tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-329523862024-03-18T05:47:55.162-04:00The View From HereInbar Chava FrishmanInbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.comBlogger448125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-2917999988208670482024-03-06T23:40:00.002-05:002024-03-06T23:41:57.786-05:0006.03.2024 ii<p>In a dream I saw myself </p><p>High in the branches of a</p><p>Cherry blossom tree </p><p>I read a book</p><p>My mother's book, I was so Young, unjaded; free</p><p>I said be</p><p>Ware, those thin branches are stronger than they look</p><p>They'll break your bones, even as they</p><p>Break beneath you</p><p>And at this tree's base</p><p>You'll lie bleeding</p><p>Defeated</p><p>These beautiful blossoms have </p><p>Tasted others' blood</p><p>After all, </p><p>This is why they are this particular shade</p><p>Of pink. </p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-64291228959251176832024-03-06T15:17:00.004-05:002024-03-06T15:49:09.957-05:0006.03.2024<p>Behind me, it stretches </p><p>Sometimes frayed, but never detached,</p><p>This root</p><p>Five thousand years long</p><p>There are knots here and there of varying size and complexity, and</p><p>Sometimes parts, worn so thin as to be imperceptible to the naked eye</p><p>The colours change</p><p>From greyed browns to the</p><p>Vividest orange</p><p>––</p><p>Today </p><p>There is a new orange sundress– bought on a </p><p>Cold, rainy March day in New York for </p><p>Slow April coffees in Tel Aviv</p><p>And hot, humid, impatient waiting at bus stops </p><p>And (Hopefully) </p><p>Slow evening walks along the tayelet</p><p>––</p><p>It's true, I have lost so much</p><p>What I'd thought were my actual roots</p><p>My parents</p><p>My love</p><p>Artifacts of lives lived </p><p>My sense of safety, and</p><p>I will lose yet more</p><p>This is only inevitable</p><p>Yet the root will remain</p><p>Anchored deep in five thousand years of soil </p><p>And when finally, I too </p><p>Am soil</p><p>This is my prayer:</p><p>That fresh shoots should spring up from what was me</p><p>And the young eat the fruit I'll have left behind.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-57771505336733644682024-02-27T01:18:00.005-05:002024-02-27T14:37:30.176-05:0027.02.2024 <p>There's a page on Facebook that showed up in my suggestions, that's all about Miami Beach from the 50s - the 80s, and, scrolling through all the pictures, I'm filled with a visceral, and often painful kind of nostalgia. There's a certain blue-ish yellow cast to the light in these pictures, and I can feel the strong, acidic sun on my sunburnt arms and back; I can smell the Solarcaine, and the way the old hotel rooms smelled: slightly musty, and extra air conditioned, and with 40 plus years of old cigarette smoke and suntan oil and perfume still clinging to their blackout curtains. </p><p>I remember the summer we were on Hollywood beach, and that scratchy, white, gauze shirt I wore daily. It was the summer that "Personal Best" came out, and I was 12, or 13, or 10, and I remember running on that beach, wanting to be Mariel Hemingway, feeling both excited, because her character was like me, and wanting to celebrate this visibility by embodying it, yet hoping that nobody would be able to tell that that was what I was doing, afraid of the possibility of exposure of such an intimate truth. </p><p>I remember how- in the evenings, at Rascal House, my shirt still stuck to my body from the combination of heat and sweat and suntan lotion and Solarcaine, as I pulled the pumpernickel and onion rolls from their basket, scooping out their insides with a probing index finger and stuffing them full of the delicious "health salad" from the stainless steel bowls. I remember feeling exotic, with my wild curls untamed, my tan, and the carved, coconut wood, monkey head pendant I wore on that trip tight around my throat, a souvenir from one of the open front shops along the boardwalk. </p><p><br /></p><p>So much triggered by images of a gone time. </p><p>The pain is