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Ramblings 2012-2013

Cover photo by Andy Axelrod ’13

Ramblings 2012-2013 Volume Two

1. long and muddled speech or writing; 2. a walk without a definite route, taken merely for pleasure; 3. the trilingual literary and visual arts m a g a z i n e o f t h e We b e r School.

The Weber School 6751 Roswell Road Atlanta, Georgia

Ramblings Sta ...



Mr. Sam Bradford Ms. Olivia Rocamora


General Editors Erin Beiner Zac Brenner Amanda Budd Avery Frank Jenna Kahn Benjamin Karlin Samantha Leff Jaren Mendel Gabby Oquendo Sam Ready Aliya Saulson

Alex Estroff Micha Kerbel

Layout and Design Rachel Colonomos Rachel Jones

Marketing Tennessee Lieberman Aviv Rau Jeremy Shapiro

Hebrew Liaisons Lipaz Avigal Yarden Lewitt

Spanish Liaisons Danielle Abel Avi Colonomos Adina Karpuj

Contents Editors’ Notes Alex Estroff and Micha Kerbel


Jazz at Snug Harbor Jack Gindi


To My Bashert Sam Ready


Bacon Cheeseburger Anonymous


Irresistible π Karin Videlefsky


Matrix Delusions Josh Cohen


Tragic School Death Jaren Mendel


Mi Propio Mundo Joseph Brickman


Bromas en Español Samantha Leff



Lauren Rein

‫ תרופה טבעית‬-‫לחי אופסום‬

The Social Ladder Anonymous


Untitled Tennessee Lieberman


A Fall Vacation Zac Brenner


The Mountains and the Land Zach Itzkovitz


Perfection Avery Frank


The Horror Daniel Gordon


Murderer Michael Whitesides



Thomas Montgomery


The Chill of Our Past Yacova Kagan


An Island Floats Away Aviv Rau


Viva La Gi Aliya Saulson


Izzy Mrs. Rachel Schwartz


To thx Fortunatx Findxr of This Bottlx Aliya Saulson


What Does It Do for Us? Jane Fisher


“If you will it, it is no dream.” – Theodor Herzl Amanda Mizell



Alan Ilyayev

‫מלחמת ששת הימים‬

The Wall the Wails on Shabbat Aliya Saulson


The Mist Knight’s Philosophy: The Journey of a Weber Senior Dovid Drukman Gloria al Bravo Pueblo Avi Colonomos 65 The Clockmaker’s Final Behest Jeremy Shapiro

61 63

Sam Ready

‫שני שמות‬ 65 23

Untitled Aviv Rau


Editors’ Notes The amount of diligence put forth by the Ramblings team to compile this literary magazine cannot possibly be overstated, and every single aspect of the magazine is reflective of that diligence. Everything from accepting submissions to the actual order of the pieces underwent careful thought and scrutiny from the Ramblings staff just to ensure for the reader the best possible reading experience. The theme for this year's magazine is growth and progression. You will find that the contents of this literary magazine reflect how we all grow as people and how we never stop growing through good times and bad. Micha and I also selected this year’s cover picture because of its congruence with this theme. Andy Axelrod’s evocative photograph of the Atlanta highway captures cars coming and going in one single yet fluid moment. This one picture portrays perfectly the flowing manner in which the Ramblings team chose to order the works of great highs and deep lows, as well as life’s tendency to both bring and take things from us in seemingly one fluid motion. But one thing is true for both times of despair and times of joy—we always grow. So on behalf of the entire


Ramblings team, I urge you to indulge in these works and, if you can, grow. -Alex Estroff Welcome back to the second edition of Ramblings, Weber's exclusive Literary and Fine Arts Magazine! This magazine contains entries submitted by Weber's finest. Throughout the year we collect submissions from poetry and stories that wakes one up in the middle of the night, screaming to be scribbled, to that unexpected joy that blossomed from a boring English assignment. Please thank each contributor for his or her piece--it ain't easy to be published in our lit. mag! My co-editor-in-chief, Alex Estroff, and I along with the rest of the club members serve as editors. Each entry undergoes serious discussion and careful evaluation. The staff of Ramblings, including our teacher advisors Mr. Bradford and Ms. Rocamora who truly are the driving force behind this magazine, meet during lunches and club blocks to put this baby together, and each member of our team contributed more effort than Alex or I could have asked for. Ramble on my friends, and I hope you enjoy this year's publication! -Micha Kerbel


Jazz At Snug Harbor Jack Gindi As dinner comes to a close, (I have eaten a tuna steak seared with lemon butter) we walk to the bar. My father does not order because he does not drink — at least, not very often. We had bought our tickets previously on the phone because we obtained through the purchase a reservation, which at this restaurant should be valued. Somehow, we are first in line, but I write “somehow” almost sarcastically, as my experiences with my mother have taught me to be first in line for everything, and first to any event. Not for selfish reasons, but because, the next time, that event could be of importance. We make small talk with the nice lady who mans the ticket counter.


After the earlier show ends, and the previous occupants of the room depart to their homes for the night, we enter, we sit we are silent. The owner makes his announcement, and the music begins. I feel the emotions — the hours of raw feeling that must have gone into this fleeting breath of notes. The refrains and the solos constitute the ultimate synthesis of the Apollonian and the Dionysian. The music washes over me. I am ecstatic, depressed, joyous, angry, and hopeful. And just like that, two wholes again become half as I leave Snug Harbor, and drift out into the sea that is the world once more.


To My Bashert Sam Ready I know we haven't ever met on that day underrated that so far hasn't happened yet but at G-d's will was fated So until then I'll go and wait with this placeholder sonnet and when we finally know that date I'll kiss and hug you on it Your hair is blond-no, make that brown or maybe black or red? Your eyes are pools- a lake, I drown in.. baby blue, you said? Or was it hazel? Green. Brown? Gray. Oh please don't pout, no sorrow! It's not my fault- my scene's today and we've just met tomorrow! Smart Bashert, sweet soulmate (of these I need but guess), heart's delight, love so great, marry me! say yes! I know that you're still cross with me about that time and thing but go into your heart and see my lovely diamond ring!


I didn't mean the thins I said, you can't stay mad this eveSo, words un-gleaned and lips un-read, Please grand me this reprieve? I love you sweet Bashert with all the fill of my stout heart Under my tallit we'll stand real tall and "'til death do us part." Sweet Bashert, my caring spouse, please change the baby's damn diaper. And would it hurt to clean the house, whose range of smell gets still riper? I'm sorry for all the things I said I regret every willing attack Please, if you'll call me back to bed-the couch is just killing my back September leaves, your face turns red you're livid and upset Remember Dr. Fowler saidforgive it and forget. So, if you would, the diaper please? And clean-up over there? No one does parenting with ease And it's just our cross to bear. Love of mine, call the lawyers off and all their legal drivel This time I won't roll eyes or scoffplease, I swear, I'll be civil!


Fine, since you know what's fair and just, would weekends be a bother? I know that I betrayed your trust but Junior needs a father! Bashert, I truly do repent for everything I said and every unruly event that happened since we wed I'm penniless and destitute my life's gone down the drain At least bury me next to you and end some of my pain ‌On second thought, let's not meet.



