla Vista. Achayot recently held a Sushi and Study event with Miri for Rosh Chodesh, the start of the Jewish month and a sacred day for Jewish women. She got to learn about Rosh Chodesh in her studies, and knew immediately that it was something she wanted to implement into her community of Jewish women in Isla Vista. It was a beautiful evening of community and bonding through learning (and great food).  Corelle’s favorite memory of the trip being a time of struggle perhaps makes the most sense in the end, because it is often those times that we find ourselves searching for spirituality and faith. At Achayot’s Sushi and study event, we discussed the origins of Rosh Chodesh as a women’s holiday. When Israelite men grew impatient and fearful by Moses’ absence in his journey to receive the commandments at Mt. Sinai, they turned to a golden calf to worship. They came to their wives for jewelry to make their golden calf, and the women would not partake. They trusted in G-d, and for that they were rewarded with a day of rest and reflection during the sacred marking of a new moon cycle.  During our lesson about Rosh Chodesh, Corelle shared that “when you’re at the most difficult times, that is when G-d is closest to you.” It was being seen and building deep connections with her study group that stuck with Corelle out of all the memories and experiences she enjoyed. For the already religious Jews, the spiritually curious, the cultural Jews, or just the stressed students looking for some reassurance and guidance, Jewish studies and wisdom may have their way into each life differently.

Originally Published in The Jewish Journal . In the early hours of Shabbat morning on Jan. 10, the UC Santa Barbara residential  AEPi house was trespassed on and vandalized with a swastika on a bathroom mirror. According to the ADL, this is the  fourth time  since November that this particular Jewish residential institution has been targeted with antisemitic hate. Isla Vista Foot Patrol, which is part of the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Office, is actively looking into the incident and has yet to release any official information to the public. This is not just another example of individual hatred, but a dangerous normalization of antisemitic behavior which perpetrators in our community now feel emboldened to cross personal and physical boundaries. As the investigation in Isla Vista continues, the Regional Director of the Anti-Defamation League in Santa Barbara/Tri-Counties, Joshua Burt, released a  statement : “The swastika is a symbol of hate and terror, and its use to intimidate Jewish students in their own home is reprehensible. This escalating pattern of harassment is unacceptable and has no place in our community.” This wasn’t defacing the stall of a bathroom on campus or on a classroom whiteboard (which would be bad enough.) No, someone invaded a safe space created for young Jewish men and threatened them with the most potent symbol of their people’s genocide ever created. Imagine walking into your bathroom and seeing a dehumanizing slur staring you in the face. How quickly would your feeling of safety erode? The anger and frustration students must feel from being victimized, while in a community that prides itself on diversity and inclusion is profound and deeply alienating. How many members will think twice now before entering? How much of their budget will need to be allocated to extra security just to exist openly? Wiping away the shaving cream is easy, but feeling safe again is its own battle. What’s all the more sad is that AEPi members aren’t surprised. “My initial reaction was disgust and fear, but honestly, I’m Jewish. To say this isn’t my reality, would be a lie. … I’m proud to say I’m Jewish, and I’m proud to say no amount of swastikas or attacks will ever change that,” shared Justin Shirazian, a pre-med junior and the Sentinel of AEPi UCSB. Jake Zicklin, another AEPi brother, was asleep in his room at the time of the attack. He woke up from the noise and noted he was “horrified to leave my room because I was unsure if they were armed.” Thankfully, Zicklin was able to get a photo of the perpetrators’ faces before they left. “This has nothing to do with Israel…. This has everything to do with Jews existing,” said Zicklin. Our campus depends on mutual respect. The perpetrators are testing boundaries. If they face no real consequences or community pushback, they will feel emboldened to repeat the behavior or escalate it further. Unfortunately, this is not a West Coast phenomenon. Campuses across the country have faced increasing amounts of unabashed Jewish hate. Just last month, the  Michigan State University  Chabad was vandalized with swastikas accompanied by the words “He’s back,” presumably referring to Hitler. When asked about the incident, Jewish MSU student, Ruben Sobol, expressed sentiments that would resonate with Jewish students around the world: “Hatred is so normalized, I don’t even know who to trust anymore when I meet new people.” These incidents aren’t simply vandalism. They create a culture that prohibits Jewish students from feeling safe in their own educational spaces. Aside from the  current rise  of antisemitism that we’re seeing, it’s hard not to see parallels with pre-Holocaust Nazi radicalization in German universities. As the Nazis were increasing their influence,  Jewish professors  and students were already being alienated on campuses. Jewish faculty was boycotted, and petitions were circulated to limit Jewish participation in universities. Swastikas were everywhere. The time to pay attention is now. We cannot allow Jewish students to live in fear of constant attacks because it’s easier than finding ways to have hard conversations and explore resolutions. What happened at AEPi wasn’t a funny prank and it wasn’t harmless. It was someone entering illegally into a Jewish home and vandalizing the home with an intimidating hate symbol. Talking about incidents like this matters, because when they’re ignored, it sends the message that this kind of behavior is normal and acceptable. Once hate is allowed to enter people’s homes without real consequences or pushback, it starts to feel normal, and that’s when the problem becomes much bigger than one house or one incident.

