Pegasus 2021

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Pegasus 2021 Literature & Art Magazine Dedicated by Laura and Joe Tawil

Yeshivah of Flatbush Joel Braverman High School Al and Sonny Gindi Campus 1609 Avenue J, Brooklyn, NY 11230 www.flatbush.org

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Express Yourself Sara Mudick Magazine

Rabbi Dr. Raymond Harari Head of School

Rabbi Joseph Beyda Principal

Sari Bacon Associate Principal

Esther Hidary Assistant Principal / Director of Admissions

Rabbi David Galpert Assistant Administrator

Mr. Abie J. Hidary President Rabbi Dr. David Eliach Principal Emeritus

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Jaclyn Pahuskin English Faculty / Pegasus Advisor

Jason Novetsky Arts Faculty

Carolina Cohen Arts Faculty / Design

Mica Bloom English Department Chairperson

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It Matters Shelley Shamah, Eden Yehoshua

Acrylic Paint on Newspaper

Philosophy of Publication/Colophon Jaclyn Pahuskin Pegasus is a magazine that represents the literary and artistic talent of our students at the Yeshivah of Flatbush. Writers, philosophers, dreamers, painters, photographers, idealists, leaders, sculptors, poets, readers and designers walk through our hallways every single day. This publication celebrates the diversity, beauty and talent that our students possess.

The pubication submission policy is open to all students from 9th through 12th grade. The editors select which writing pieces are published through an analysis of the originality, creativity, purpose, appeal and connection to theme. Additionally, editors also select which art pieces are published based on the composition, contrast, techinque, visual aesthetics, as well as the connection to the theme. Work is accepted all year long and students are highly encouraged to submit to Pegasus@flatbush.org weekly. Faculty and community members are encouraged to submit work, but there is a limit on how many pieces we select for the publication. Literary editors are told to edit work for gramatical and punctuation errors and not to alter the content of the piece.

Pegasus 2021 was created using Adobe InDesign CC 2021. The font family used was Avenir. This is a school funded publication. There were 160 copies printed and distributed to the contributors and their families, the high school Administration, English and Arts departments, the Executive office of the Yeshivah and lay leaders. Additional copies were available in the school library for other faculty and students.

Thank you to all the contributors this year.

To participate in next year’s publication, please email Pegasus@flatbush.org or see Ms. Pahuskin in room 202, Ms. Cohen in room 205 or Mr. Novetsky in the Art Room to get involved.

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Table of Contents

Sun Writing 2 One Day / Ralph Ashkenazi / Poetry 4 Hiraeth / Rivkah Lahav / Poetry 8 College Essay / David Shalam / Essay 12 From Liesel to Hans’s Accordion / Jacqueline Halabi / Letter 14 If / Michael Oved / Poetry 18 The Sea / Henry Esses / Poetry 20 My Favorite Song / Jacqueline Halabi / Poetry 24 The Shot of Life / Albert Lessler / Poetry 26 Israel Essay / Kaden Harari / Essay 32 Useless Syllables/ Danielle Dweck/ Poetry Art 3 5 6 7 10 11 13 15 16 17 19 21 22 23 25

ADAPT! / Shella Yazdi/ Illustrator The Places You’ll Go / Sandy Bernstein/ Photoshop Through It All / Rebecca Dweck/ Illustrator Urban Planning / Jack Hanan/ Illustrator Open Your Eyes / Kaden Harari/ iPhone Every Day Miracle / Kaden Harari/ iPhone Happy Girl Project / Shelly Matsas/ Photoshop Creative Evil / Sandy Bernstein/ Photoshop Feeling Complete / Michelle Baum/ iPhone On the Horizon / Shelley Shamah/ iPhone Just Wait / Shella Yazdi/ Photoshop Shoeme /David Aini/ Photoshop Unfiltered / Shelley Shamah/ Acrylic Paint Watering Can / Rachel Sanders/ Acrylic Paint Structures / Kaden Harari/ iPhone

Moon Writing 36 Golden Days / Joseph Jack Gindi / Poetry 38 Never / Maurice Silvera / Poetry 39 Forever / Maurice Silvera / Poetry 40 Nighttime / Ralph Askenazi / Poetry 44 The Night They Broke Us / Rosalind Kurtz / Poetry 06 Pegasus 2021

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46 48 50 54 56 58 60 62 64 66 68 70 74 78 90 92

Googlepocalypse Now / Elisha Kahan / Poetry Somersaulting in Emptiness / Shelley Shamah / Poetry The Unthinkable / Leah Lati / Poetry Where Loneliness Dwells / Ruthie Khaski / Poetry War, Oh War / Joe Tawil / Poetry A Critical Point / Ronnie Mizrachi / Short Story Brainstorm / Arlette Anteby / Poetry We Used To Fly / Rachel Sanders / Poetry Help / Evelyn Tawil / Poetry Curiosity / Etty Jajati / Poetry A Letter To My Younger Self / Shlomie Katash / Letter 2023 / Sivan Evenhar / Short Story I Hope You’re Okay / Shira Simchon / Poetry Familiar Strangers / Kaden Harari / Short Story The Prognosis of Adulthood / Adelle Ayash / Poetry Restless / Ralph Askenazi / Poetry

Art 37 41 42 43 45 47 49 51 52 53 57 59 61 63 65 67 69 73 76 77 88 89 91 93

Time / JackHanan / Paper Sculpture Harp Memories / Zoe Sabbagh / Illustrator Indecisive / Shelley Shamah / Acrylic Paint Kaleidoscope / Kaden Harari / iPhone Dimly Lit / Shelley Shamah / Acrylic Paint Nostalgia / Etty Jajati / Photoshop COVID / Zoe Sabbagh / Photography Depression / Rebecca Dweck / Photography Grainy Day / Michelle Baum / iPhone Grainy Day II / Michelle Baum / iPhone A Progression of Julius / Shelley Shamah / Photoshop Spade / Michelle Baum / iPhone Isolated / Ruthie Khaski / Illustrator Colorblind / Abigail Madeb / Photoshop Tired New Yorker / Shelley Shamah / Pencil Product Design / Betty hidary, Sara Goldman, Monica Sultan Where Are Your Values / Grace Hidary / Photoshop Just a Moment / Zoe Sabbagh / Photoshop Covid / Sara Mudick / Photohsop Retrofuturism / Shelley Shamah / Acrylic Paint Storm on the Horizon / Sandy Bernstein / Potoshop Quiet? / David Aini / Illustrator Music in Me / Sara Mudick / Acrylic Paint Entrapment / Ruthy Derzie / Photoshop

Stars Writing 96 A Daydream That Drips / Natalie Ryba / Poetry 100 The World Created / Jenna Ashkenazi / Poetry 102 Knock / Kaden Harari / Essay 106 Hope / Steven Shamah / Poetry 108 Is It Normal? / Shira Simchon / Poetry 110 Falling / Shira Simchon / Poetry 114 Gillis / Shelley Shamah / Essay 120 Good vs Evil / Esther Shemia and Sara Salama / Poetry 124 The Wonders of the Night / Sophia Madeb / Poetry 128 College Essay / Joey Alhadeff / Essay Art 97 98 101 104 105 107 109 111 112 113 118 119 123 125 126 127 130 131

Life / Grace Hidary / Photoshop Clusters / Michelle Baum / iPhone Unbroken / Grace Hidary / Resourced images, Illustrator Beyond What You See / Kaden Harari / iPhone Trapped / Ruthie Derzie / Photography Monica / Betty Hidary / Photography Poppin / Kaden Harari / iPhone Change Your Stars / Eleanor Ashkenazi / Paper Sculpture Fine / Shelley Shamah / Acrylic on Canvas Guiding Light / Kaden Harari / iPhone Reaching / Etty Jajati / Acrylic on Canvas Gliding / Kaden Harari / iPhone Blink and You’ll Miss It / Shelley Shamah / Acrylic Paint Embrace / Sara Mudick / Acrylic on Canvas Falling / Linda Shamah / Illustrator All at Once / Sonya Bakst / Collage, Acrylic paint Rain of Shimmer / Kaden Harari / iPhone Mirrors / Sara Mudick / Acrylic on Canvas, Photoshop

140 142 144 148 152 154 156 160 164

I’m Better Now / Rebecca Sitt / Poetry Success / Michael Oved / Poetry Aunt Lily / Shelley Shamah / Essay Advice on Analytics / Ronnie Mizrachi / Poetry Letter to Max / Marilyn Dweck / Letter Imagination / Shelley Shamah / Essay A Return / Stephaine Tarrab / Poetry What is Voice? / Stephanie Tarrab / Essay SVA Essay / Shelley Shamah / Essay