Bacon Cheeseburger Anonymous Damn you, Bacon Cheeseburger! You delicious, scrumptious meddler. I was doing so well-Raised on the secular shrimp of a mixed marriage, forgotten traditions of an assimilated home, but reclaiming my roots-Jewish schools, Hebrew Language. Ordered Tzitzit shirts online. Easy does it. So close. But you-you warm, succulent trayfe! Your sweet, layered flavors, your filling, juicy, tantalizing taste. Temptation incarnate. What's the point? Blow out the Shabbat candles and put this charade to rest. Who am i kidding, playing dress-up in Tzitzit and lame kippahs. I'm too weak.


Bacon cheeseburger, you fill my stomach and empty my soul. Leave the kippah in the car. Button up over the magen david. No one must know. Walk in, order my tawdry lover. Eight dollars and twelve cents with a Root Beer. Rip into the foil and take a giant bite Hearty, delicious beef fat around my lips. Warm, cheesy patty I sit and eat in shame. Same time next week?


Irresistible π Karin Videlefsky My sweet aroma fills the room. I am completely irresistible; if you don’t taste me you are irrational. Just like I am. The amount of calories I contain are infinite, just like the number of digits in my decimal representation. I am one of the best tasting and unique desserts, and everyone repetitively eats me. Unlike my decimal representation, which never repeats. People may say eating me is unnecessary and unhealthy but I beg to disagree. I am a necessity. Without me no one would be able to determine the circumference, area, and volume of a circle. And circles are the new squares. In fact, I am the ratio of a circles circumference to its diameter. So all you haters stop the banter. Apple, blueberry, raspberry, they are all so fine. But here is something that will truly blow your mind. “If you divide the circumference of a pumpkin by its diameter, what will you have? Pumpkin PI!”


Matrix Delusions Josh Cohen Matrices! Oh, Matrices! How could you do this to me? You were the unit I yearned for; The one unit I would adore. I saw you in that movie; And thought you would be groovy. You seemed to be all fun and free; I had no idea you sting like a bee. In order to multiply, I had to find dimensions. I went crazy and needed a scholarly pension. There’s so much thinking going into one problem; At times, I could not even begin to solve them. Determinants were also a pain; I’d rather be Bruce Wayne fighting Bane. Rewriting the first two columns or using minors; I always thought of going to the diner. Luckily, I made it through the struggle; I can’t wait for new ideas to juggle.


Tragic School Death Jaren Mendel Wound me with homework Hurt me with projects Maim me with essays Kill me with exams Spill my red ink blood Read my will--the rubric of life Dot my “i”s and cross my “t”s Write me a speech, MLA format of course Dress me in grades Let the coffin be GPA Put me in the classroom ground Bury me in schoolwork because my true self will never resurrect


Bromas en Español Samantha Leff ¿Por qué a los lápices no les gustan las plumas? Porque las plumas son más “clickey”

¿Qué dijo la chimenea vieja a la chimenea joven? ¡Tú eres bastante joven para fumar!

Mi Propio Mundo Joseph Brickman Caminando al campo con mis zapatos de fútbol y calcetines verdes, Tengo una responsabilidad a la escuela de Weber, y más de yo mismo El campo de fútbol es mi escape. Yo puedo dejar mis emociones en el campo, con el césped verde, y liberar mi tensión. A veces, mis entrenedores me dicen que mis emociones son una distracción,


‫‪Pero mis emociones estimulan mi energía en el partido de‬‬ ‫‪fútbol, y forman mi identidad.‬‬ ‫‪Corriendo por el campo, con un objetivo en mente.‬‬ ‫‪El viento pasa entre mi pelo, y mi corazón late como un tambor.‬‬ ‫‪Driblar, pasar, disparar‬‬ ‫‪La sensación de victoria fluyendo en mi cuerpo‬‬ ‫‪Driblar, pasar, disparar‬‬ ‫‪En el campo de fútbol, estoy libre y en mi propio universo.‬‬

‫מלחי אופסום תרופה טבעית‬ ‫לורן ריין‬ ‫מ ל חי אופסום עוזרים לגוף להרגיש טוב יותר‪ .‬אנשים משתמשים במלחי‬ ‫אפסום אחרי ספורט וגם כשכואב להם‪ .‬במלחי אפסום יש חומרים טובים‬ ‫כמו מגנזיום סולפט‪.‬‬ ‫כל האנשים יכולים לקנות אותם כי לא צריך מרשם‪.‬‬ ‫מלחי אפסום הם תרופה טובה יותר מזריקות‪ ,‬כדורים וטיפות אבל‪ ,‬אם יש‬ ‫לאנשים משהן מסובך‪ ,‬הם צריכים ללכת לרופא‪.‬‬ ‫כשאנשים חולים‪ ,‬הם רוצים להשתמש במלחי אפסום כי זה טוב לכל הגוף‪.‬‬ ‫כאשר יש לי כאב בכף הרגל‪ ,‬אני שמה אותה במים עם המלח וזה עוזר‪.‬‬ ‫אחר כך זה לא כואב‪.‬‬ ‫אני חושבת שאנשים צריכים להשתמש במלחי אפסום כי הם טובים להכל‪.‬‬


The Social Ladder Anonymous Everyone is climbing My knuckles hurt from being stepped on But I climb on Tears fall like raindrops And screams echo like crashing thunder As we race up to nowhere To low self-esteem To the superficial My friend speeds up Leaving me behind In a dust that once was something But I’m tired of being left behind Tired of being second string I’m tired of looking up So I look down.


Dottings of light In a murky sea of black Thirty thousand feet never seemed so infinite But the fall would be a quick one Tired people who can’t sleep A redeye, they call it But the flight attendant Hey eye is black and blue Under layers of makeup, it’s swelling In harmony with her strained smile Gray walls hold gray people As we soar through the night Gray girls with limp pigtails Gray boys with Yankees baseball caps And the gray mothers With gray smudges of mascara under their eyes And their gray husbands Sending angry emails on their phones The gray concealer Covering up the black and blue Everything is fine We’ll swear to the death The strained smiles will never fall The thirty thousand foot drop


A Fall Vacation Zac Brenner The newly titled Laurence Exeter Sr. and his wife were the proud parents of a little boy. Their child was born on a fall day, approximately six years before Elizabeth received a telephone call from her parents. They reminded her that they had not seen their grandchild in some time, and that they missed him. After confirming with her husband, Elizabeth and her family of six years packed their suitcases and headed off to the train station. After presenting the tickets that Laurence had just purchased at the counter, the family hustled into the small railroad car. Night fell outside the car. The Exeter family had decided to take the trip at night so they could sleep the majority of the nineteen hour train ride. This did not affect Laurence Jr., however, who at six years old planned to sleep the majority of the ride, disregarding the state of the sun and moon outside the car. Before the Exeter family knew, the tiny car that they had inhabited for the last nineteen hours rolled to a slow stop in the San Francisco Bay station. An autumn breeze gently blew on the platform. Laurence Jr., relieved at finally being able to escape from the small space of the car, dragged his parents out of the car along the platform. Laurence spotted his grandparents and sprinted to them. Although his parents were startled momentarily at his sudden departure, their worries were quickly quelled when they saw exactly whose arms the boy was in. After exchanging greetings, the family of five crammed into Mrs. Exeter’s parents’ car. Lethargically the family made their way through the winding maze of streets and buildings. Laurence Jr. in particular enjoyed the ride. He took delight in looking outside of the car’s long, narrow windows. He was fascinated by the events that took place outside the car; all of the people, birds, cars, colorful leaves, and many other sights that he was not exposed to regularly at his home.