For this New Year’s horoscope, I’ve dived deep into the stars, searching for all the shining signs of what this year could hold for the readers of Fig and Vine.  Aries - Taleh Nisan (Mar. 21 - April 19) New Year, New You, New Year, New Jew? Explore Jewish identity, belief, and practice. The experience every Jewish college student must  have. Join Sinai Scholars today! Compatible with Capricorn.  Taurus - Shor Iyar (April 20 - May 20) After almost 8 years, Uranus will be leaving Taurus in 2026 (it’s real, I looked it up). All that time you felt a stick up your ass, and it was just Uranus up your anus. In Astrology, Uranus is said to symbolize change. The change of the past 8 years is not what we were hoping for, thanks universe. But we don’t need Uranus to make the change we want, this year we can take matters into our own hands and really lock in on reposting those Instagram stories to bring world peace.  Formerly compatible with Uranus. Loves a Leo (no butt stuff though).  Gemini - Teomim Sivan (May 21 - June 21) Oh, hey there Gemini! We’re surprised you’re here. Hmm, we didn’t quite prepare anything for you, didn’t think you’d listen anyway. You’re just so adaptable, and that’s what will get you through the situations that may come your way this year (because neither the stars nor Hashem can predict the situations you’ll get yourself into).  In a situationship with a Leo. Or was it a Libra? We can’t keep track.  Cancer - Sarton Tammuz (June 22 - July 22) So, you’re going for NJB again  this year? Unfortunately, it’s just not in the stars for you this year. Again. You’ve been craving the feeling of being nurtured, but it's time to nurture yourself. Pageant titles and Nice Jewish Hookups just aren’t going to cut it. It is time for some personal development, not plot development.  Focusing on themselves this year. (Chasing a nice Jewish Aries).    Leo - Ari Av (July 23 - Aug. 22) A new year is a time for contemplation, who do you want to be? What do you want this year to look like? Take some time to get outside and contemplate to yourself. You’re used to voicing your contemplations publicly, but in 2026, you can keep more of your contemplations to yourself. Voice your thoughts through action, that will be plenty.  Ground yourself with a Taurus.  Virgo - Betulah Elul (Aug. 23 - Sept. 22) Big changes are in store for you in 2026. Like, a haircut even. And go for it! Embrace the changes that may come your way.  You’ve been practical, what if you just fuck around and find out? As the kids say.  Eff around and find out with a Capricorn.  Libra - Moznayim Tishrei (Sept. 23 - Oct. 23) You’ve longed for balance for so long, and this is it, the planets are aligning. You’ve figured out how to make it to your 8am, stay at Chabad past 8pm, get 8 hours of sleep. No need for therapy, as long as nothing interferes with your perfectly balanced schedule. Don’t think about the frat flus that could take you out, the high holidays that require your spiritual presence, or the time you inevitably and regrettably let the situationship sleep over. Maintaining the balance maintains your peace.  Stressed out over a Sagittarius.  Scorpio - ‘Akrab Cheshvan (Oct. 24 - Nov. 21) Did you hear 2016 is back?! The stars have aligned, and you don’t have to hide it anymore, you can finally wear jeans that show off leg day. You’ve been doing your best to fit the looks of today, it’s the thought that counts. But now nobody can say anything when you walk into Hillel fitted with your choker as tight as your jeans, and your part in the other hemisphere of your head.  Getting nostalgic with a Leo.  Sagittarius - Kasshat Kislev (Nov. 22 - Dec. 21) You’re already expecting a great year, keep up the optimism. The world might be falling apart as you read this, but the Sun is out! Us Isla Vistaians know that a sunny day solves all. Tu Bishvat is coming up, skip all your classes and go be with the trees. It’s like, your religious and spiritual duty. Hugging a tree is basically doing your part for the environmental cause.  Compatible with Pisces, under the right planetary circumstances.  Capricorn - Gedi Tevet (Dec. 22 - Jan. 19) Your discipline is deeply admirable, and grounds you as an Earth sign. It can be a strength, the stubbornness that has kept Judaism alive from generation to generation. But it’s time for you to release yourself from the strains of your stubbornness, relax a little. Go crazy and eat at Hillel and Chabad, your figure will recover by next Shabbat.   Reliably compatible with Aries in the bedroom. This year, your spirit will find compatibility with Virgo.  Aquarius - D’li Shevat (Jan. 20 - Feb. 18) You’re a rational sign, you know this is all bs. Just keep going to Minyan every Saturday, all will be well.  Compatible with Hashem; doesn’t give a shit about your zodiac sign.   Pisces - Dagim Adar (Feb. 19 - Mar. 20) Good news, 2026 is looking like your year! As long as you follow your horoscopes. You’ve probably already got those Co-Star notifications on anyway. If you follow Co-Star, nothing will be your fault! It is all in the stars, the positions of the planets, how can you be expected to be responsible for your own actions? Invest in your crystal collection, and you’ll seal in your shining year. Busy making their birth chart. Once they’ve made it, they’ll find compatibility with Aquarius’s rising sunshine, but the sinking moon will sink the relation-ship.