Art 135 137 139 141 143 146 147 149 150 151 153 157 158 159 162 163 166 167

E= mc2 / Shelly Mastas / Illustrator Sunday Morning / Kaden Harari / iPhone Delve in Deeper / Etty Jajati / Marker on Glass It’s a Blur / Shelly Mastas / Photography, Illustrator Censored / Abigail Madeb / iPhone Illustrator Dancer / Etty Jajati / Color Pencils, Photoshop Grief / Vivian Hamui / Canon Rebel, Photoshop Unfenced / Liam Ohana Knowledge / Nicole Levy / Canon Rebel, Photoshop What Do You See? / Ruthie Khaski / Photography Sapped / Shelley Shamah / Acrylic on Canvas In the Wind / Betty Hidary / Photography The Cello Player / Rachel Sanders / Color Pencils Neutralize / Shelley Shamah / Acrylic on Canvas / Pencil Death / Vivian Hamui / Photoshop Headspace / Shelley Shamah / Watercolor Lost in Thought / Etty Jajati / Color Pencil Wrapping my Head Around it / Etty Jajati / Color Pencil

Enlightenment Writing 134 Tick, Tock / Kaden Harari / Poetry 136 Reflections of Time / Michael Oved / Poetry 138 Coincidence / Shelley Shamah / Poetry

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Illuminate | Explanation of Theme

The world is a constant give-and-take. Trillions of moments come together to form infinitely complex humans, humans that perpetually interact with the world around them. In fact, there is no moment in time and space in which this is not the case.

The forces surrounding us- whether they be as consistent as the sun, changing as the moon, out of reach as the stars, or striking as bright lights- illuminate our lives in unimaginable ways.

Whether they be relationships or experiences, these forces shape our identities. They forge the lenses through which we view the world, they impact the actions we take to react to it. Waves and ripples of action and reaction carry our world, they drift it over to the future we see coming over the horizon.

The shifting duality of being illuminated, versus the way we illuminate, is, in a sense, the essence of humanity. Humans are defined by emotions and individual personalities. How we express our inner worlds defines our collective, yet varied human experience. Expression shines a light on people’s struggles, triumphs, emotions. This illumination gives both the illuminator and the illuminated a certain shape, a color, a taste. To illuminate is to bridge between ourselves and society, to open ourselves up for the purpose of understanding each other. To illuminate is to choose to connect through our unique light. Compassion blossoms within this reciprocation of connection, and it is our duty to preserve and protect that interconnectedness in order to maintain society as we know it. The human experience is dependent on our interactions with one another, and it falls on the individual to decide how they want to illuminate the world.

Light can be refracted; its properties can be manipulated and molded and modeled. Light is mobile, but you determine to what extent. Its waves can be condensed into the tiniest of spaces, yet have the overwhelming potential to reach the edges of our periphery and even our entire universe. As human beings, we, too, contain within ourselves this versatile light. From birth, we’re gifted with the ability and the potential to have Earth-shattering impacts on those around us, no matter how different we are or how far apart we may be. But to leave that light shining within our minds and our hearts, to confine our ideas, our words, and our potential to inspire, would be the greatest misdeed one can do to the world. Because, after all, what is the purpose of life if not to emanate that light that shines from within?

Will we be like the sun- a source of strength and comfort for others?

Or, in contrast, a moon-like inconsistency and gloom?

Do we strive to reach for the stars and uplift those surrounding us?

And, perhaps most importantly, what lights our internal fire? What sparks our interest and coaxes out an inner flame?

The people existing in our society span a vast spectrum of personalities, and each person illuminates and inspires with those qualities of the moon, sun, stars, and bright lights. The culmination of this, its butterfly effect, pushes humanity to its heights; it is as beautiful as fireworks setting the night ablaze, or as the heavenly bodies illuminate a vast, endless space.

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Contributors Joey Alhadeff Jenna Ashkenazie Ralph Askenazi Adelle Ayash Danielle Dweck Marilyn Dweck Henry Esses Sivan Evenhar Joseph Jack Gindi Jacqueline Halabi Kaden Harari Etty Jajati Elisha Kahan Shlomie Katash Rosalind Kurtz Rivkah Lahav Leah Lati Albert Lessler Sophia Madeb Ronnie Mizrachi Michael Oved Natalie Ryba Sara Salama Rachel Sanders David Shalam Shelley Shamah Steven Shamah Esther Shemia Maurice Silvera Shira Simchon Rebecca Sitt Stephanie Tarrab Evelyn Tawil Joe Tawil

David Aini Sonya Bakst Michelle Baum Sandy Bernstein Sarah Cheney Ruthie Derzie Rebecca Dweck Vivian Hamui Jack Hanan Kaden Harari Grace Hidary Betty Hidary Etty Jajati Ruthy Khaski Nicole Levy Abigail Madeb Flora Mamiye Shelly Matsas Sara Mudick Liam Ohana Zoë Sabbagh Rachel Sanders Shelley Shamah Shella Yazdi

Writers Artists

Editors

Sonya Bakst Ronnie Mizrahi Shelley Shamah Stephanie Tarrab

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Sun Sun Sonya Bakst

Watercolor

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One Day Ralph Askenazi

“Let’s take it one day at a time,” You say, As we sit next to the fireplace, Heat filling up an empty soul, So many stories to be told, We sit in simple times, Where our walls are stripped plain white, And our forevers are only constructed, Of a finite amount of nows.

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ADAPT! ShellaYazdi

Resourced Image, Low Poly Illustration-Illustrator

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Hiraeth Rivkah Lahav

To my future My home My heart You are not found; for my yellow is but a fragment, A slice of shattered glass that I conjured in the vast expanse of my mind.

Homesickness for a home I never had; Hoping that the equinox will come to pass and shed light in this dark wintery tunnel.

I miss you; though I don’t know you, though I don’t have you, and maybe never will.

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You who keeps me up at night longing reaching dreaming.

You heal me like a drug; I want more more more... it’s all in the mind.

I love you; but you are a mirage.

The Places You’ll Go Sandy Bernstein

Resourced Images, Photoshop

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Through it all Rebecca Dweck

Wood Lettering, Parabola Illustration-Illustrator

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Urban Planning Jack Hanan

Resourced Image, Illustrator

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College Essay David Shalam

As the youngest of five siblings, I did not often get time alone with my father.

However, the summer before I began tenth grade, my father proposed the trip of a lifetime: just the two of us hiking the Grand Canyon. Two weeks later, I found myself lying in a sleeping bag, surrounded by water bottles and packets of sunflower seeds, and filled with excitement for the memories we would create.

The plan was to hike the South Kaibab trail down into the canyon and then back up to the rim by 5:00PM. Despite the 116-degree weather, we made it to the bottom of the trail in about four hours, feeling good. We began to make our way back up to the rim, but suddenly, about half a mile up the trail, my father began to feel faint. We didn’t know whether it was the change in altitude or the extreme heat, but I watched as he wilted and faltered, unable to go further.

“Come on, Dad! We have to keep moving,” I called out between sips from my water bottle. Without a ranger in sight, and with no other way to ascend, I got beside my father and began gently pushing him up the canyon, his arm over my shoulder. I passed him snacks and water as we slowly walked. He remained silent as I carried most of his weight, the color gradually returning to his cheeks. We emerged from the canyon just before nightfall.

We didn’t speak about that hike for the rest of the trip, but back home, while I was unpacking my bags, I overheard my father in the kitchen telling the story to our family. “David was unbelievable,” I heard him say. “He pushed me up that canyon. I couldn’t have done it without him.” I guess he hadn’t thought I could summon that kind of strength— to be honest, I hadn’t either. The memory of that hike, and my father’s pride when we returned, taught me the importance of understanding and preparing for the challenges ahead. I learned that with hard work, I have what it takes to climb higher and bring others with me.

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The next year, I took my experience back to school and began to focus on helping others climb their own trails. I captained a group of students running a marathon to raise funds for SBH, a social services charity in my local community.

I also raised funds for Innovation Africa, an organization that installs solar panels and digs freshwater wells in remote villages in Uganda. I now coordinate these efforts for my entire school. In addition to helping others, I have also continued to climb my personal trail. This past summer, I worked for the retro-fashion brand, Stay Cool, managing accounts, running social media platforms and earning a part-time position after my internship. With my confidence soaring, I ran for Vice President of the student body, reaching out individually to every one of my fellow students in the process. I won the election in what felt like the culmination of everything I had worked toward since the hike with my father.