After arriving at the four-room apartment, and dropping their luggage in the room set up for them, the four adults sat in the living room and discussed their plans for the rest of that day. Laurence Jr., however, was still ensnared by the memory of the sights that he saw from the car. Impulsively, Laurence pressed himself against the glass of the balcony door, eager to get outside. He jumped for the handle, missed, and fell. He was not deterred. As he prepared himself to jump again his mother called him from the other room. Reluctantly Laurence backed away from the door. Laurence’s grandfather proclaimed in an excited voice that they were going to buy Laurence a present at a toy store not far away. ˷˷ Laurence and his family returned to the small apartment after enjoying their walk. The adults settled down in the living room for a cup of coffee. Laurence Jr., who neither drank coffee nor enjoyed adult conversation, politely asked his grandmother to open the door to the balcony. The got up together and walked across the small room to the balcony door. As his grandmother turned the handle and pushed the door open, Laurence Jr. walked into the afternoon sun, firmly grasping his new toy soldier in his left hand. He had not been outside but for several seconds when he noticed a brightly colored blue butterfly hovering above the balcony mwall. Laurence Jr. threw his new toy on the table that took up most of the balcony. It landed in a haphazard manner, its limbs bending backwards. Its head rolled to the side. Laurence Jr. pulled with all his might, and finally dragged one of the patio chairs over to the wall. The butterfly continued to hover in place. Laurence’s family continued to drink coffee. Laurence Jr. pulled himself on top of the chair, and was soon balancing on the narrow balcony wall of his grandparents’ apartment. Being six years old, he did not grasp the precariousness of his position. He also did not grasp that his new toy was broken. Laurence Jr. stretched his arm as far as it could go. Suddenly, the butterfly gently flapped its wings and moved farther from the wall. Laurence, captured by the beauty of the butterfly, extended his arm further.


As his fingers curled around the butterfly, Laurence’s balance shifted, his arm extended, and his feet slipped. Startled by losing his footing, he opened his palm. The butterfly flew away; coldly ignoring his would be killer in the air below him. In the living room, Laurence Jr.’s mother set down her mug on the coffee table. It was some time before she noticed the broken limbs of her son’s new toy resting peacefully on the table -- and how its head rolled freely from side to side.

The Mountains and the Land Zach Itzkovitz The memory of my Israel experience that most interests me right now is my time in Jerusalem. The significance, or lack thereof, of my presence in the city could be applied to anytime and anywhere, but my fleeting moment in Jerusalem made this awareness particularly poignant for some reason. The awareness of my insignificance is a steady source of stress in my daily life. We stepped off the bus with the television and cushioned seats and tinted windows, and onto land seen by thousands of years of humanity -- passion, pain, pleasure, dread, euphoria, ecstasy, truth. We walked through the rubble of a temple, destroyed almost two millennia before our introspection and observation. I gazed at the rocks, trying desperately to see the terror and tears of those killed and the melancholy death hanging over the scene. I tried to hear the screaming and tried to see people in togas desperate and helpless. Remembering the sound of swords from movies, I pursued an audible perception. Apparently lacking the imaginative power, I heard petty conversation, the clicks of cameras capturing the transient presence of flesh and bones. The rubble sat silent. We discussed ancient happenings reluctantly. The rubble sat silent. Sunglasses covered eyes, laughter sounded, plans were made. The


rubble sat silent. We instinctively walked on to the next source of entertainment, eager for pleasure. Twenty feet farther from the rubble than I had been, I turned around to behold again the remains of the temple. The rubble sat silent. For those who have not heard the story, Masada is a mountain that Jews settled on within the borders of the Holy Roman Empire to live independently of Roman authority. They climbed the mountain and made it something of a thriving, Jewish community. Eventually, the Romans became aware of such a settlement and approached the mountain, eager to capture/convert/generally– disrupt-the-lives-of the Jews living there. The residents of the mountain, rather than give themselves to the Romans, resolved to kill themselves and their children. We climbed this mountain in the dark hours of early morning. Stairs had been constructed to make the ascent less physically challenging; sadly, vomit was ejected, tears were shed, and complaints were heard. We reached the top of the mountain about fifteen minutes before sunrise. When the sun peaked over the surrounding landscape, I felt quite small. The dark sky became a soft, lilac glow before maturing into a bleeding crimson. The peak of Masada became easily observable but infinitely more confusing postillumination. Cameras were pursued ruthlessly when the star ascended. Expressions passed as smiles, emotions qualified as contentment. The rock holding us up lacked our apparent enthusiasm. In the pursuit of some transient transcendence, some students tied leather around their arms. Others opened books, muttering an enigmatic vernacular with small head accessories. This was called prayer. I sat quietly, respectful of the hunt for the divine. Attempting to block out the voices, I turned around, fixing my eyes on the miles of emptiness below us. The valley absorbed me, as I absorbed it, its desolation, hypnotizing. I was taken aback to find that in the nothingness of the valley, under the bleeding crimson sky, I saw everything. I saw the past and the future.


Perfection Avery Frank Perfect is the untrodden snow It sleeps upon the silent ground; Perfect is all that we don’t know And the gentle lyre’s sound. Perfect is all that is unknown What is unknown cannot offend And never being left alone Is perfection in the end. Perfect are the lovely flowered lands; They give hope when gloom befalls. Perfect is the grasp of lovers’ hands; As night swallows shadows on the wall. Perfect are the freshly fallen leaves They give way beneath thy sure stride And these perfect autumn eves When summer and winter collide. O, then what may lie below, When only water surrounds? Perfect is the untrodden snow? When perfection floods the ground? When the lyre’s songs end When the leaves are blown away Who are we to pretend? When the perfect goes astray?


When winter kills the flowers And death severs the bond of love Perfect becomes a myth within hours, And crows sadly the mourning dove. Perfect is subjective A cruel trick of the human mind Yet still we are protective Of the perfectly defined. Perfect is the untrodden snow But not after the sun gleams Perfect is all that we don’t know But not everything is as it seems.


Max Harris


The Horror Daniel Gordon I stepped off the plane and was immediately met by it, the bitter, brutal cold biting at every inch of my body. My face went numb as gusts of wind swept by, seemingly ignoring the human life that was standing in its path. As my boots crunched against the thick layers of snow and ice, I began to realize where I was. Poland. A country that saw the death of millions of people, millions of Jews. Shivering in our boots we first headed to Plaszow, the site of a concentration camp headed by the infamous Amon Goth. There, we remembered the horror the Jews went through The everyday fear of being shot to death. Our journey through the horrors of the Holocaust continued as we visited a site of mass graves of men, women, and children. Mercilessly murdered in mass shootings. All that is left of these families are pits. Who knows how many people are in each one -Tens, hundreds, thousands? The Warsaw ghetto.