in the reminder of the many things lost that I'd taken for granted. The quiet presence of my father, before life had made him bitter; my mother's fat, soft hand on my side as I- sleepy from a day in the sun, lay my curly head in her lap. The innocence and hope and naive belief that nothing would ever really change that much, because the now, back then was so interminably long. </p><p>It all feels so close still, as if by turning my body in some, certain way, I might still reach out, and touch it, but it's gone. Even the places in which these memories are set have disappeared, and the people, and the culture that they'd embodied, gone. Gone. </p><p>Gone, and I think–</p><p>I shouldn't stare at these pictures anymore for now. The past has a way of seducing us with its idealised perfection, and I know myself far too well; I'm in grave danger of drowning in that blue-yellow light.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-12995215797861353832024-02-24T19:03:00.001-05:002024-02-24T19:03:34.260-05:0024.02.2024 II<p>Can we please speak again of other things, like </p><p>How the delicate blossoms of the almond trees always remind you of my favourite Van Gogh, or </p><p>How the brave lupines have already returned </p><p>Painting the drowsy Jerusalem hills in purple? </p><p>Do you remember, my love, that soon the markets will be filled with baskets of dark, shiny cherries</p><p>(Your other favourite reason for stained fingertips, remember?)</p><p>Would you tell me how pretty I look in my</p><p>Old yellow sundress </p><p>Eventhough I've pulled it, wrinkled</p><p>From the bottom of the clothes pile in the corner, </p><p>How you've missed my shoulders in sunlight</p><p>Can we please just speak of </p><p>Something soft for a moment</p><p>I know well how our world is burning</p><p>But must we constantly sit by in its </p><p>Scorching heat? </p><p>Others will surely watch it. Meanwhile, my love, look up </p><p>The harsh, winter light has already changed her slant.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-58183396364137450872024-02-24T02:20:00.005-05:002024-03-13T21:04:44.493-04:00 24.02.2024<p>Broken</p><p>A stone in fragments I </p><p>Return to the land</p><p>Coarse dust</p><p>Hoping that she will remind me </p><p>How once, I knew </p><p>How to put myself back </p><p>Together again</p><p>But she too is broken</p><p>(A finer dust)</p><p>And maybe I'm going home </p><p>After all</p><p>To be </p><p>Dust amidst dust</p><p>Here in this world of </p><p>Whole Hard Stones </p><p>I fall </p><p>Settle lost between cracks</p><p>But at home</p><p>I am buoyed, as </p><p>Only the wadi wind knows how to do. </p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-76335942896553962412024-02-11T00:20:00.002-05:002024-02-11T00:20:20.196-05:0011.02.2024<p>Please, don't ever </p><p>stop </p><p>pointing out the </p><p>cracks in the walls </p><p>where sunlight leaks in;</p><p>on my own, </p><p>I only know how to see </p><p>locked doors.</p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-31373729503394122192024-02-05T16:30:00.003-05:002024-02-05T16:32:17.444-05:0005.02.2024<p> דברו איתי על האופן שבו כל הנשמות מנוקות לאחר שאנו משאירים מאחורינו את בשרנו; ספרו לי כיצד כאב ואובדן ושנאה וכל הדברים הנוראיים האלה הם רק חלק מהחוויה הארצית שלנו</p><p>אין לי מושג אם אאמין לך או לא, אבל יהיה סיפור נחמד</p><p>💔</p><p><br /></p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-36751563614967906342024-02-02T12:40:00.002-05:002024-02-02T12:50:00.088-05:0002.02.2024<p>I</p><p>Like some old ram-</p><p>shackled stone house, am</p><p>Haunted </p><p>Not only by ghosts of a life once lived </p><p>Of people who I have loved and lost</p><p>But by a life I lack even the </p><p>Pluck to meet.</p><p>If only she would court me gently on softened steps so as </p><p>Not to spook me or send me running toward</p><p>Nightmares, and fantasies of </p><p>Needless sleep</p><p>I might love her </p><p>I might lay down beside her and </p><p>Welcome her into my body</p><p>But she is brusque</p><p>And loud</p><p>Inconsiderate and more and more inconsiderable </p><p>And I am growing impatient with her ways. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-37138368944899638322024-01-23T05:55:00.002-05:002024-02-02T12:24:01.060-05:0023.01.2024<p>If I could be honest with you, I mean, really, really honest, I'd tell you how lately, several times a day I have to forcibly keep myself from downing my generous cache of oxy and xanax, more out of terror at an uncertain future, than simple hopelessness. </p><p>If I could be honest with you, I mean, really, really honest, I'd tell you how the only way I can see myself surviving beyond this, or any given week, is if somebody came along and took me by the hand and promised to help me to navigate this nightmare world as if I was a child. </p><p>If I could be honest with you, I mean, really, really honest, I'd tell you how I'm as terrified that someone will offer me help, as I am that no one will. </p><p>If I could be honest with you, I mean, really, really honest, I'd tell you how what terrifies me is the thought that whoever offers me help will come to realise that I'm a fraud of a human being</p><p>Not even plastic, but paper</p><p>So easily torn</p><p>So easily torn to shreds.</p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-57067302476146147052024-01-01T01:06:00.010-05:002024-01-01T15:01:34.959-05:0031.12.2023<p>I had decided</p><p>That for the sake of self preservation</p><p>I'd regard the New Year as insignificant, to </p><p>Do nothing to mark the occasion</p><p>And yet</p><p>In the upper right-hand corner of my phone's screen, it reads </p><p>"11:48"</p><p>And I feel as though the seconds are ticking down to my execution. </p><p>11:49</p><p>I wish it would pass </p><p>Unceremoniously as any other night</p><p>But this night is different from </p><p>All other nights;</p><p>On this night, the heel of a boot grinds into me</p><p>The coarse white ashes of my previous life</p><p>Abrasive</p><p>Leave tender, and bloody, and raw indentations. </p><p>11:52</p><p>11:53</p><p>Alone. </p><p>11:54</p><p>בדד</p><p>11:55</p><p>לעולם ועד </p><p>11:56</p><p>חלאס</p><p>נמאס לי</p><p>Enough. </p><p><br /></p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-14063007546859495122023-12-20T03:08:00.001-05:002023-12-20T03:08:47.838-05:00<p> Sometimes, in the midst of that strange, dreamless sleep between dreams, </p><p>An image </p><p>Some random, mundane object that was a fixture in my parents' house pops into my head, and my body jerks violently awake, short of breath, heart pounding. </p><p>It's all gone. </p><p>The enormous "I'll Drink To Anything" mug that held two regular mugs worth of coffee </p><p>The green, oval cigar tin from the middle section of the downstairs medicine cabinet</p><p>The enormous, wooden headboard in my parents' bedroom that made a specific sound I've never heard replicated, when it banged against the wall whenever someone sat on the bed</p><p>Gone. </p><p>All this familiar ephemera–</p><p>Elements of a world I once knew, sacred only for their profanity</p><p>Things affixed firmly in time, place, soul </p><p>This world in which I now find myself can only be characterised by familiarity's absence</p><p>I reach out in all directions</p><p>Try to snatch "home" elements from the aether.</p><p>They cost so much</p><p>None of them are the same.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo4Ag_ZlXL2wMFCQYQwy0kv0RoWbAFmVUN8shOmIsUk7S3jFjHbcTyQhaJd6eA4vYD8Z6kV-DvLPHADKcWwzIFByC48xbnsZQpnrETBUSO6wvDtrmJ5mjhfLzwHqlfFTvP01IGNgVQex7jncx5giBsc3tTa8JYPrmRwSE784mUu1O4WCFxrf5l/s1791/Screenshot_20231220_030603_Instagram.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1791" data-original-width="1439" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo4Ag_ZlXL2wMFCQYQwy0kv0RoWbAFmVUN8shOmIsUk7S3jFjHbcTyQhaJd6eA4vYD8Z6kV-DvLPHADKcWwzIFByC48xbnsZQpnrETBUSO6wvDtrmJ5mjhfLzwHqlfFTvP01IGNgVQex7jncx5giBsc3tTa8JYPrmRwSE784mUu1O4WCFxrf5l/s320/Screenshot_20231220_030603_Instagram.jpg" width="257" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-28544101961623540932023-11-19T11:56:00.004-05:002023-11-19T11:56:37.912-05:0019.11.2023<p>The moon</p><p>Takes note </p><p>Remembers </p><p><br /></p><p>The sun</p><p>Boisterous, hopeful thing</p><p>Is unbothered.