Like my expedition down into the Grand Canyon on a stifling day, I started my journey through high school without a real appreciation for the climb ahead. I felt comfortable and unchallenged as I made my way through ninth grade, unaware of the obstacles I would encounter if I wanted to achieve real success. However, using the same stamina and compassion that were so crucial on the South Kaibab trail, I stepped into leadership roles and pushed myself and others to succeed.

With this solid foundation, I look forward to facing new, more challenging climbs and achieving greater accomplishments as I continue to hike the trail of my life.

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Open Your Eyes Kaden Harari iPhone

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Every Day Miracle Kaden Harari iPhone

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From Liesel to Hans’s Accordion Jacqueline Halabi

Dear Accordion, Throughout the years, you’ve always been there. Sitting there, listening to all that you needed to hear, so that when it was my turn to listen, you knew exactly what to say. You helped me organize my thoughts and relax my worried heart.

You let me know that as I worried about abandonment that you would always be there. In my heart, in my ears, and in Papa’s experienced hands. My childhood was a dark array of misty skies, but you shone through with your music so that I may see the light of day. How could I ever repay you? How could I bear to lose you? “You won’t,” you whisper in my ear. “My music has penetrated your soul.

It will remain there.” And it does. Our unspoken conversations through your songs of endearment have broken through the tough, scarred shell of my soul.

You gently touched the scars, looking at me and whispering,”It’s ok. They are not reminders of hardship, but badges of victory.”

I can’t count how many times you’ve soothed me as I sit, awake, in my bed at all hours of the night. The times you’ve given me a warm, comforting hug after a long winter’s day of school and worry. When I look to you, you look back, and smile. Thank you for everything you have done for me, and continuously do to save my sanity as hard times push us down.

Love,

Liesel Meminger

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Happy Girl Project Shelly Matsas

iPhone, Photoshop

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If

Michael Oved

If you can close your ears, And ignore what they say; If you do not shed tears, And go about your day; If you neglect those lies, And don’t agonize, You shall get rid of all your cries.

If you can reside among foes and keep your virtue, Neither allies nor traitors shall hurt you; If you trust yourself when all men doubt you, And make allowance for their skeptical advice too; If you establish that you are not culpable, You shall be untouchable If you can realize that life is like a poker game, Only played by those insane; If you realize that life is short, A gambling game of some sort; If you conceive you shouldn’t put it all in, In the future you shall grin; If you risk it all on one turn, Your future shall burn.

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If you can meet with faith and falter, And yet choose faith as your alter; If you can bear to look at all your sins, And see that good always wins; If you can realize how important it is To keep on the path of integrity, And follow your heart endlessly; Yours is the Earth, and everything that’s in it, If you remember my words every minute.

Creative Evil Sandy Bernstein

iPhone, Photoshop

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Feeling Complete Michelle Baum iPhone

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On The Horizon Shelley Shamah iPhone

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The Sea Henry Esses

The Sea I don’t believe I shall ever see, A baby as beautiful as the sea.

The sea, that hundreds of ships roam, where its colors reflect the sky.

The sea that in his will God created, Flawless, brutal, and kind.

The sea that in a storm does not have compassion, Whose beauty could hypnotize the strongest of men.

Babies are created by men like me, But God created the Sea.

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Just Wait Shella Yazdi

Resourced Images, Photoshop

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My Favorite Song Jacqueline Halabi

There are so many to choose from and so many emotions brought to me through each one.

How could I possibly choose My favorite song?

It should be a pretty song Relevant and elated beautiful in its madness making one feel as though they would go mad themselves if the song chose to end It should be a song worth listening to with lyrics that lift you up so your head may touch the clouds.

A song that swirls around and around in your thoughts So when you look out the window

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whether on a warm summer’s day or a cold winter evening you feel happiness and content A song that makes the sound of seemingly absurd hopes and almost unreachable dreams seem well within my grasp sitting there, waiting, for you to will yourself to pluck them from the ground Music is forever.

And so is this song.

It stays with you always, through the best times, and the worst, waiting for the time you ask for its assistance Anyone can reach out because that is its beauty, always there, watching, waiting, listening.

And so is, my favorite song.

Shoeme David Aini

Photoshop

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Unfiltered Shelley Shamah

Acrylic Paint on Newspaper

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Watering Can Rachel Sanders

Acrylic Paint on Canvas

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The Shot of Life Albert Lessler

Suicide is delicate A gunshot, a slice of a knife Life ceases to exist So many spots So many options The back of the head The jugular vein Need to hurry Gotta do it now Or I will bow to life Take out the gun Cock back the hammer Pull the trigger The hammer clicks harmlessly How? How am I alive Did I not pull?

Why can’t this end This horrible life

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A voice interrupts my thoughts Who? Where?

I turn, slowly He stands there With a gun magazine In his palm When? How? He removed your pistol Unloaded it Returned it Why? WHY? Lines borrowed from The ABC Murders by Agatha Christie

Structures Kaden Harari iPhone

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Israel Essay Kaden Harari

Every flame is intriguing, each individual in the way it burns and the colors it emits. A flame radiates heat, elegantly exuding energy. It emanates light.

Warmth. Fire proves to be useful to others, whether it be to cook soup or light the Shabbat candles. For years I’ve been enthralled by the nature of the flame; every week I’d stare into the habdallah candle in awe and become engrossed in its beauty and power and mystery. It reflects my own soul, my character, the essence of my being.

I take pride in my core values and Jewish traditions. My father emphasizes how his kiddush on Shabbat is that of his father in all of its additions and nuance, and I ensure my singing along to the tune. I’ve been hearing our Friday night eshet hayil from childhood and became a participant by stringing together the sounds I was hearing— there aren’t siddurim present on my table, for my father doesn’t need them for this purpose. Thus, up until I was challenged to recite the kiddush of my family, my participation consisted merely of sound utterances, not enunciations of every distinct word. When I decided to delve into the actual text, familiar sounds morphed into words which sprung alive off the page, carrying a deeper layer of meaning. One pasuk particularly struck me: “‫ּנָרה‬ ‫( ”לָּא יכבה בלילה‬Proverbs 31:18). “At night, her candle will not extinguish.”

Throughout trying times, her flame cannot be quenched. Throughout trying times, the energy I exude and light I emanate will not deplete. The dark stands in even starker contrast to my flame. By no means will it be smothered.

And what is that flame exactly, that flame which so constantly burns?

It is my passion towards Judaism and Torah (“Ki Ner Misvah VeTorah Or”), towards enriching others, towards a sense of fulfillment in my endeavors.

It is my passion towards Israel, my-- our-- home. Towards learning, whether it be

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people’s names or l’hopital’s rule in calculus. It is my individuality and the way I express myself. It is my faith and hope; it is my motivation to reach the light at the end of the tunnel, and further, to be the source of light within the tunnel. I stick to my beliefs, understanding the premise of a situation and unwilling to compromise my foundation. Like any, the flame of my candle may waver, but the strength with which I emerge after the flickering is fundamental to my identity.

I radiate warmth. A candle is inherently a tool for others to enhance their experiences. I share my skills; I devote myself to gratifying others. While I do influence and impact, I avoid imposing my personal opinions or attributes onto the people around me; I try to use what I possess to positively affect others and contribute to my surroundings. Like a candle, I ignite a spark in others— I light other candles using my flame (without losing pieces of myself). But those who are lit from my flame are not replicas. They cannot be. They grow into their own separate individual flames.

This quote is most applicable in recent months, where it seemed like the dreariest of nights. I must remember who I am, that I do not succumb to the gloom. I strive to shine for myself and for others, representing who I am amidst any circumstance.