Nothing’s left but one defiant wall. A wall symbolizing the separation of a people. The attempted annihilation of a people. Auschwitz. As we walk through the infamous concentration camp, my mind pounds with emotion. How could anyone survive this shit-hole?

I reach my breaking point when I see it––– the hair. I have never seen so much hair. Words escape me as the tears begin to flow. The hair is followed by another sore sight––– the shoes. Red shoes, black shoes, small shoes, big shoes. Shoes of all colors, shapes, and sizes lie in a faded, mournful heap. As we leave Auschwitz, I am haunted by the hair. I am haunted by the shoes. I think of my own family, especially my little sister and brothers, and I struggle to understand how anyone could have survived this place. Birkenau. Are we in a movie? Is this real? How can this be?


The death camp looks like the set of a Holocaust film. The barbed wire, the endless rows of barracks, the gas chambers. Even the train tracks lie just as one would imagine. A platform. Women to the left, men to the right. I begin to picture it in my head. Majdanek. My whole body feels like ice. It’s the coldest place I’ve ever been. But then I imagine the prisoners of the camp. No coats, no thermal clothing, no shoes with any real warmth. No food in their stomachs. The thought of anyone surviving this place is unthinkable. We leave Poland. We step foot on the airplane. It takes off. I sigh a sigh of relief. The horror! The horror’s finally over.


Murderer Michael Whitesides 18 Million . Eighteen Million . Today I walked through a death camp called Majdanek I have lived most of my life in Marietta, Georgia and the coldest temperature I had ever experienced was in the mid 30’s Today, it was around 10 degrees Fahrenheit Dante was right Hell is frozen . The date is December17th, 2012 and I am in a bathroom of a hotel right outside of Warsaw I am splashing water on my face right before I go to bed It’s 10:30 at night I am exhausted I dry my face off I look down at my hands and through my blurry vision and I see something red There is blood on my hands I begin to scream I examine my hands for cuts and my arms for any gashes I can’t find anything Where is this blood coming from? I thrash violently


I throw my hands under the sink and begin to wash my hands furiously Each time I run them under the water; it seems as if I have washed the blood away But when I take them out from under the sink, they are still covered in blood Where is all of this blood coming from? I am sweating profusely out of anxiety My heart pounds so loudly I can hear it over the sound of the running water I rip off my shirt and throw it in the corner It’s covered in blood . WHERE IS ALL OF THIS GOD DAMN BLOOD COMING FROM?! . 588 thousand . The sink stops working It only drips out . Drip- Drop . There is still blood on my hands I turn the shower on and stick my hands underneath the shower head I’m crying Where am I cut? How am I bleeding? Where is all of this blood coming from? .


Am I going to die? . I rub them with soap, trying to wash off the blood The white bar of soap turns red I feel nauseated from the putrid scent of blood The shower head sputters and stops Water stops coming out of the shower head Instead, ash began to flow out like a river The shower begins to fill with ash All I can smell is ash and blood I begin to cough My lungs are filled with ash . When I walked out of the gas chamber at Majdanek, I was told to walk to a large stone coliseum that was towards the back of the camp. I was not told what was in the coliseum, all I was told is that I should walk up the steps and look into the coliseum. I walked up the stone stairs and looked over the granite ledge and saw a mountain of ash. There was a large mound of ash in the center of the coliseum The Nazis had burned the bodies and put all of the ash in the coliseum . I could see bones sticking out from the ash Some of them were broken and other were small and intact I cried as I walked back toward the bus that would take me away from this frozen Hell . Six hundred


I collapse on the bathroom floor I…I… I can’t breathe I feel as if I am suffocating My lungs are filling with ash Each time I cough I can see a plume of smoke come out of my mouth I stare at my hands while I curl up in the fetal position I still cannot find the origin of all this blood There is so much blood Through the smoke and blood I look up to the ceiling I breathe in the ash filled air one more time and I let out a blood curling shriek I scream because of the blood I scream because of the ash I scream for all the horrors of the Holocaust I have seen “Why?” I scream at the top of my lungs but I feel as if no one can hear me I feel as if my cries have fallen on deaf ears . As the sound of my shrieks fade away and I think back to what I has seen in Majdanek today and I realize whose blood is on my hands Because today I questioned how the residents of the Polish town of Lublin, which is the town right next to Majdanek, could have sat by while the Nazis slaughtered human beings I questioned how they could not see the blood that so clearly stained their clothes, their faces Their hands . I heard today that 200 people were murdered today in Syria The government ordered an airstrike on a civilian population center


I barley even flinched when I heard that 200 people had died That 200 people were murdered . I know whose blood this is . People dead . I know where this blood has come from Since the end of the Holocaust in 1945 there have been around 21 genocides that have taken place on planet Earth. These genocides have occurred on every continent. There have been genocides in the nations of India, Tibet (China), Papu New Guinea, Guatemala, Tanzania, Biafra (Nigeria), Equatorial Guinea, Argentina, Bangladesh, Uganda, The Democratic Republic of the Congo, Burundi, Ethiopia, Lebanon, Cambodia, Iraq, Liberia, Sierra Leone, Rwanda, Bosnia, East Timor, Darfur (Sudan). The combined death toll of these genocides is around 18,588,600 lives. This death toll is around 6 million higher than that of the Holocaust. The world let another Holocaust happen, and then some. I feel personally responsible for each one of those deaths. For every Cambodian, every Rwandan, every Argentinian, every Guatemalan, every Indian, and every Bosnian who lives were ended due to genocide. I cannot explain it; I feel my heart break when I hear the figures because I know each number was a person. Each number had a family Each number laughed once Each number cried once Each number had a life that was cut short


These deaths could have been prevented if we all just cared more If we all just felt for our fellow human Each time go into my closet, I look at my clothes and think “Could I have saved some Darfurian’s life with that money I spend on these pants?” How many lives could I have saved with $30? $40? $50? Then I proceed to cry I feel personally responsible for every person who has ever died due to genocide since the Holocaust All Eighteen Million, Five Hundred, Fifty-Eight Thousand, Six Hundred people. I have this feeling of guilt that begins in my mind but cuts deep down through my bones and into my soul That I am responsible as a human being and as a Jew to stop this I am disgusted at my people and at the human species as a whole that we have not stopped this never ending Holocaust . . This is what I learned in Poland