</p><p><br /></p><p>For once</p><p>Let us dance together</p><p>Under the sun</p><p>Plant sweeter grapes</p><p>Grow stronger grains</p><p><br /></p><p>We'll let the moon </p><p>Keep her records</p><p>The times our vineyards were barren</p><p>Our fields dry and cracked</p><p><br /></p><p>And one day, we'll gather together</p><p>Eat good bread dipped in olive oil</p><p>Eat sweet, cool grapes</p><p>And read, but the</p><p>Pangs of our hunger </p><p>Will be too distant anymore to hurt us. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-33496929226901842132023-11-13T07:35:00.000-05:002023-11-13T07:35:36.671-05:0013.11.2023<p>When I hear you say, </p><p>That "Zionism is Terrorism"</p><p>I understand:</p><p>You want me to hate myself for</p><p>The crime of existing. You</p><p>Want me to apologise for the</p><p>Crimes of your ancestors. </p><p>I'm a betrayal; an indictment of your</p><p>White Guilt</p><p>I'm your scapegoat</p><p>How dare I refuse to comply? </p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-24598388019939035872023-11-02T16:04:00.005-04:002023-11-02T16:04:35.430-04:0002.11.2023<p>Thursdays are bad. </p><p>It's on Thursdays, I do my shot, so it's like I get PMDD every week, which is particularly strong on Thursdays. </p><p>This particular Thursday marks one year since my partner passed, and is two days before what would have been our 19th anniversary. </p><p>On this particular Thursday, 1,538 beloved members of my family have been murdered since 7 October, and so much of the world doesn't seem to care at all. </p><p>On this particular Saturday, I've received my third Facebook restriction for talking about this fact.</p><p>On this particular Thursday, I'm tired. </p><p>On this particular Thursday, I badly want to rest. </p><p>On this particular Thursday, I went and took inventory of the pills I've squirreled away, or rather, I held the amber, plastic bottles in my hand and read their labels; my late father's Oxycodone, and my own amassed fortune of Alprazolam. It was comforting, but</p><p>On this particular Thursday, I quickly put them away, lest I forget to resist my own hand. </p><p>On this particular Thursday, I'd promised myself I'd do the dishes piling up in the sink, make the bed, and put away the laundry, so that I could get to the rest of the laundry that I desperately need to do, but I've done none of this. </p><p>Instead</p><p>On this particular Thursday, I'm going back to bed. </p><p>Maybe sleep will- at least for a few hours, calm this empty ache that's for so long been eating me like a cancer. </p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-82746484237824734342023-11-01T02:08:00.009-04:002023-11-01T02:13:23.265-04:0031.10.2023<p>From time to time, I find myself suffused with a deep longing to feel closer to my Judaism. </p><p>Tonight, I dug out an old, pocket-sized sefer tehillim, put it into a blue, velvet pouch, and placed it in the army green satchel that's recently, for reasons of practicality, supplanted my handbag. </p><p>I searched through my dusty, disordered bookshelf for an old friend in A B Yehoshua, couldn't find it, and settled on a beaten up second (or third? ) hand copy of Amos Oz's "My Michael", purchased at Dani Books on Ibn Yisrael on a bored, rainy, winter afternoon in Jerusalem. It now sits beside me on the bed. I may or may not re-read it, but that's not the point; it's a friend. </p><p>I resolved to say the Shema before sleep, and sought out Shoah documentaries on YouTube, to put on after the Shlomo Artzi concert to which I'm currently listening. </p><p>I know the images and stories will only intensify the painful feelings of trauma I'm currently experiencing, along with the rest of klal am yisrael, which, right now, is exactly the point. This, too, is a deep part of my Judaism.