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Out with the Old Sonya Bakst

Watercolor, Pen, Acrylic

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Vigilant Shelley Shamah Graphite

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Grid Jack Hanan

Illustrator

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Useless Syllables Danielle Dweck

No Such a simple yet powerful word But it only gains it power Once it’s designed to be heard No We hold on to as our faith in humanity slips away No We trust to get out the words we can’t say We thought it was enough We thought it would be our savior We gave the one syllable everything we had We begged god for a favor No We screamed as our hands were pinned down No We cried hoping anyone was around It’s all we’ve heard our whole life Yet it came from the other side Why do the two letters run to their rescue But when we call they hide

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No We repeated because it was all we had No We tried to use as weapon but their fists were ironclad Yet they came out unscathed Not a scratch of remorse But why should they When they were taught success comes in hand with force No We hear when we speak our truth No Is the gift we are given as a replacement for our youth Our stories are going unheard Our voices going silenced Because after all it’s a mans world And what’s a man without violence

Sunshine Sarah Cheney

Color Pencils

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Moon Shelley Shamah

Photoshop

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Golden Days Joseph Jack Gindi

We used to play in fields of golden rye Running for hours on end In an ocean of grain Nothing in the world We could call a pain For hours on end We’d enjoy each other Until sky was nothing more Than the twilight of Summer Today we play the weekly gamble Our field forgotten And replaced with bramble A pack a day hoping to take the edge away Longing to go back to those olden days O Jenny wanted nothing more than To go back to her golden days

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Time Jack Hanan

Paper Sculpture, Photoshop

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Never

Maurice Silvera

He is imprisoned in his own head Forced to stare at the monstrosities of his creation But growing, changing nonetheless His dreams wait like trees untapped Filled to the brim with potential But drowning in its own sap His hand itches to draw Tempted by the daunting pen, its ink darker than black But the paper lies just out of reach His thoughts too dark to ever be uttered aloud Banished to the depths of his imagination But the words are ready to leave his lips His tears threaten to stream down his face A silent river of regrets and what ifs But his eyes do not yield His smile unused, the wrapping still intact Waiting to be torn open But knowing it will remain sealed He is imprisoned in his own head Hoping to be freed But knows this is the only way it can be 38 Pegasus 2021

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Forever

Maurice Silvera

I watch the cycle begin once more Repeating, turning, revolving in all its glory The rules of time do not apply in the cycle Days turn into decades turn into centuries Centuries turn into hours turn into seconds The sand falls upwards and the hourglass shatters Its shards cutting anything and everything in its path But the cycle must go on The cycle knows not of change, growth But only the steady strum of my heart Playing its melancholy tune Beating in time with the fixed tap of my foot Creating a cacophony of incessant silence Forming a choir of the same noiseless sounds That fill my ears from the second I wake To the moment the last breath escapes my mouth A merciful escape it is I lay in the cycle, unflinching Unable to shift, move from the only position I ever knew My only capacity - to watch the cycle overtake others Others incapable of realizing that they are stuck Like a bee trapped in honey made by its kin But I too am its kin, am I not?

And so I watch the cycle begin once more

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Nighttime Ralph Askenazi

It’s where the streets are loud but the sidewalks move quietly, The cities that never sleep have to live another night audibly, It’s where the world around you continues moving, But somehow you feel empty and lonely

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Harp Memories Zoë Sabbagh

Resourced Image, Parabola Illustration-Illustrator

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Indecesive Shelley Shamah

Collage, Resourced Images, Lipstick, Graphite, Paint, Pencil

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Kaleidoscope Kaden Harari iPhone

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The Night They Broke Us Rosalind Kurtz

The glass shattered As it hit the ground With a crashPieces of glass went flying, In every direction When I try to put the pieces together They don’t connect With every try It seems more impossible to fix The Magen Davids fell from the windows The letters ‘Jude’ breaking as they hit the ground Just as the Nazis broke us, The yellow stars weeping As they slowly turned red As we begged for mercy We realized we were helpless When I look back at this time I realize that it was all for nothing, Because in the end We were all worth nothing.

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Dimly Lit Shelley Shamah

Acrylic Paint

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Googlepocalypse Now Elisha Kahan

The three-eyed cuegle, And its googly ogle.

Its sovereignty over a barren Gaia, The Google government hailed as Messiah.

Gaia caterwauls in gastric distress.

Its craggy volcanos, disgorging, Pahoehoe lava gyrating in elliptic swirls.

Man is fettered at his feet.

Lashed to a rock of gluttonous meat.

Glee instead of sage.

Information, anyone?

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Nostalgia Etty Jajati

Resourced Images, Canon Rebel T3, Photoshop

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Somersaulting in Emptiness Shelley Shamah

I feel like I am somersaulting in A pool that glimmers, shines like broken glass.

I pull myself together then collapse In emptiness and fury from within.

Apologies for causing disruption, And maybe I should have a bit more class, But pairs of lovely eyes can lie. He has To flee. He leaves a lull above the din.

So here I am, I’m fraying at the seams Without you here, my mind will bare the door To worlds complete with lies and broken dreams, To somersaults in emptiness, what for?

For you to have your freedom, I, my screams.

I topple through the void and wash ashore.

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Covid Zoë Sabbagh

Canon Rebel T3, Photoshop

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The Unthinkable Leah Lati

“I’m here, Max” One more time, Max, I’m right here It happened once more in Hitler’s heartland.

Handling inmates portions of bread.

It feels so light and airySo delicate and worthless Yet, so heavy and serious.

Jews marched throughout Munich Starving and malnourished for hours upon hoursWith swampy eyes And tired faces, I knew the unthinkable was yet possible.

The presence of this bread Its power can mean life or death to someone This bread It’s like gold or magic.

All residents came out to see The Nazis’ show.

Who can watch this cruelty without doing anything?

Feeling compelled, Rudy and I gave out bread.

The smallest act one can do Even with the consequence Of being beaten or death Marching right beside me.

But the thought That the tiniest deed would be sufficient,

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My dad did it once before A Jew lover, That’s what they called him.

But one day, he drifted forward with his arm stretched out Receiving a punishment for his kindness, For feeding the famished.

However, I need to see Max I need to know if he’s alright I need to make sure he is given foodNourishment needed to maintain life Unlike the others half-dead Marching down Munich StreetThen I found him, With hunger in his eyes.

Depression Rebecca Dweck iPhone

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Grainy Day Michelle Baum

iPhone, Photoshop

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Grainy Day II Michelle Baum

iPhone, Photoshop

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Where Loneliness Dwells Ruthie Khaski

Everything was completely covered in the white fluffy snow.

The landscape was as bright, green as a handful of shiny emeralds.

I was staring at it as the pillows of snow fell, Down Down Into the dark cave The snow kept falling slowly and calmly creating slender shadows and sculptured shapes.

Nothing I did in that exact moment, can stop each individual snowflake from trickling down the clear, blue sky.

The snow continuously falls.

It traps you in your own, individual, secluded bubble.

Where you can’t breathe, Cant see the end, Like a small house on an empty field.

Your own silent bubble.

You are disconnected from everyone around you, every soul, every person, reality, life, and the real world.

You feel that deep loneliness.

You feel like a passing star in a huge, dark galaxy.

You feel that complete emptiness.

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You feel like you are sitting at the bottom of the deep blue sea.

You really get to feel that void, that missing part of yourself.

Your deepest thoughts and feelings come crashing down, like an earthquake that causes parts of a tall skyscraper to tremble and fall.

Those thoughts do not disturb even the slightest thing.

Not even the tiny snowflakes that are falling from the blue clear sky.

It is the specific special moments like these, staring at the snow at night, where you find nothing.

Nothing but your own self, dosing into your deepest thoughts.

Where the loneliness encloses in, And the snow melts away, Leaving behind a empty mind, Empty heart.

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War, Oh War Joe Tawil

War, oh war Oh, what a bore The destruction and turmoil The lost steel, energy, soil The disasters begin But all the lost kin All the men that are lost At what price, At what cost, The countless lost souls Just to meet one country’s goals World War I, World War II Just to mention a few, How many battles were fought How many spies that are caught War, Oh War Please! no more.

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A Progression of Julius Shelley Shammah

Illustrator

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A Critical Point Ronnie Mizrachi

Throughout my high school career, I have been known by my friends and family to be the “math guy” of my class, my grade, and my peers. I love to learn about complex mathematical concepts and formulas in order to apply them to modern-day problems. But in elementary school, even though I was already in the advanced math track, I didn’t have that same obsession with mathematics. In fact, there was a point in middle school when I was actually struggling quite a bit with my math grades, and it was in seventh grade when I felt as if I had hit rock bottom.

Although we were a class of only five students, I often felt neglected in my seventh grade advanced math class. I persistently attempted to explain to my teacher that the other four students were causing too many interruptions, and that I was therefore never able to properly ask questions and address some of my struggles. But she was always so quick to dismiss my concerns, and she blamed my lack of focus in the classroom, which only heightened my frustration with her.