‫מפלצת‬ ‫‪Thomas Montgomery‬‬ ‫יש לי גם זיכרון לוא טוב על לימודת שואה‪ ,‬אבל לא טסתי לפולין וישראל עם‬ ‫התלמידים אחרים בכיתה יב השנה‪ .‬השנה הזאת הייתה הפעם השנייה שהייתה‬ ‫לי היזדמנות לטוס לישראל עם הבית ספר שלי ולא טסתי איתם‪ .‬הפעם‬ ‫הראשונה הייתה בכיתה ח‪ .‬אני שונא לטוס‪ .‬אני פוחד לטוס‪ .‬גם רק לבקר עם‬ ‫משפחתי בנו‪-‬יורק אני צריך לבוא ברכבת‪ .‬בכיתה ז לא יכולתי לטוס לוושינגתון‬ ‫די‪-‬סי‪ .‬אבל שנה אחרי כן‪ ,‬כשלא טסתי לישראל‪ ,‬תלמודי כיתה ז באו לוושינגתון‬ ‫באותובוס‪ .‬באתי איתם כי לא הייתי בישראל‪.‬‬ ‫אני זוכר שבאנו למוזאון שואה בוושינגתון‪ .‬היו כמה אלפי תמונות‪,‬‬ ‫סיפורים‪...‬נעליים‪ ,‬שער‪ .‬ראינו את כל המוות‪ ,‬שמענו על כל ההרס‪ .‬כמה תלמידים‬ ‫כעסו‪ .‬רוב התלמידים היו עצובים‪ .‬כמה בנות התביישו שהם בכו‪ .‬אני התביישתי‪...‬‬ ‫שאני לא בכיתי‪ .‬אני פשות לא הרגשתי שום דבר‪ .‬בסדר‪ ,‬הרגשתי עצוב‪ ...‬קצת‬ ‫עצוב‪.‬אבל גם כשידעתי בליבי שצריך להרגיש עצוב בשביל הילדים בתמונות‪ ,‬לא‬ ‫היכרתי אותם בלב‪ .‬כל מה שראיתי היה ממש רחוק ממני‪ .‬המשפחה שלי כבר‬ ‫הייתה באמריקה בזמן השואה‪ .‬זאת רק הייתה היסתוריה‪ ,‬שלא הייתה קשורה‬ ‫אליי‪ .‬אמרתי לעצמי‪ ,‬איך אתה יכול להיות כה חלול? ראיתי את ההשתקפות שלי‬ ‫בזכוכית המוזאון‪ ,‬וראיתי מפלצת במראה‪ .‬אמרתי אחר‪-‬כך לידיד שלי מה שקרה‪,‬‬ ‫מה שלא קרה‪ .‬הוא הכיר אותי ולא הבין איך זה אפשרי‪.‬‬ ‫זה הזיכרון הגרוע שלי‪.‬אני הייתי‪ ...‬אני הדבר הכי מגעיל בעולם‪ :‬יהודי צעיר שלא‬ ‫מאוד אכפת לו השואה‪.‬‬


The Chill of Our Past Yacova Kagan The crunch of the snow beneath my feet is a new sound to me. Until this moment the only snow I had seen was the light flurries that dusted the streets of my Atlanta home in the height of our pathetic winter. Here it is only December and the Poland snow is as thick as a newly opened jar of peanut butter. Were they cold when they were here?


The ice collects on my toes as I shuffle along with the group. We are entering Auschwitz. A place I have only heard about in upsetting movies in horrific stories in heavy textbooks. I am cold. I decide I do not like the snow. We are standing under a sign “Arbeit Macht Frei.� Work will set you free. My first steps into the camp emulate those like me 60 years ago. My steps, however, are not my last. Barracks. Barracks. An eeriness that only the chill


of the wind can describe. The silence of the death that echoes along the pathway screams in my ears. I am cold. I decide I do not like this place.

An Island Floats Away Aviv Rau Recently, a childhood classmate of mine took his own life. While I was not very close with the boy, I was—and continue to be—deeply shaken by his sudden passing. I had not spoken to or seen him since eighth grade, yet I find myself wishing he were still alive. I find myself wishing he were here, so I could tell him how much he was loved. I find myself wishing this boy were here, so I could tell him not to leave so soon. I remember the boy’s bright, genuine smile. He had an infectious laugh that would never fail to comfort those around him. However, I’ll never see that young boy’s smile again. I will never hear the laugh…nor will anybody else. To date, this boy has been one of the most influential figures in my life. Since this boy’s death, I have not been able to function properly. His death looms above me like a dark mass, space filling yet empty. This mass follows me from the moment I wake until the moment I drift to sleep. As I head to school, the mass shields me from other childhood friends who knew this boy, filling the air with tension and melancholy. As I think about my future, the mass drones incessantly above me, reminding me this boy has no future. I repeatedly Google this boy’s name, each time hoping to piece together his story. But the results lead me nowhere. I hope his death was


quick and painless. I cannot bear to imagine such a kind, gregarious, and admired person inflict any form of pain on himself. There is nothing I can do now, except wish that I knew what he was going through. The poet John Donne once wrote that “no man is an island,” but I strongly disagree. If this boy I knew, whom everyone thought was happy and content, took his own life, then we are clearly all islands, floating on our own. The things we choose to project to others can be filtered so much that they can see an entirely different version of ourselves than we do. In order to answer the questions left behind by his passing, I vow to open myself up to others and speak honestly about my feelings. I also vow be more in tune with the emotional needs of those around me. I cannot bear to deal with this grief, emptiness, and confusion again. “Each man’s death diminishes me/ For I am involved in mankind.”

Viva La Gi Aliya Saulson Typically, our trips on South African Airways were for pleasant occasions: bar-mitzvahs, reunions, safaris. Seth Efrika, as my mom called her native soil, was just as much my home as my pink house in the suburbs of Atlanta. So when flight #2916 landed in Johannesburg this past August, I felt foreign to my feeling of reluctance. Even the weather was unfamiliar. Instead of dry heat, gray skies lightly drizzled while puddles edged the granite curbs. Aunt Gi and I strolled into a small café with soggy umbrellas and gushing rain boots. We needed something to warm up our cheeks as well as tame our appetites. As we welcomed Rocky Road Marshmallow Mochas steaming with sugar to our table, Gi announced she wanted to take a picture. My aunt, a renowned photographer, had a knack for capturing such simple moments others wouldn’t st way her order of “avocado on toast with a side of egg whites” sounded.


Sipping my warm mocha, I knew this would be my last outing with Gi -- her funky head wrap scarves, big white sunglasses, and brightly

printed shoes. Everybody wanted to know the secret to her thin physique -how she appeared like an iconic runway model. To me, there was no secret. Chemo cum radiation was the trick. We reminisced about her assignment photographing Nelson Mandela, about her almost settling in America, and about childhood spats with her siblings. She had never shared such personal anecdotes with me. Then, out of nowhere she interrogated: “Why did you and your mom rush over here? Does she think I’m dying or something?” I choked. Here it was, the African elephant in the room with its enormous trunk in my face and its huge feet crushing my toes. Gi knew lung cancer was marking her time. And the ticking clock was even more evident when she asked if I would keep in touch with her twin boys. She must have sensed that I had been dodging their irritating, incessant Facebook messages, but she wanted reassurance I would be there for them when she died. How do you say goodbye to somebody you know you’re never going to see again? The Seth Efrikan welcome would now be missing a pair of open arms. Gi died that December. I now see that goodbyes happen while you’re sipping Rocky Road Marshmallow Mochas on rainy mornings. And I now know that though I was only a part of Gi’s life for seventeen years, she will be a part of mine for the next seventy years to come.


