We wrestle. With the country, its current government, and with one another. Sadly, Israel has become a bitterly divisive topic among Jews since October 7, 2023, as well as a weapon used by those outside of our community against us. The Jewish Poets Collective Journal received several poems about Israel for the second issue, and while they may not encompass all viewpoints, they do represent a variety of views and experiences that deserve to be shared, with the hope that they will become part of a larger dialogue among those willing to talk and to listen.
May we heal this wound, and may the trench that divides us be bridged with compassion and understanding. Am Yisrael Chai.
Tamar Rosenwald
Hakpatza
Neshama Shketa
The siren blares,
Tearing through the silence,
And ripping me from sleep.
Gunshots crack in the distance—
Sharp,quick,and powerful.
Panic waves over me
like cold water dumped on my chest.
I jump from my old, creaky bunk,
feet hitting the floor hard.
Sixty seconds later,
my uniform clings to me like armor.
I strap on my vest,
sling my rifle over my shoulder,
and rush out the door to find my team.
More gunshots—
closer now.
Too close.
Engines growl as we pile into the vehicles.
The radio crackles with orders,
as we are headed for Jenin.
My palms are already sweating,
sticking to my gloves.
Another burst of fire—
This time, being ordered to retaliate.
I raise my rifle,
feel the kickback slam into my shoulder.
The recoil shakes through my body,
but somehow fills something hollow.
It quiets a part of me
that always seems to hum.
All I hear—
gunshots echo like thunder.
All I smell—
Gunfire,burnt coffee,and sweat.
And still,
I didn’t feel awake—
just alive because I had to be.
The body moved
while the mind went quiet.
Fear made everything sharp.
Alive in the ringing in my ears,
dust on my tongue,
sweat in my eyes,
air thick like rust.
Not from the running—
but from how tight it felt inside,
like even my breath was hiding.
The crack of bullets on stone
wasn’t background—
it was direction.
And when “Medic” hit the radio,
My stomach dropped
Before I knew who it was.
Not alive like singing in the car,
orholdingsomeone’shand.
Alive like knees on concrete,
Heartbeat in my throat,
rifle shaking in my grip.
Alive
because stopping
meant I might not make it home.
It Clings to Me
Neshama Shketa
It clings to me.
Not like a burden– like skin
My M4.
Scratched and worn, familiar in the worst kind of way.
I didn't need to be told how to hold it.
It had already taught me how to move.
The night the siren howled,
I was already halfway dressed before I was awake.
Vest on. Gloves tight.
I grabbed the M4 like instinct.
No fear, just speed.
We were already rolling toward Jenin before I took a full breath.
The first shots hit the air before we even hit the ground.
Short bursts, fast, close.
The kind that makes your spine stiffen without permission.
We pressed into walls, eyes scanning every rooftop.
The radio crackled. The medic called for help.
And then came the order:
Shoot back.
I raised the rifle.
Aimed.
Squeezed.
The kickback punched into my shoulder—
sharp and clean.
Mechanical.
Like the rifle didn’t care what it was aimed at.
Like it was just doing what it was made to do.
Second shot—kick.
Third—kick.
Each one landed deeper than the last.
Not just in my shoulder, but in my chest.
Like every recoil took something out of me,
left a hollow where there used to be quiet.
I kept firing.
Not counting.
Just reacting.
And with every pull of the trigger, I felt less like someone firing a weapon and more like
the weapon itself.
Something stripped down to function.
Later, back at base, I sat with the M4 across my lap.
It was still warm.
Still smelled like smoke and metal.
Still had pieces of me in it.
I didn’t clean it right away.
I didn't want to.
It felt wrong—like scrubbing off the only proof that the night had happened.
That I had changed.
People say what matters is coming back alive.
But they don’t know what comes back with you.
Now, it leans in the corner of my room.
Silent. Still.
But not gone.
It clings to me.
And I carry it like a secret.
Because every kick of that rifle still echoes—
not in my shoulder,
but in the part of me I can’t explain.
The part that flinches when nothing's there.
The part that remembers, even when I try not to.