I vividly recall being especially flustered during our Surface Area unit, and feeling unprepared for the upcoming unit test. Sure enough, it was on that test that I received my lowest mark ever on a math test: an 82. When the teacher handed back the exams, I tried my best to hold back my tears.

But after my four friends had left the classroom, the tears streamed down my face as I approached my teacher. Again I tried explaining to her that my grade was not my fault, but rather that my friends’ interruptions were to blame. And despite my obvious emotional state, all she had to say was, “Ronnie, I never saw you as a low nineties student. I think you’re a low eighties student.”

I was filled with utter shock, anger, and disbelief as I stormed out of the classroom after throwing out my exam in front of her. I think that If I were to plot my life on a graph, that day would probably be one of the lowest points on it. But what I find to be poetic is that just as parabolas and all even functions fall and rise in equal rates following their critical points, I too exponentially soared both in my mathematical capabilities and in my grades following that day. It was almost as if her words had compelled me to prove her wrong, and to prove to myself that that grade was simply an outlier, a fluke in the collection of data points that comprised my grades and my success. And so her retort influenced me to completely reshape my overall direction in mathematics- literally and figuratively.

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Spade Michelle Baum iPhone

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Brainstorm Arlette Anteby

You’ve been storming for far too long, and I’ve simply been waiting for my rainbow.

In the process you took away all the light, life had to offer.

You took away my happinessmy ability to live without being chained to my thoughts.

It left mea constant prisoner to my own mind.

Surrounded by grey and darkness.

I’m calling for a change in the weather forecast.

The tears that fell after a brainstorm helped my beautiful flowers grow.

You see I always had seeds of potential within me, it took reaching the depths of rock bottomto help them grow.

I will never be able to escape the memories of life stuck within the eye of the storm.

But nowThere is no need to hide myself under an umbrella, afraid of the world around me; no reason to watch my every move, making sure I don’t fall into a large puddle.

Now, while im frolicking about in my beautiful garden, you will continue to wonder how?

Because while you usually need sunlight to your grow flowersIt’s not the case when they are fighting to break the surface.

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Isolated Ruthie Khaski

Illustrator

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We Used to Fly Rachel Sanders

We used to fly, Soar up into the sky On our wings of dreams That were possible, limitless, Bounded by no one and nothing As we flew along the winds of hope and ignorance.

Today we walk Tethered to reality Grounded by our knowledge, Wingless, though their memory still remains On our backs As a reminder Of the times we knew less And dreamed more.

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Colorblind Abigail Madeb

Cannon Rebbel, Photoshop

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Help

Evelyn Tawil

We used to smile effortlessly, Finding amusement in the minute things, Filling our world with joy and glee.

We’d smile at the sight of an entrancing movie, At the heavenly taste of sweet ice cream, At the comforting voice of mommy and daddy.

We’d smile because that was what we knew how to do, An innate trait.

We needed nothing more, and nothing less.

We were content.

Today we don’t smile.

But instead, we stare at the world deadpan, Depressed and consumed with jealousy.

We yearn to travel the world with luxuries, To adhere to society’s image of a perfect body, And to live the image we see on our screens.

We are too caught up in ourselves, Too busy to smile and appreciate all that we have.

We think we need more.

We are desirous, But in a bad way.

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Tired new Yorker Shelley Shamah Graphite

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Curiosity Etty Jajati

We used to ask all the questionsHow was it that airplanes could fly; How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop; How many days until we finally had summer vacation; How much more broccoli we had to eat Until we could finally have dessert; Why people have to get sick; How all those balloons float in the sky, never falling.

Our imagination was the same, always afloat And always drifting.

We used to pick the dandelions.

We used to throw our quarters into the magic wells And make wishes on our birthday candles, But never dare tell And risk our wishes not being granted.

TodayToday the questions are left unasked.

The hows and whys are no longer our concern.

We rush by streets, Urged on by the ever-elusive goals.

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Whatever lets us step ahead.

Today wishes are a waste of time and energy, A game of pretend to entertain the little ones, A facade.

Today we mourn our youthful mindsOur energy, curiosity, creativity; Or we would, If only we had the time.

Product Design Betty Hidary, Sara Goldman, Monica Sultan iPhone, Photoshop

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A Letter to My Younger Self Shlomie Katash

Dear Younger Me,

I wish you could know what is coming your way. Since you don’t, I’m going to tell you. First off, your name isn’t Max anymore, it is now Rotten Jew. Yes, just like your brothers and sisters your name is exactly like theirs, Rotten Jew. You will no longer have an identity in this world. You will have no name, no purpose in life, no family, no friends, nothing.

Soon, Adolf Hitler will make a decree that all Jews will be placed in concentration camps. Let me guess, you don’t know what a concentration camp is, right?

Well let me tell you. It is a place that you wouldn’t even wish to put your worst enemy in. Nazis everywhere will surround you left and right, pounding you with hard and pointless labor, and if you fail to cooperate you will die. Sometimes you could have done everything perfectly, but guess what, you would still die. So let me tell you one thing younger me, you’re lucky you didn’t have to go there.

Instead you will be in hiding. Hiding from anyone and anything because right now you can’t trust anyone. You will be lucky enough to hide in a dear friend (soon to be yours) Hans Hubberman’s house. By this point you will already have lost everything in life, and you arrive there as a body with no soul. Slowly, you will be able to find happiness again in the Hubbermans house. They will provide you with food and a place to sleep, as well as keep you safe from the Nazis. You will make very good friends with their foster-daughter, Liesel, as she becomes your next best friend. However, in the outside world you will still have no identity and, as far as everyone else is concerned, you are a dead man.

I hate to tell you all of this at such a young age, but unfortunately it’s the truth.

I could go on and on about what’s going to happen to you, but that’s gonna ruin the surprise, won’t it? Please, enjoy your life younger me because as of right now you have an identity and you have a say in this world. Appreciate everything that you have now because sooner than later it’s going to be gone within a blink of an eye.

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Where Are Your Values? Grace Hidary Photoshop

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2023

Sivan Evenhar

INCOMING! The floor rattled after a grenade was launched into our trench from across the enemy lines. It was like they’d been training for this for a while. I poked my head out and started heading to somewhere I could find better cover and a better vantage point. I looked around and saw a tree, the perfect cover. I ran and tried avoiding the bullets coming towards me. I barely made it, through all the snow and with the 30-pound sniper rifle on my back. I climbed the tree to get a good view of the battlefield, but all I could see were the bodies. Hundreds of them, just lying there-- some cold, and some still warm. Some were my friends, and some were the Russians they had killed.

I aimed my rifle towards enemy lines and took a deep breath, pulled the trigger, and sent a bullet straight through an enemy’s head. I took a moment to look around and see what happened to our state. Disneyland Park was destroyed and in shambles. It’s a shame to think it just reopened after the coronavirus vaccine was discovered just months ago. I started feeling sick in my stomach, and my hatred for the enemy grew more and more each second I looked at the destruction they had caused. I returned to my rifle and continued to fire. I remember looking down and seeing Jake bleeding out on the tree beneath me.

“JAKE!” I remember screaming, “You’re gonna make this, okay! You hear me Jake, we’re gonna make this.”

He looked up and smiled. “You were always the more athletic one. I remember us climbing this tree when we were young, and you were the only one who could make it up there.”

“Jake, look at me. Jake.”

I climbed down as fast as I could to try and wake him up, but it was too late-my best friend had just died. Fighting for our country. A country that has failed us

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and yet we still fought for it. I took his grenades and carbine rifle and tried to go around the enemy lines and escape. I was leaving.

I yelled for Spence, who was a medic, and told him about Jake and my plan to leave.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

And with certainty, I replied with a firm yes.

“Well, I guess I’ve got to go with you. You know, to stop you from doing all that dumb stuff you always do.”

And with that, Spence and I left. We ran for about a mile away from the fighting before turning east to go somewhere. Anywhere. I had my compass and both my rifles, and Spence with his medkit and his M-16. We found an abandoned jeep and began siphoning fuel from nearby cars for our journey. We heard talk about a compound in Texas that took in refugees so we decided to go there.

We drove for 18 hours and finally found the compound. They took us in and gave us some coffee and something to eat. I was so hungry I didn’t even ask or care what it was. They told us that if we wanted to stay we would have to “earn our keep” as they said it. There was this one guy who kept looking at us and was a bit shady. Said his name was Tyler. But he had a slight accent; it was too faint to know what accent, though. We spent the next couple of weeks learning about the different jobs and techniques about how to finish them as fast as possible because these guys had a PS5 and all the newest games, or at least the newest before the war broke out. If we finished our tasks we’d be able to do as we wanted, except to leave the compound. For that, we had to ask permission from the leaders, and even when we could leave, there were many limitations as to what we could do.