Izzy Rachel Schwartz When Izzy Giggles A magic sound big happiness not often found an extra block to shake and play what makes you smile is simple that day and when you rub your weary eyes and sing that song of tired sighs you’ll fall in deep, a cuddly heap and dream delights, in pleasant sleep

Whitney Barnard


Jenna Kahn

To thx fortunatx findxr of this bottlx Aliya Saulson To thx fortunatx findxr of this bottlx, Xvxn though my computxr is an outdatxd modxl of a discontinuxd makx, shx works quitx wxll--xxcxpt for onx of thx kxys. It is trux thxrx arx ninxty fivx kxys that function wxll xnough, but nonxthxlxss I havx oftxn dxsirxd all thx kxys workxd pxrfxctly bxcausx just onx unsxrvicxablx kxy appxars to makx a considxrablx diffxrxncx. Indxxd, oftxn thx wholx univxrsx in which wx livx sxxms to bx somxwhat likx my computxr -- not all thx kxy pxoplx arx working propxrly and togxthxr. As unfortunatx as it is, our world


is most dxfinitxly shy a kxy--or thrxx. Wx sxxm to bx missing accxssiblx opportunitixs, rxquitxd lovx, prxcious timx, and cxrtainly thx swxxtnxss of pxoplx coming togxthxr in onx pxacx. This is thx rxason I placx littlx hopx in you, whoxvxr you arx, fishing this bottlx out of thx dxxp blux. Thx wholx idxa strikxs mx as absurd, likx skxxt shooting with my xyxs vxilxd. Howxvxr, I havx got to gxt my dxxpxst xmotions out of my systxm xvxn if it mxans bottling thxm up to bx hurlxd towards a nxvxr-nxvxr landing. Thxrxforx, should my bottlx bob ashorx and you rxad my mxssagx, you may musx to yoursxlf, as I havx bxxn musing to mysxlf, "Wxll, wxll, I am mxrxly onx pxrson -- onx hxart, onx hxad, blxssxd with txn fingxrs and txn toxs. What hxll of a diffxrxncx can onx anonymous, brixf-xnough-to-squxxzx-into-onx-bottlx mxssagx rxally mxan to mx?" Yxt, you sxx, in ordxr for thx world around you to bx truly xffxctivx, it nxxds thx activx, uniqux participation of xvxry pxrson, mx -- and now, you -- includxd. Thxrxforx, thx vxry nxxt timx you dxspondxntly bxlixvx you arx only onx pxrson and prxsumx that your prxsxncx is inconsxquxntial, rxmxmbxr my computxr and thx mxssagx you havx hxld in your fingxrs. And promisx yoursxlf, "I am a kxy pxrson and nxxdxd vxry much." Tossxd to you with thx sincxrxst of rxgards, Aliya



Max Harris


What Does it Do For Us? Jane Fisher Warms, lightens and feeds Fulfilling the Human needs If you stop and think And take a gaze at the yellowy pink What is its purpose? Is it allowed to hurt us? It reminds us that days move on The pain and darkness has gone The light shines It allows human nature to redefine Day by day, night by night Our problems are hidden by the outer light We can’t allow ourselves to be seen Our inner weaknesses are hidden behind a riveting machine Our mind wanders, fueled by the sun But the pain is still there, in the long the run What does the sun do for us? It warms our skin And hides that mortal sin Until the night moon arrives And all of our hidden pains revive


The sun is a reminder A peace and happiness finder It allows us to enjoy the day Pushing the moon’s worries astray So shine on The sun is something we must rely upon For when the darkness comes The beat of pain will drum Float on The sun will rise everyday The less the problems will weigh The shine cures the mind And all the worries you can leave behind

The sun is consistent In order to keep your faith existent You can always depend on those rays to shine So let your eyes gaze to the horizon line Remember what the sun provides Lights, warmth and a guide.


“If you will it, it is no dream.” – Theodor Herzl Amanda Mizell On December 2, 2012, I embarked on what would become the most influential experience of my life thus far. Going to a Jewish

day school, I felt like I was obligated to advocate for Israel, but I never really knew how or why. Also, having gone to a Christian school for eleven and a half years, I didn't know much about Jewish history or Israel itself. But, I went into the trip with an open mind, ready to learn about how my religion and my homeland came about. Little did I know that this journey would become more than just a learning experience for me. Before Israel, I was unsure about whether or not I believed in God. My ultimate goal on the trip was to feel spiritually connected to God in one way or another, but I never did. On the first Shabbat of the five-week trip, we went to the Kotel in Jerusalem. There were hundreds of men and women gathered in their designated sections, waiting for their turn at the wall. I pushed my way through the crowd until I was standing in front of the wall, grasping the letter I had written the night before. I folded it until it was small enough to fit in one of the cracks, and then I began praying. First I sang the Sh’ma, then the Amidah, and then I said a personal prayer, all addressed to God. I opened my eyes, kissed the wall, and walked away, trying to process what I had just done. I remember thinking to myself, “I just prayed at the Western Wall, but why am I not feeling anything?”


The most incredible part of the trip was climbing Mt. Masada. I remember the torturous climb up the flights of stairs, and the aching of my tired body from waking up at four in the morning. When I got to the top of the mountain and looked around, all I saw was a vast land of rocks and ruins. The top of the mountain was surrounded by a beautiful mountain range, with a clear view of the Dead Sea and the ground below it. I was looking at what I had been told was one of God’s most beautiful creations, but again, I did not feel connected to God. I found myself thinking about how amazing it is that the Earth itself could have, over time, created such a beautiful sight. How nature itself had made dips in the valley below, layers of rock in the mountains, and a sea that people can float in. This is when I knew where I stood with God. Throughout the trip, I saw deserts, forests, mountains, beaches, cities, snow, rain, and other terrains. I saw the borders of Syria, Lebanon, Egypt, and Jordan, and thought to myself that if there was no fence separating the countries, I wouldn't have been able to tell which country was which. I cried standing in the freezing cold with my friends in the Holocaust concentration camps in Poland. But most importantly, I learned where I stood with Judaism, Israel, and God. I learned that you do not have to believe in God to be Jewish, and to appreciate the wonders of Israel. I learned that it was not God who created the mountains and the beaches, but rather the country itself. I was able to observe the land around me, and take in all of the little things. I saw the culture and the lifestyle of the Israeli people, and learned how to live like them, too. I experienced something unlike anything I had ever seen before, and to me, that was the most important lesson.