</p><p>My Judaism, molded on both sides of the sea (to paraphrase Achinoam Nini), is Friday night candles and dinner with my family (when they were alive,) before going out with friends; it's Shlomo Artzi, Amos Oz, Kavveret and Chumos, Kasha varnishkes, Bamba, and mezuzot on every door whose klafei have never once been checked. It's the occasional bracha when I think of it, and my collection of magnei David that always make me feel powerful when I wear them. </p><p>It's the stories my parents and grandparents told me that live in me in softened, pink hues, with rough edges so sharp they still cut deep.</p><p>It's so much of the trauma I, and my parents, and their parents, and so on, "midor ledor" have had woven into every cell of our being. The trauma is important, you see. It is the ner tamid that burns forever and keeps us warm in this cold world. </p><p>It's the scab that never heals, that at times, like now, I pick, just to see the blood. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb8iXtpV3jmN7jysRjOPetD_xIBUIOanFS84s4RBFphu1sufgxg4ziksV5RYuqvI2tC7sD7_u55OFnTW8cYQAvKVjjEQvDPdjumwthV02VD03qtXNQvphNSzYVuM1fxMDvvXU1RBzULtdVIvcV_ZakJjUYTaBEZJ5O4To_7SdNMmPMiGj2TR9D/s2879/20231101_015840.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2879" data-original-width="2304" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb8iXtpV3jmN7jysRjOPetD_xIBUIOanFS84s4RBFphu1sufgxg4ziksV5RYuqvI2tC7sD7_u55OFnTW8cYQAvKVjjEQvDPdjumwthV02VD03qtXNQvphNSzYVuM1fxMDvvXU1RBzULtdVIvcV_ZakJjUYTaBEZJ5O4To_7SdNMmPMiGj2TR9D/s320/20231101_015840.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-2146437377074622962023-10-29T03:17:00.001-04:002023-10-29T03:17:53.680-04:00מולדת<div>כאן בביתנו גר אח שלי</div><div>זה גם את הבית של אחותי</div><div>ואמא, ואבא, גם סבתה שלי</div><div> וגם את הסבא, ולפעמים, </div><div>הוא גם את הבית של הבני דוד שלי</div><div>הארץ שלנו</div><div>כל כך קטנה</div><div>והמרפקים שלנו</div><div>הם תמיד חבולים</div>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-3833231430334613362023-10-24T01:11:00.002-04:002023-10-24T01:11:23.025-04:0024.10.2023<p>This world has consumed my resolve </p><p>Like a handful of the </p><p>Crumbs of chips</p><p>The only remainders</p><p>At the bottom</p><p>Of a Pringles can. </p><p><br /></p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-2652486555543404382023-10-22T14:15:00.006-04:002023-10-22T14:15:59.662-04:0022.10.2023<p>Can we go home now? </p><p>There's no good rides, and the food is terrible and</p><p>I'm out of tickets anyway. </p><p>I'd looked forward to this for so long, </p><p>But the funhouse mirrors are all cracked, and</p><p>The paint is peeling.</p><p>The ferris wheel is rusted and I don't trust it, and</p><p>Even the teacups are out of order. </p><p>How many times can we play that game? </p><p>The ping pong ball will</p><p>Never fit into the bottle.</p><p>I've had my fill of funnel cakes.</p><p>Can we leave now? This place is too loud.</p><p>I've a headache, and I want to rest. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-21442249405847520042023-10-21T19:01:00.004-04:002023-10-21T19:01:29.622-04:0021.10.2023 II<p>In line at the grocery store</p><p>There was a couple in front of me</p><p>She pushed the cart while he</p><p>He scratched her back</p><p>Gently through her coat</p><p>And she gave in to fatigue</p><p>Or affection</p><p>Or both, and her head fell to the side that he was on </p><p>They shared conversation</p><p>That no one else could hear</p><p>How much, I thought</p><p>They looked like we once did. </p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-86532725238970500792023-10-21T17:53:00.004-04:002023-10-21T18:06:15.182-04:0021.10.2023<p>I wear you like a scarf </p><p>In winter, you keep me warm</p><p>But in summer</p><p>You itch my neck</p><p>And I wish that I could take you off.</p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-12606609070074407772023-10-14T14:56:00.001-04:002023-10-14T14:56:03.596-04:0014.10.2023<p> If these horrors break you open</p><p>as they do me</p><p>Let yourself be broken</p><p>Let yourself be open</p><p>Humanity is a river in which we live</p><p>Let it in</p><p>Let it fill the</p><p>Spaces between your organs</p><p>Let it fill your organs</p><p>Let it take you over until there is</p><p>No more you. </p><p>You are us. </p><p>We are you. </p><p>There is no difference. </p><p>No difference at all.