Spence and I were playing COD when the sirens went off and officers came

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into our room and gathered everyone. They brought us to the dining hall and saw everyone from the compound here. No one knew the name of the head of this whole operation, but we all knew him as the “Chancellor”. The Chancellor got onto a table and announced something that made my heart skip a beat.

“There is a traitor among us. We have intercepted an encrypted message that was sent to a server in Russia, and although we do not know what it said we will interrogate each and every one of you and no one will be able to breathe without our say so. IS THAT CLEAR?” He asked.

Spence and I were the only ones who shouted “YES SIR!” They started breaking us apart and taking us into rooms. Spence and I were put in the same room as we waited to be interrogated. And that’s all I can remember.

As we were waiting, an airstrike hit the compound. I woke up two days later when a rescue team found me and pulled me out from all of the rubble. They said that the U.S. nuked the Russians and all their bases and fought them out of our country. And what good did that do me, with all my family and friends dead and my home destroyed.

We finally had the chance at some normality after the coronavirus had ruined our lives for 3 and a half years. And it only took the lives of 250 million people for this war to end. You see, that’s the thing about war, it always ends with death, of any age, race, and religion, and for all time it will stay the same. But the casualties, those will always rise over time, without fail.

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Just a Moment Zoë Sabbagh

Rresurced Images, Photoshop

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I Hope You’re Okay Shira Simchon

The words flood in my head “He’s in the hospital” “Its spreading worldwide” This needs to stop I can’t sleep I can’t think about anything else I keep telling myself, “it’ll be ok, he’ll be ok, everything will be ok.”

But I can’t stop thinking about the possibility of it not.

I thought it was a joke I thought it wasn’t real I thought it would stop.

But it kept spreading, and now New York has reached the top We’re trying to find a cure But trying isn’t enough.

We need to work harder to find the right stuff.

Mama I’m stuck at home Living behind a screen that tells me “I’m proud of what you’re doing in this terrible situation” Messages of prayer flood my phone And I don’t know how to feel anymore.

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I can’t see people.

I want to hug you I want to see you But I’m a danger to your inevitable And I don’t want to be the reason you leave.

One last word One last day One last goodbye I miss you with every passing minute and I can’t breathe without the thought that you’re okay.

Just a text Just a note Just to let me know you’re okay.

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Covid Sara Mudick

Resourced Images, Photoshop

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Retrofuturism Shelley Shamah

Illustrator, Photoshop

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Familiar Strangers Kaden Harari

Worry lines creased her forehead.

“Do you hear that? Please, tell me it’s just paranoia,” Liesel whispered to her husband in a hushed tone.

Eight-year-old Annemarie became quite concerned upon seeing her mother’s expression of apprehension. Liesel’s husband did, in fact, sense the same danger at hand. “Liesel, meine schatzi, hurry behind the bookshelf with Annemarie.

Don’t make a sound.”

The notorious marschstiefel boots echoed eerily on the wooden stairs, as if sealing a Jew’s fate with each step. As expected, a cold voice filled the room, creating goosebumps along the Friedmanns’ skin and raising the hairs on their bodies.

The owner of that voice stormed into the bookshop and barked, “Stay right where you are without moving a muscle. W. ‘Israel’ Friedmann, you are under arrest for defiance of the German government through the means of published works.”

“Mami,” Annemarie meekly asked from behind the bookshelf, “who are they talking about? Papa’s name is Walter, isn’t it?” Instead of an answer, Annemarie was shushed by her mother who was stunned into keeping quiet while attempting to follow the conversation between her husband and the police.

1 Annemarie soon learned that in Berlin during 1938, Adolf Hitler instituted a law that all male Jews take on the middle name of Israel, and all female Jews take on the middle name Sara. This was done so as to identify Jews more easily and lose any distinction from one another. But for now, Annemarie, still her young eight-year-old self, watched the arrest of her father without any deep understanding.

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Another member of the Gestapo yanked Walter by the arms and ushered him out the same way they had intruded. Walter trembled intensely as terror shook his body and sent chills tingling down his spine. He could only imagine his loving wife and innocent daughter witnessing this scene with wide eyes. For their sake, he attempted to refrain from showing signs of fear. Instead, he came to a decision to be thankful; at least he lasted this long publishing issues of The Resistance, an underground newspaper that was filled with encouragement towards Jews while exposing and criticizing the Nazi German government.

Walter quickly stole one last glance behind him, taking in the books neatly arranged around the shop, the slight smell of must and ink mingling in the air.

Last but not least, Walter Friedmann gave a final look at his family. It was a combination of pleading, bravery, yearning, strength, faith; it had a powerful impact on Annemarie. That look permanently etched in her memory, for it was the last she ever saw of her father.

Down the stairs, Annemarie’s father managed to call out, “Shema Yisrael!

Hashem Elokeinu, Ha—” before being shouted at and whipped by the horrific police. Silently, Annemarie watched her mother’s eyes brim with tears. Both mother and daughter huddled together in a corner of the workshop, weeping and shaking uncontrollably.

After shedding enough tears to compete with Niagara Falls, reality sunk in.

Annemarie and her mother recovered, though Annemarie still had many questions, especially after overhearing her mother speaking in a serious manner to a mysterious man and to a girl around her age. The conversation was muffled, but as children often do, she picked up a significant portion of it.

“Send her to the orphanage,” urged the mystery man. “The train will depart with the children on December 1st from the Berlin Station. Therefore, you have

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eight days to decide on and execute the plan. She’ll live in Harwich, being taken care of by a foster family until the crisis here is over. My daughter will have eyes and ears on yours. Right, Em? In the meantime, you’ll be residing in the safety of my home. Hopefully the police won’t suspect me. I would go to any extent to protect Walter’s family.”

“Mr. Kühn, you’re too kind. The way you put it makes it all seem so simple… I have my doubts, but I also have trust in you. After all,” Liesel thoughtfully replied, “the country’s situation can’t stay this way for long. May God give us strength.”

A couple of days later, Annemarie, packed up with her solitary piece of luggage, observed her mother pace back and forth in their small apartment, soon to be left abandoned. Both minds were racing with the prospect of the future, but it was only Liesel who tried in vain to place her finger on something significant that slipped her mind.

“Mami, will you be able to write to me when I’m away?” Annemarie meekly asked. “Oh, the letters!” Liesel exclaimed. Her memory was suddenly jogged, as she rummaged through one particular drawer until she found what she was looking for. She handed her daughter a sleek leather-bound journal, pages fresh and empty, then presented her with a few carefully sealed envelopes. “Annmarie, these are not to be opened until later on,” her mother explained vaguely.

“Later on? You mean when I’m on the transport train to Great Britain?”

“No, honey. There are numbers on each one; open them one at a time in their order. Whenever you feel you’re ready, open the next one. Now, we should be going. I love you, Annemarie, and will never, ever forget you. No matter what happens, always remember that.”

Annemarie’s heart jolted at the sound of these words. “‘No matter what happens?’ What might happen? Does she mean that I’ll be living as a foster child for the rest of my life?” she wondered to herself. Although she was sharp as a tack, Annemarie couldn’t seem to work the details of this one out.

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the orphanage. She didn’t dare turn back, for fear of showing Annemarie the fear brewing within her. Her daughter was her life, her everything.

“Stay strong,” Liesel whispered to no one in particular. Her voice was carried away with the wind. *** The whining and whimpering of the other children made Annemarie restless.

Perhaps the reasons for her impatience was the hardship of staying still in a cramped space for over 20 hours straight, or even the continuous click-clack, clickclack of the train.

After what seemed like a decade, Annemarie was finally able to stretch her legs, disembarking to be met by her English foster parents. They appeared to be generous caretakers; but not sufficient enough to model the role of raising her and parenting her. She would have to adapt to their stiff, foreign mannerism.

“Welcome to Harwich. I assume your travels were smooth enough. Your name is Annemarie, correct?” her new mother asked. She had a slim figure, stood erect, and walked with poise.

“Annemarie Friedmann. Daughter of Liesel and Walter.” Although Annemarie’s mother made it clear to her that Mr. Kühn had already notified the Williams that they would be taking in the Jewish Friedmann daughter, she still found herself stressing her family background.