‫מלחמת ששת הימים‬ ‫אלן אילייב‬ ‫בהיסטוריה של עם ישראל יש הרבה דם‪ ,‬מרידות ומלחמות‪.‬‬ ‫שטחה של ישראל היה רק עשרים אלף קילומטרים רבועים‪ ,‬אבל כל פעם‪,‬‬ ‫כשהמדינות הערביות רצו לתקוף את ישראל‪ ,‬האזרחים של המדינה‬ ‫הקטנה קמו ועבדו ביחד כדי להגן על ארץ חלב ודבש – הארץ שלי ושל כל‬ ‫היהודים בעולם‪.‬‬ ‫הישראלים היו מוכנים לנהל משא ומתן לשלום‪ .‬בשנת ‪ ,1960‬גולדה מאיר‬ ‫אמרה למנהיגים הערביים שהיא פתוחה לשלום‪ .‬הערבים סירבו לשלום‬ ‫וסירבו להכיר בישראל‪.‬‬ ‫ב‪ ,1963 -‬הערבים החליטו להקים ארגון פלסטינאי בשם א‪.‬ש‪.‬ף‪ -‬ארגון‬ ‫לשחרור פלסטין‪ .‬המנהיג של הארגון היה יאסר ערפאת והמטרה‬ ‫המשותפת שלהם הייתה להשמיד את מדינת ישראל‪ .‬פיגועי הטרור שנעשו‬ ‫על ידי א‪.‬ש‪.‬ף הפכו לסצינה מוכרת בישראל‪ .‬ב‪ 1965 -‬היו שלושים וחמש‬ ‫התקפות טרור ובשנים ‪ 1966‬ו‪ 1967 -‬היו יותר משישים וחמש התקפות על‬ ‫אזרחים‪.‬‬ ‫המלך חוסיין מירדן חשב שא‪.‬ש‪.‬ף היה איום על הכוח שלו והוא זרק הרבה‬ ‫מחברי הארגון לכלא‪.‬‬ ‫המצב בישראל החמיר כשממשלת ישראל אמרה שהיא רוצה לקחת מים‬ ‫מהירדן‪ .‬הצבא הסורי התחיל להתקיף חוות וקיבוצים בגולן‪ .‬ישראל נלחמה‬ ‫בחזרה וצה‪,‬ל הרס שישה מטוסי קרב סורים‪ .‬הרוסים נתנו לסוריה מידע‬ ‫כוזב שישראל מתכוננת להתקפה‪.‬‬ ‫בחמשה עשר במאי ‪ ,1967‬המצרים‪ ,‬בני הברית של הסורים‪ ,‬שמו חיילים‬ ‫ליד הגבול והסורים עשו אותו דבר שלושה ימים אחר כך‪ .‬המלך נאצר סגר‬ ‫את מייצרי טיראן וישראל לא יכלה לשלוח אוניות ולקבל נפט מארצות‬ ‫אחרות‪.‬‬ ‫נאצר היה מוכן להילחם בישראל והמטרה שלו הייתה ברורה לעולם – הוא‬ ‫לא רצה שישראל תהיה מדינה של יהודים‪ .‬האידיאולוגיה הזאת הייתה‬ ‫משותפת לרוב המדינות הערביות‪.‬‬


‫ב‪ 5-‬ביוני‪ ,‬עיראק‪ ,‬מצריים‪ ,‬ירדן וסוריה עשו ברית צבאית‪ .‬היסטוריונים‬ ‫אומרים שהיו לערבים בערך ‪ 65,000‬חיילים‪ 800 ,‬טנקים ו‪ 800 -‬מטוסים‪.‬‬ ‫הצבא של ישראל היה לבד‪ ,‬אף על פי שאמריקה הייתה בצד של ישראל‪.‬‬ ‫אמריקה אמרה לאו"ם שהיא תהיה ניטרלית‪ ,‬אבל כולם ידעו שהיא נתנה‬ ‫כלי נשק לישראל‪ .‬מהצד השני‪ ,‬הרוסים נתנו כלי נשק לערבים יחד עם‬ ‫כווית‪ ,‬אלג'ירייה וערב הסעודית‪.‬‬ ‫המצב של ישראל לא היה טוב‪ ,‬אבל היא הייתה מוכנה‪ .‬כל הסיכויים היו‬ ‫נגד ישראל‪ -‬איך היא יכלה להתגבר על הערבים? הישראלים ידעו שהם‬ ‫יפסידו לערבים אם הם רק יחכו לנס‪ .‬במקום זה‪ ,‬ראש הממשלה של‬ ‫ישראל‪ ,‬לוי אשכול‪ ,‬נתן את ההוראה לתקוף את מצריים‪.‬‬ ‫בבוקר של ה‪ 5-‬ביוני‪ ,‬ישראל שלחה את כל חיל האוויר שלה‪ ,‬חוץ משנים‬ ‫עשרה מטוסים‪ .‬תוך שעתיים‪ ,‬הם הרסו ‪ 300‬מטוסים מצרים‪ .‬בסוף היום‪,‬‬ ‫הצבא של ישראל עצר את כל ההתקפות האפשריות של הערבים‪.‬‬ ‫ראש הממשלה‪ ,‬אשכול של הודעה למלך חוסיין שישראל לא תעשה כלום‬ ‫לירדן אלא אם הם יתקפו‪ .‬הירדנים ראו על המכ"ם שלהם שהיו מטוסים‬ ‫בדרך לישראל‪ .‬המצרים אמרו שהמטוסים היו שלהם‪ ,‬אבל באמת‪ ,‬הם היו‬ ‫מטוסים ישראלים שחזרו אחרי ההתקפה על מצרים‪ .‬חוסיין שלח מטוסים‬ ‫להתקיף את מערב ירושלים‪.‬‬ ‫בסוף היום הראשון של המלחמה‪ ,‬ישראל הרסה את כוחות האוויר של‬ ‫הירדנים‪ ,‬המצרים וחצי מכוחות האוויר של הסורים‪.‬‬ ‫בשני הימים שבאו אחרי מתקפת הפתע הישראלית‪ ,‬היו עוד נצחונות של‬ ‫הצד הישראלי‪ .‬ישראל כבשה את העיר העתיקה בפעם הראשונה‬ ‫בהיסטוריה של המדינה‪ .‬ב‪ 7-‬ביוני‪ ,‬הצנחנים הביסו את הירדנים ואיבטחו‬ ‫את העיר‪ .‬הרב הראשי של צה"לתקע בשופר ליד הכותל המערבי כדי‬ ‫לחגוג את האירוע‪.‬‬ ‫באותו זמן‪ ,‬קבוצה קטנה הגנה על הגולן‪ .‬זה לקח שני ימים אבל ב‪ 9-‬ביוני‬ ‫הם הצליחו לפרוץ את קווי האוייב ליד הגבול ולכבוש הרבה אדמה‪.‬‬ ‫תוך ‪ 6‬ימים‪ ,‬ישראל‪ ,‬המדינה הכי קטנה במזרח התיכון‪ ,‬הצליחה להביס את‬ ‫הצבא הערבי‪.‬‬


The Wall That Wails on Shabbat Aliya Saulson I follow my own trail of cobblestones to the Kotel The Western Wall--the religious center of Jerusalem Which is the religious center of Israel I reach the Wall after some scurrying and shoving I push aside old notes to find room for mine amongst the cracks I step back to take it all in And that's when my heart strings are tugged until the tears fall. She catches my eye with her ratty clothes Her ratty bones Her ratty stumbling A woman withering away by the hour She reaches to the sky as if to grasp the Holy Wall As so many do There are too many people No room for one more note, one more hand In her mind, her fingers become one with the Wall. Finally a space is parted She crouches on her knees to kiss the floor beneath the Kotel This woman whose skin has seen ninety something years