Leigh Cuen
Tel Aviv
I dream of Israel like a lover, all the damn time. In my latest dream the war
in Gaza never ends. The shekel plummets, Israelis are chased out of American universities by
wolf protesters with booming voices and sharp teeth, yet Israel still saunters across the beach,
her skirts soaked in blood. I’m walking the sunny streets
of Tel Aviv. I’m waiting in the dim hallway
of a crowded restaurant drenched in posh red decor when someone asks
about the “situation”
with Washington. I answer in Hebrew
there is nothing to say, it is what it is and that’s all. The sabra beside me
snorts at my clumsy American accent, at my jaded truth
with its serrated edges. The salty sea air clings
to my skin. The taste of honey
and dates and zaatar and cumin swirl through me. People who don’t know her
imagine a monster. They call to destroy my love, because it is easy to destroy what you don’t
know. These strangers tell ghost stories
about someone they never sat with for Friday night dinner or kissed at sunset. I can’t go
back to the Tel Aviv I knew before the war. The threat of never touching her again
pierces me like a dagger with a hooked tip. If I’d never left Israel. I wouldn’t have my son
my comfortable American home with juicy tomatoes growing out back, my neurotic brown-eyed
hound. I’m happy
in exile, even as the hollow wind whispers inside my chest. Borders bleed
from the map as my lover drowns in red. I’ll never stop longing for her, especially because
she didn’t love me back
enough to lay down her rifle and hold my hand.
Emily Meyer
Hopeland
They promised me a land
flowing with milk and honey—
They sang of a city of gold.
They said, If you will it, it is no dream.
But this is not the dream.
If this is my birthright,
I would gladly trade it for a bowl of lentils
if it meant one less child would starve.
They said our hope was not yet lost.
They said our hope would be our salvation.
But where is this hope now?
Is it buried beneath the rubble?
Is it, too, held hostage?
Tzur Yisrael, help me dream again—
of a desert in bloom,
of a quiet night,
of the wildest peace.
Uncleave my tongue, unclench my fist.
Shatter my heart of stone,
that I may press into the cracks
a prayer for peace.They promised me a homeland.
I pray for a hopeland.
Avishai Edenberg
Massada Always
I was told that at the end of the womb
At the very last minute before
Air, terrifying, awesome
An angel, clad in light and good, appears
And with the tip of a finger puts a seal
Below the nose and above the lip
They say
That inside
In evergood waters
We know all
And in his mercy
And stroke of the index
The seraph takes it all away
The work of a Jew
Is a battle with angels
We are the children of Israel
Unlike the Babylonians,
We are stubborn
Rebuilding
Everything that God forbids
And on the eighth day
After he hath ceased work
We begin the unraveling
With a crosswise cut
And a drop of wine
We begin to pour
The memories back
Here is the place
Where you were first enslaved
And here they split your head on stone
In this station
They took away a wife and child
And you shall not see them
Ever again
And the angel does not return
Does not burn away
What we have given our children with love
The poisoned fruit we have devoured
Yet Adam again,
And yet serpent,
And yet Eve
Tova Gannana
I knew Her Well
I
Tel Aviv wakes and stays that way.
The day is clear and the city can see.
Tel Aviv is decent.
Is the prettiest flower
Tel Aviv has ever seen.
The weather isn’t interested in feelings anymore,
that’s when the city feels light.
It’s not only the table settings
but the settings that set the sun behind the skyline. The cranes if you don’t watch out for them are dangerous.
And who walks the streets
in whatever clothes they have?
And who pays attention
to the cabs who drive quickly
through streets of traffic
and rain,
as buildings change businesses,
anonymous in their shape.
What to wish for in a city but a soda fountain
and an ice skating rink.
Impossible places for love
and taking risks.
II
I want to be in Tel Aviv in clothes only people wear in Tel Aviv.
I want to get off the train at Arlozorov and walk.
Get off at Azrieli and walk.
I want to be on the train and see Lod from my window.
See Lod go by slow.
They sweep their walkways clean.
I want to be in the car as the car sweeps past the salt trees.
I want to be in Eilat and call Dimona the north.
I was in Tel Aviv when Avraham Sutzkever was alive and making toast.
When the buildings were white and low.
My Hebrew teacher in her apartment on Shenkin was afraid of an ex boyfriend who we’d run into
on the street.
Cafes closed around us that had been around for forty years or so.
Tel Aviv you are mine because we spent time together.
Where will we stand except next to the water.
III
In the city of Tel Aviv women are riding bicycles.
In Tel Aviv
the only women are those who live in Tel Aviv.
In Tel Aviv
women are opening and closing the blue of their bodies.
In the beginning
of Tel Aviv women are opening artichokes.
In Tel Aviv
in the white city of Tel Aviv women are half elephant half machine.