“I am Mrs. William, and here is my husband. You may call us Mother and Father.” At this instruction, Annemarie’s expression turned into one of distaste. Her eyebrows knitted, eyes narrowed, and lips pursed into a thin line. Some would have even remarked that especially with this look upon her face, Annemarie was the spitting image of her father. As a matter of fact, Annemarie was reminded of him every time she peered into a mirror. She was proud with the idea of constantly carrying him with her, wherever.

For the first time, Mr. William spoke up. “You can call me Robert if that’s what you prefer,” he offered warmly. His wife shot him a look of disapproval. She dismissed him and ushered both Robert and Annemarie to the car.

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Annemarie noticed Mrs. William sat behind the wheel during the tense car ride. Annemarie repeatedly opened her mouth to speak, but didn’t dare utter a sound. Upon arrival at their destination, she was given a brief tour of the Williams’ humble home. “Thank you for your generosity,” it occured to Annemarie to say.

It was Mrs. William who spoke, explicitly praising her new daughter on her maturity. “You’ll soon be going back to school. As a fifth grader, it’s important to obtain proper education.” Annemarie’s face turned a deep shade of red as she received this indirect compliment. She was a third grader, not fifth!

“Eight years going on 18!” Robert chuckled. Annemarie began to feel more comfortable in her new home.

The sun set on the horizon a number of times before routine settled in.

Annemarie would start attending school, as mentioned by Mrs. William, inevitably causing her to have the first day jitters. Butterflies fluttered inside of her, making her toss and turn all through the night.

Awakening with sunrise, which gave her more than enough time to overthink. On one hand, school presented a stable lifestyle; a way to escape from her background. On the other hand, she refused to let go of her past. Besides, what if other students didn’t accept her? Introducing yourself in front of a full classroom of students who are already familiar with each other could be intimidating.

Annemarie’s legs wobbled and hands shook as Ms. Clement presented her to the class.

“Everybody, this is Annemarie Friedm— William,” Ms. Clement caught herself.

“She has come all the way from Germany, so give her a warm welcome!”

You could hear a pin drop in that room. Finally, one girl was brave enough to break the silence; “Hello Annemarie, I’m Emma. Ms. Clement, there is an empty desk next to mine. Do you give Annemarie permission to sit there?”

Annemarie wasn’t sure what to make of her; she could almost detect a slight German accent in her clean English, which was similar to Annemarie herself.

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into a smile. The other students in the class gaped and whispered to each other.

Annemarie paid no heed, for she just found herself a friend. The next months were a blur, uneventful and lacking excitement. Annemarie did well academically, and her friendship with Emma solidified. At first, Annemarie constantly thought of her life back at home. She craved familiarity. Afterwards, she came to terms with her past; she learned to shove her memories aside so that they didn’t interfere with her present. Harwich felt more familiar with each passing day; maybe it was her home. Maybe she would lose connection to Berlin…

Annemarie didn’t eagerly await her birthday as much as she used to. It marked a little under three years from the day she was left at the orphanage.

When she focused long and hard enough, she mentally revisited the circumstance that forever stayed vivid in her mind; from the sharp December air chilling her body to the mixture of emotions that overcame her while watching her mother fade from view.

When the 18th of October came around in 1941, 11-year-old Annemarie opened her eyes at the crack of dawn. She lay in bed in her dimly lit bedroom, gazing up at the Williams’ ceiling, contemplating the experiences that brought her to where she is. She never considered herself sensitive or vulnerable until that moment. “Shema Yisrael,” she said aloud. Her voice cracked as Annemarie soon tasted her own salty tears on her tongue.

And then came a realization. An unknown force motivated Annemarie to creep out of bed and look for something that has remained untouched since her arrival in Great Britain. Her mother’s numbered envelopes had collected dust for almost three years, but now Annemarie’s conscience told her it was time. She chose the envelope labeled as the first in her mother’s neat script and delicately tore open the seal, revealing its contents. Annemarie’s heart thumped out of her chest at the sight of numerous old photographs, each one neatly captioned. She spread them out along her blanket in order to carefully examine each photo, but there was one that stood out

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the most from the rest. She held the picture closer and saw a younger version of her father, with a full head of thick black hair and holding the petite hand of his daughter, aged at four years old. They were simply strolling down the street of their hometown together without any pressures or worries. She had a hard time identifying with her carefree, naive self in the photograph because since then she had been exposed to a different side of the world. She realized that her past was not some distant lifetime nor was it a burden; it was a part of her from which she must learn.

These photos moved Annemarie to fill the pages of that thick, leather-bound journal which Liesel had given her before her departure from Berlin. She stared at the first blank page, gathering her thoughts until she was able to develop them completely. Once she started, there was no stopping her. Emotion poured from her soul as she wrote endlessly under her first entry titled ‘The Opening of the First Letter, October 18th, 1941.’

The leather-bound journal was written in almost every day, but there were two remaining letters that were left alone and forgotten about. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and months to years. The leather-bound journal became worn as its pages were scrawled upon, meticulously inscribed in, holding the heart of Annemarie Friedmann.

Over the course of time, the bond between Annemarie and Emma only became stronger as they evolved all the way from third graders to sixth graders and at last, to eighth graders. It was November 29th, 1943, when Ms. Clarke introduced an interesting project to the class.

“You will be researching the history and meaning behind your last names. For example, the English surname Clarke describes a member of clergy, but then became more widespread. It now indicates one who is educated. If it applies to you, explain how your last name connects to your family values or personal traits.”

Emma invited Annemarie over after school to work on their homework and unwind. Her mother wasn’t going to be home, so they could have peace and quiet.

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“Anne,” Emma called Annemarie by her nickname, “do you have any idea what your last name means? Or where it even came from, for that matter.”

“Which last name are you talking about?” Annemarie answered with wit. She smiled playfully at her best friend as she made light of her position.

“I’ve got to give you credit for that one. Seriously, though, my father has really drilled it in me my whole life that Kühn means bravery.”

At these words, something triggered within Annemarie, and Emma sensed this. “What’s the matter, Annemarie? You make it seem as if you never knew my last name, which I know can’t be the case!”

Annemarie was in a daze. She sounded like she was speaking from somewhere distant, far-off.

“Yes… of course, your last name is Kühn. I knew that, but it’s just …” Kühn, Kühn. I recognize that from somewhere, Annemarie struggled internally to recall a short conversation she once eavesdropped between her mother and a man– “That’s it!” she belted out in an epiphany. “What’s it?”

“Em, when did you settle in Harwich? Tell me the truth.”

“About a week before you did,” Emma admitted in a small voice. “My task was to act as my father’s eyes and ears out here, keeping close attention to you and making sure you’re being properly taken care of. I didn’t expect to simultaneously meet my charming best friend.”

When Annemarie made her way home to the Williams’, her mind was swirling with the truth. She uttered a quick greeting to Mrs. William and then hurried up the stairs to her room. Despite the ache to fill in her journal on recent events, Annemarie’s fingers ripped open the second marked envelope. What she found inside touched her in a special way.

Dearest Annemarie, I don’t know at what point in your life you will be reading this letter, but it is worth writing to your future self either way. Currently, I am looking at you while you read one of the novels we salvaged from Papa’s shop. I hope that when you

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read this you will have the same appreciation you have always had for literature and more importantly, for family. I am hoping you will be reminded of what I told you, that I love you unconditionally. You mustn’t forget that. I write this letter to enclose several truths and express my firm belief and everlasting faith that we will someday be together again. I’m unsure of what’s in store for the future, but I do know that you’ll be in good hands, even though I will miss you more than I can bear…

Her mother’s letter went on for pages, but Annemarie wasn’t able to continue.

She broke down right where she stood. The words of the letter were illegible through the steady stream of tears blurring her vision, but her mother penetrated and got through to her one way or another. Their souls were inseparable, however far they were apart.

Annemarie looked up to Mrs. William for her poise and respect. She admired her foster mother and loved Robert, but her thoughts mostly emulated the values of her parents instilled within her. She grew into a refined and educated 15-year-old young lady.

Since the recent end to World War II, there were grim revelations being uncovered with every passing day. In early 1946 when Annemarie learned about Adolf Hitler’s rule in Germany and about the Final Solution with her 10th grade class, she maintained her cool, calm, and collected nature. Alas, the topic of discussion hit too close to home. Internally, her soul was aflame.

Annemarie rushed home from school, ignoring everything around her. She stormed up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door shut. It was a good thing that Mrs. William wasn’t at home, so that Annemarie didn’t have to face her criticism on her rudeness. Oblivious to her surroundings, she grabbed her mother’s third and final letter with intent. That’s when something sparked inside her heart, but she was too absorbed in what she was doing to hear a knock at the front door.