Endless rolling hills, refreshing swimming holes, ancient volcanic geology, and centuries of history. The Golan Heights is a stunning breath away from the hustle and bustle of Israel’s center, and a place I am lucky to call home. While my family has been settling into our new house on Kibbutz Kfar Haruv, I have been exploring the southern Golan and embarking on as many hiking trails as I can. Though I am thrilled to report back with sights of impressive basalt columns and towering waterfalls, I am also saddened by the sheer amount of garbage on every trail. In fact, Israel’s trash problem is prevalent throughout the entire country. Highways are lined with plastic bags and bottles. Hikers leave tissue alongside the path. People go to beautiful places like streams and beaches for a picnic, but fail to pack everything out. Despite the numerous difficulties of living here, citizens take immense pride in the land of Israel. If we care so much about our homeland, why is there so much litter left on the ground? Who and what could work to fix this pressing issue?  Occasionally, I struggle with my family’s move from Fresno, California, to Israel. My parents had thought of making this move for as long as I can remember, but we felt extremely impassioned to make it happen after October 7th, 2023. While we have no other family in California and barely any emotional ties to Fresno, our cousins, history, culture, and hearts are in Israel. My parents and I can agree that we have always felt an unrelenting whisper that we should be in Israel. So this past summer, they finally made the move while I am finishing up three more years at UCSB. The truth is that my family’s move defies logic. Reestablishing life on the opposite side of the globe is expensive and complicated. Life was easy and comfortable in Fresno, but what we lacked was fulfillment. Lately, I have been questioning the notion of fulfillment and what makes me feel fulfilled. I’ve found that simply being here is not enough, and that I need to take part in something. In the words of my father, “we moved here to contribute to the goodness of this country.” As I am only here for three weeks this winter break, it starts with the little things. Nahal El-Al is a breathtaking six-mile loop, about a ten-minute drive from my house. I hiked the trail frequently over the summer, especially to take a dip in the swimming hole underneath the White Waterfall. During one of my visits, a backpacker informed me that the water was extremely polluted due to litter and drought. It was true, I was swimming with plastic bottles and other garbage disintegrating on the pool floor. Both disheartened and disgusted, I promised myself to do something about it the next time I was there. I am proud to say that I fulfilled my promise, and recently hit the trail with a large garbage bag in hand. It’s about a mile walk descending into a canyon before reaching the White Waterfall. I decided to hike all the way down to the waterfall and pick up garbage in and around the pool before heading back up, collecting trash along the trail as I went. My heart sank as I realized the task could be endless. So much litter was stuck in thick branches, poorly hidden under rocks, or had rolled down the steep edge of the trail. It was too much for one person to pick up in one day. Although I did not get to everything, I do feel that I helped make a difference. I thoroughly cleaned up the area surrounding the waterfall, where hikers stop to enjoy the view, have a picnic, and go for a swim. I also picked up all of the trash directly on the trail and caught in the shrubbery surrounding it. I don’t know if it will remain litter-free, but hopefully, I inspired those visiting that day to pack out any garbage they created. A few added to my garbage bag, and told me toda lach and kol ha kavod . I also predict that if people don’t see any litter surrounding them during their visit to the waterfall, they’d be less emboldened to leave their trash there. Hauling a full, tearing garbage bag back up the canyon was certainly not fun, but I am so glad it is how I spent one of my days here.   I finally reached the top of the trail, tossed the bag in a dumpster, and headed to the car. Two people who had seen me on the trail requested a ride to their neighborhood nearby. The hitchhikers asked me questions about my stay in the Golan and why I came to clean the trail. I told them that I cared about the place, and I wanted to help make it better for both hikers and wildlife. They asked if I also pick up garbage in California. While I have volunteered for a few organized programs, I have never taken the initiative to organize my own event or go out to do it by myself. California is still another home to me, with landscapes that I adore and ecosystems that require protecting. I currently have so many questions about what I’m passionate about, what I want to do in the future, and what fulfills me. Realistically, I’m not going to be picking up trash every time I hike, but doing it made me feel really good, and I want to do it more often both in California and in Israel. I also wonder if I could get friends, or even strangers, to join me. Picking up trash is such a simple task that makes a notable difference. I am excited to contribute to the goodness of Israel by continuing to clean up the Golan Heights, one trail at a time, as well as eager to see what could happen with the help of more hands. I am proud to have noticed that Israel is becoming more aware of its trash problem, adding an abundance of trash cans in cities and towns, as well as laws and fines that help prevent littering. I am also aware that there are programs to clean up more populated places like Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. However, I haven’t heard of operations like this in the Golan Heights, and it would be so incredible to establish something here. The Golan Heights contains some of the best nature that Israel has to offer. If we don’t work to protect the places we cherish, who will?