</p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-46212294559468458342023-10-13T12:20:00.001-04:002023-10-13T12:20:06.644-04:0013.10.2023<p> Today is Hamas' "Day of Rage"</p><p>Today, I have therapy downtown. </p><p>Today, I'm wearing my blingiest Magen David. </p><p>Today, I am afraid.</p><p>I'm afraid, but I won't be made </p><p>to hide. </p><p>And even if I could hide, why should I?</p><p>Why should my lot be any different from that of my </p><p>Brothers, sisters and siblings who cannot hide? </p><p>Because they are charedi </p><p>Or because they live in Re'im</p><p>Or a thousand other ways </p><p>in which we are separated from the world. </p><p>True, maybe it's guilt: </p><p>That I'm here in NY, </p><p>While so many of my loved ones are still in our homeland. </p><p>It probably is, but nevertheless. </p><p>I am Re'im.</p><p>I am Nova.</p><p>I am Kfar Aza.</p><p>I'm Tel Aviv.</p><p>I'm a Zionist.</p><p>I'm an Israeli. </p><p>I am a Jew.</p><p>הנני.</p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-3421149164311417352023-10-11T14:50:00.001-04:002023-10-11T14:50:12.393-04:0011.10.2023<p> Our heart is broken.</p><p>We'd be soulless if it wasn't</p><p>And we are not. </p><p>Our heart is broken</p><p>Wide open</p><p>This is why you can hear it beat even across the world. </p><p>Let your heart break, </p><p>Especially if it's soft. </p><p>Don't waste your precious energy denying this injury </p><p>But remember always</p><p>Softness is malleable</p><p>Our broken heart will heal </p><p>Scar tissue will create</p><p>New shapes </p><p>New strengths</p><p>Tend to this broken heart</p><p>And remember it's not just yours</p><p>That we are a people of one heart</p><p>In however many bodies.</p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-66769462953525605442023-10-10T12:18:00.004-04:002023-10-10T12:40:47.847-04:0010.10.2023<p>How often I've heard</p><p>Antisemites claim</p><p>That we Jews went like sheep </p><p>To our deaths in the Shoah</p><p>But this morning, there's something I </p><p>Can't help but wonder</p><p>How many of us actually did acquiesce to our own murders</p><p> </p><p>How many of us saw how dismal the world had become</p><p>How many of us—</p><p>Through layers of generational trauma, felt</p><p>The old familiar hatred </p><p>And hostility that had risen once again</p><p>And sensed our hopelessness</p><p>In the deafening silence of supposed friends, who were </p><p>Too intellectual to</p><p>So much as name the injustice</p><p>Without "considering the complexities at hand"</p><p><br /></p><p>I can't help but wonder </p><p>How many of us went to our deaths</p><p>But not like sheep after all</p><p>Rather like warriors</p><p>Knowing how our deaths </p><p>Would come to stain humanity</p><p><br /></p><p>Apparently, such stains fade </p><p>In almost no time at all. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32952386.post-14855671186132400092023-10-09T01:44:00.010-04:002023-10-20T03:56:44.177-04:0009.10.2023<p>How can I scroll past your photo? </p><p>You, amongst the 1400 something other worlds that have been immolated</p><p>Consumed</p><p>As if you were some </p><p>Thin symbol in</p><p>Soy ink on rice paper</p><p>Thinner than the pixels that</p><p>Create this fake ghost of you now </p><p>How can I scroll past your face, when my </p><p>Black hole heart wants to contain you forever?</p><p>And maybe therein</p><p>There is really a white hole</p><p>Maybe </p><p>Rather than collapsing,</p><p>Into some terrible singularity, </p><p>My black hole heart can</p><p>Draw you in</p><p>Protect you</p><p>Until it can cough you out again</p><p>Safe</p><p>Bright</p><p>And whole </p><p>On the other side.</p>Inbar Frishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07395829896669136780noreply@blogger.com0