Even still gets on the floor Her wrinkles know all too well the energy and pain this action requires Her palm meets the cool stone Filled with prayers, wishes Hopes and dreams Notes, letters Torn papers, prayer book pages This Wall-- the epitome of the Jews' resistance. Each day of history Felt beneath her fingertips Her people's perseverance Their struggle, their survival The only Wall to have survived the destruction. And that's when her sleeve falls short of her forearm Revealing digits embedded into her skin One six Two fours One zero Two sevens One eight


One two When the Nazis took away her sister to the gas chambers in Auschwitz Do you think she thought she would ever survive? When she and a friend scoured and scrounged for every last crumb Do you think she thought of the day she would see Israel? When she was sent to work instead of to death Do you think she ever thought she would touch the Wailing Wall? In my mind, it was her first visit to the Western Wall. The restless nights The constant fighting Every last breath and stone The restless nights The constant fighting Every last breath and bone She gave the wall one last kiss and mustered her energy. For her helpless sister For her hungry friend For her dangling life For every Hebrew word of prayer


For every soul that didn't survive the Nazis For every wall that perished For every soldier that fell For every person who made Aliyah For me Her first Shabbat at the Kotel My first Shabbat in Jerusalem Our first Shabbat in Israel Certainly not our last.


Max Harris

The Mist Knight’s Philosophy: The Journey of a Weber Senior Dovid Drukman Arising early in the morning I take my pack, set off toward the forest. It is hard for me to find the way to the beginning since the mist is so strong strong. Suddenly, I hear a noise. I hear the clashing of swords, and I follow the noise. It forms a path for me because through the night, the knights found the path, lined it waiting for morning. At that time they began to clash their blades, allowing me to use their combat to help me find the entrance to the forest.


Finally, at the end of the noise and path, I find the forest entrance. I turn around slowly, and yell, “For the light!� After which I charge into the forest with the cheer of my allies behind me. I begin to wander, and I see images. I see myself a million ways in the mist. I see a smith, a writer, an artist, a warrior, a lover, destroyer, and so many things. I am confused. The words of my philosophy teacher come back to me, and remind me of what the hardest part of life is. I realize that the enemy had laid out a trap that forces me to find who I am or never leave. In my mind I wondered, and thought, and questioned as I walked through this mist with my goal close to my heart glowing faintly. Time began to pass slowly at first then, faster as my food ran out, and I still searched. That was three-and-a-half years ago that I began my journey through the mist to save the kingdom, and I still wander around in the mist aimlessly. I follow any lead I can in the mist, exploring whatever path I can as it then becomes invisible underneath my feet; a new one appears, and I discover later it was the same, just slightly different to confuse me. As I lay down each night I wonder will I ever find who I am, and will I ever save those I care for; or will I be trapped here made to suffer eternally for my wishes, and hopes. Then in the morning I wander on.


Gloria al Bravo Pueblo Avi Colonomos Marcharon con la felicidad Cantaron canciones de libertad Proclamaron: "¡Gloria al bravo pueblo!"

Con Simón Bolívar en la cabeza, se comprometieron A respetar siempre la dignidad, la libertad de expresión, y los derechos humanos

Se agitaron las banderas de amarillo, azul y rojo El amarillo, por la riqueza de la tierra El azul, por el mar que nos separa del opresor Y el rojo, por la sangre de la revolución de Venezuela

Pero nosotros no somos ellos No cantamos canciones gloriosas, no hablamos de "bravo pueblo," no prometemos proteger los derechos humanos

Nuestra bandera sigue siendo amarillo, azul y rojo El amarillo, por el techo de la Asamblea Nacional de malandros El azul, por el autobús que el presidente una vez condujo Y el rojo, por la boina del comandante Chávez


En 1811, todo el país El blanco y el negro, el mulato y el indio Cantaron: "¡Gloria al bravo pueblo!"

Pero hoy solo el mentiroso y el Chavista Que abiertamente manipulan las elecciones Canten: "¡Gloria al bravo pueblo!"

Los criminales de los barrios pobres Quién secuestran, roban y matan Cantan: "¡Gloria al bravo pueblo!"

Los regímenes hermanas de Bolivia y Cuba Que se paran como tontos ante las Naciones Unidas Cantan: "¡Gloria al bravo pueblo!"

Y yo… A 2000 millas de distancia, y sin fuerza Me pregunto: "¿Gloria a que bravo pueblo?"


‫שני שמות‬ ‫‪Sam Ready‬‬ ‫רוב אנשים קוראים לי סם‪ .‬רוב הזמן‪ ,‬בחיים הרגילים שלי‪ ,‬אני סם‪,‬‬ ‫נער חילוני וחכם‪ ,‬גם עים סרקסתי‪.‬‬ ‫שלי‪ ,‬אני סם‪ ,‬נער חילוני וחכם‪ ,‬גם עים סרקסתי‪ .‬אני חושב על עצמי בשם סם‪,‬‬ ‫השם האנגלי שלי‪ .‬אבל לפעמים אני מישהו אחר‪ .‬יש לי עוד שם‪ .‬לפעמים‬ ‫קוראים לי שמואל‪ ,‬או שמו‪ .‬לכל יהודי יש זהות סודית כזאת‪ ,‬כמו גיבור על או‬ ‫סוכן חשאי‪ .‬לברוס וואין יש בטמן‪ ,‬לגיימס בונד יש ‪ ,007‬ולי יש שמואל‪ .‬כשאני‬ ‫מתפלל להשם ומדבר בשפה הקדושה‪ ,‬אני שמואל‪ .‬זה השם העיברי שלי‪ .‬יש‬ ‫אנשים שאומרים שהשם האנגלי רק שם שטחי‪ ,‬ורק השם העיברי השם האמיתי‬ ‫בנפש‪ ,‬ואני רוצה להאמין בזה כי לפעמים אני חושב ששמואל הוא בן אדם יותר‬ ‫טוב מסם‬

‫‪The Clockmaker’s Final Behest‬‬ ‫‪Jeremy Shapiro‬‬ ‫‪The beating clock‬‬ ‫‪The resolute hand‬‬ ‫‪Marching toward a predestined rest‬‬ ‫‪The ticking heart‬‬ ‫‪It cannot withstand‬‬ ‫‪The clockmaker’s final behest‬‬ ‫‪When I was a boy‬‬


My heart still being wound I asked my great Father a query What is this noise? Father, what is this sound? It slow as I grow to be weary! He responded so purely Omniscient, demurely Son, that is the noise of your heart But, someday it will stop Just like those in my shop And at that he turned quick to depart This strange confrontation My nearing cessation A feeble life sure to be thieved But with further thinking And much contemplation I will not be divinely bereaved Fellow clocks by my side Where they always reside In that store that my father once founded But I shan’t be despairing My clockmaker, so caring


Gave me life and a heart that once pounded As we march toward our home The divine metronome It guides us as one to our rest Our parade shan’t be feared For our day has long neared The clockmaker’s final behest


Ramblings 2013  

The Weber School

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