Food and Judaism have long been connected — from latkes and matzo brei, to jachnun, and yes, even gefilte fish. One of the quintessential Jewish food staples is the humble bagel, well… at least not during Pesach. Bagels, invented by Jews in middle age Poland, are a delectable item that have been part of many people’s diets up until today, and one Polish Jew decided to perfect the art of the bagel right here in Isla Vista. Meet Daniel Dunietz: A UCSB alumnus, he has dreamed of comforting food concoctions since he was in high school. As an adult, he opened a Buddha Bowls (later renamed Dank Bowls), serving up delicious food in huge bread bowls, which later turned into Yetz’z bagels. I had the pleasure of interviewing him and asking him about his story, his restaurant, and bagels. When interviewing Daniel, my initial question was about his inspiration to open a restaurant in the first place. He told me he had a dream in high school to create a creative concept bagel place, with menu items such as a deep dish pizza bagel, but throughout his time at UC Santa Barbara is that there (at the time) were no good bagels anywhere in IV or Santa Barbara Barbara. Daniel stated that he was drawn to food service because he loves meeting new people, and that food was always his favorite way to do that. He started with small pop-ups in IV, and eventually graduated to having a restaurant of his own. My next question for Daniel was why he decided to transition his business to making bagels. Originally, he decided to have Yetz’s Bagels as a pop-up in Dank Bowls, but continue to operate Dank Bowls. Over time, he realized that Yetz’s Bagels was both a much better business venture, and one that better fit his lifestyle. When he ran Dank Bowls, he would oftentimes sell 20 or fewer meals up until 5pm and only after that would business pick up. Additionally, due to the very large portion sizes, he did not have a regular customer base (and sometimes he had to deal with vomit!). When he switched to bagels, he noticed the same people coming in repeatedly, because unlike a bread bowl filled with mac n’ cheese, one can eat a bagel every single day. The following question I asked was how did bagels connect to his heritage. As a Polish Jew, he always found himself eating bagels: for breakfast, for dinner, at Bar Mitzvahs, at Yom Kippur break fasts, and at weddings. He then went further into bagel history, explaining that there are many theories about why and how bagels were invented, such as Jews not being able to use the same ovens as Christians – he does not believe this theory, he just knows that bagels are a Jewish creation. His father’s side of the family comes from Chełm, from where bagels are theorized to have originated. So for him, going way back, his own ancestors were eating some of the first bagels. The proceeding question I gave to Daniel was his philosophy about making bagels. Putting it simply, he told me that there are much fewer ways to make bagels than people think. Since it's been a food that's been around for such a long time, a lot of the ratios and techniques have been perfected. For him, the key is boiling the bagels, despite the fact that is it very time consuming, it is absolutely necessary for the best bagel. He went on to describe how certain bakeries use an oven that pumps steam into the bagels, which can emulate boiling them before baking them, but  to him, this is the “bastardized little brother” of real bagels. My next question for Daniel was about the future of Yetz’s Bagels. He told me that in the near future, he is opening a location in Goleta (by Target), but he is unsure if he wants to keep opening more stores. On the one hand, he told me, he wants to start a family and be there for them, but on the other hand, there is still a severe lack of good bagels in SB proper, and he would like to see that problem solved. Lastly, I asked him what his favorite order was — he told me he likes The Deluxe on a sesame and onion bagel. In conclusion, Yetz’s Bagels is a major food staple for many in Isla Vista, but behind the restaurant is a story, and a man who is dedicated to his craft. What originally started as a restaurant serving bread bowls has sprouted into a restaurant serving (in my personal opinion) the most delicious bagels you can find in Santa Barbara county. Overall, Daniel’s story of craft and Polish Jewish heritage shed light onto why Yetz’s Bagels are so delectable and popular.