Following Annemarie home, Emma Kühn hoped to talk to her best friend

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about the latest news. At times like this, Annemarie usually prefered to have her journal and only Emma to share her feelings with, rather than to be left alone.

As Emma neared the Williams’ house, she was able to make out a frail, limping figure waiting at the front door. This woman raised her fist to knock, but it must’ve been that either the knock was too weak or that nobody in the house bothered to get the door. There was another person there; it was the outline of the man standing by that older woman. From down the block, Emma made eye contact with him. Suddenly, she broke out into a sprint.

Absorbed in emotional waves of fear, sorrow, and frustration, Annemarie thought she heard faint knocking, but she wasn’t expecting anyone and her foster parents wouldn’t have to knock. No need to answer. She told herself she would go investigate once she had read through the contents of the envelope. When the knocking became more persistent, she stood up upset and dragged herself to see who could possibly be disturbing her.

“Father! Father!” she cried out, gasping for air as she ran into the open arms of Mr. Kühn. “Father,” Emma whispered, “is this woman—” but she was cut off, for the door then swung open.

Annemarie was startled. The world melted away. As she looked into the eyes of the fragile woman patiently waiting at her doorstep, something indescribable passed between them. “Annemarie, my Annemarie.”

Just hearing her name on Liesel’s lips made Annemarie quiver. Within seconds, she was comforted by the embrace of her mother.

“Mami, start at the beginning.”

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Storm on the Horizon Sandy Bernstein

Photoshop

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Quiet? David Aini

Photoshop

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The Prognosis of Adulthood Adelle Ayash

We used to smile into oblivion Keeping that countenance for days at a time, Because why not?

We’d observe the world around us and Probe at its existence in awe, Because what did we know?

We were innocent, happy, and alive Everything we no longer are.

Today, a smile is an act for others Keeping that countenance for days at a time Because why not?

We look around at the world Probe at the reason for our existence, Because we know too much and want out.

We are experienced, depressed, and dead inside And we remain this way.

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Music in Me Sara Mudick

Acrylic Paint, Photoshop

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Restless Ralph Askenazi

It was the restless/ Those nights in between/ Worry and struggle/ The days were ageless/ Because time passed by/ But somehow also stayed still/ The abruptness/ Of the months.../ Felt like they were clashing/ Into each other/ And falling apart.

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Entrapment Ruthie Derzie

Canon Rebel T6, Photoshop

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Stars Stars Shelley Shamah

Photoshop

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A Daydream That Drips Natalie Ryba

Yesterday I fell into a lake I was suspended in water Falling deeper and deeper I inhaled the fishy water The bubbles rushed to my head Then I floated I fell asleep Coughed a bit And woke up My clothes were sopping I stayed there Until the bell rang and I had to go to class Drip Drip, Squish Squish

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Life Grace Hidary

Resourced Images, Photoshop

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Clusters Michelle Baum iPhone

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The World Created Jenna Ashkenazie

Rhyme scheme: ABBCAC ADDEAE Transport to a whole new dimension Turning the pages of that book Sitting for ages in your cozy nook The magical creatures should leave no apprehension To jump into the non-tragical world the author has created Releasing all your tension It feels as if all your problems have been sedated You might cry when the book leaves you in suspension You might scream when the couple finally has their first kiss You might shout in happiness when the sword thrown at the villain does not miss You might cringe at the utter sappiness, I should mention Finding the perfect book is no easy feat So give it the proper attention And when you do, it is a true treat.

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Unbroken Grace Hidary

Resourced Images, Low Poly Illustration- Illustrator

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Knock

Kaden Harari

My will to act was consumed by my intimidation. Insecurity, lack of confidence, or desire to remain within the confines of my comfort zone were not the sources of my intimidation. My intimidation was, and perhaps still is, uniquely mine. When my core foundation, the very man who raised me, celebrates another birthday, he rarely receives a card from his devoted daughter. Why, you ask? I am too intimidated by the prospect of expressing my emotions in words. I never have trouble expressing myself; in fact, my friends praise me for my communication skills. Though when it comes to something so beyond me, so grand that I cannot possibly grasp and pull down into comprehension, nonetheless into words, I completely opt out of expressing myself. If I am incapable of mustering up every idea I could possibly include in my father’s birthday card, I simply don’t include any at all. I feel the constant need to serve justice to situations that call upon the essential aspects of my life– especially involving people. Involving something indescribable.

Because my passion for this cause runs deep, I originally felt Witness Theater was too daunting a task. How can I be responsible for properly shouldering the burden of each Holocaust survivor’s story, sufficiently retaining and attempting to understand? After all, wouldn’t I be committing to a long term serving of justice?

Yes. And I must start with a first move.

This very program is about grappling with sharing the indescribable. How could any amount of storytelling feel sufficient to these storytellers of the unimaginable? Be present, we were instructed. Be present. I only truly grasped the meaning and extent of presence by undergoing the Witness Theater process.

Presence means letting go of expectations, of reservations, of concerns with how present we are and with what we should be doing to maximize the experience— to “serve justice.”

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Presence is acknowledging that sometimes, serving justice to a situation may not even be feasible. But what is feasible is listening attentively to the true embodiments of what it means and how it feels for justice to never be served, whether through words, imagery, empathy.

Julius Rauch. Julchu. Julius.

Jack Tavin. Yankele. Jack.

Sally Muschel. Salusha. Sally.

Anita Brown. Anita. Anita.

Cipora Weiss. Faige. Cipora.

How could these very storytellers keep any amount of storytelling inside of them? The crucial step from level zero to one has immeasurable impacts that I now realize are powerful enough to outweigh my misgivings of not serving justice. Because we must try. What other option do we have? Why should I — how can I possibly — avoid initiating, demonstrating at least some of the emotions within me? And here is the epitome of how it begins.

Twice a week I am confronted by five individuals, each with their own layers of past and worlds of present. Five flames, each sharing the torch that is to be handed off to their future. That is to be courageously yet carefully accepted with pride by myself and my peers.

We received our “roles” for the final production. We “performed” the script to our older, experienced, and wise friends. Sally, who watches the toughest moments in her life reenacted in front of her eyes, asserted, “It was natural; I see it’s from your heart. Almost as if you were there.”

It isn’t acting, I thought. We aren’t acting, I knew. We’re embodying, we’re storytelling. We’re feeling. We’re absorbing and impacting, each in our individual way. And this, this is justice served.

My will to act is motivated by my intimidation.

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Beyond What You See Kaden Harari iPhone

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Trapped Ruthie Derzie

Tempera Paint, Plexiglass, Canon Rebel, Photoshop

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Hope

Steven Shamah

Dear Hope, Sorrow has swept the Earth There is no end in sight People are dying We need to keep trying We need you now.

Suffering has embodied everyone Seeing family is not an option The one year anniversary Everyone used to be cursory We need you now.

Masks are part of our lives Going out of business signs are abiding Working at home Stuck at home We need you now.

From, Steven Dear Steven, Your pleas I hear No need to fear Hope is here The end is near.

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I’ve come to help I hear your yelp Hope is here The end is near.

I come with the vaccine Everything will be clean Hope is here The end is near.

Stores will open No more commotion Hope is here The end is near.

Yours truly, Hope

Monica Betty Hidary Photogtaphy

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Is it Normal?

Shira Simchon

Is it normal to see your ghost walk past the places we used to?

To see your shadow, your silhouette, in the room where we once embraced.

Is it normal to fall asleep every night, on top of your phantom chest?

In the comfort of your call; of your protection that pains me.

Is it normal to feel this way, after months of being apart?

After being let down, after being hurt. But your presence draws me, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t fight it.

Is it normal to still want something that I can’t have?

Like a drug, like an addiction, an attraction and connection like no other.

Is it normal to want your hug after a stressful day?

A simple hug, something so powerful, only we can feel, though on the outside, it seems like nothing.

Is it normal to think of your lips?

The kisses that made my heart skip a beat, the smile that they made, and the indescribable feeling it gave, when I saw and felt them on mine.

Is it normal to reminisce about your eyes?

The ones that looked at me with admiration, the eyes that have made mine water. The ones I got lost in, and somehow made it out alive Is it normal that I feel a sudden urge to call?

In the unknown of how you feel, in hopes to hear your voice, to hear about your day, and most of all, to hear you.

Is it normal to still care?

To still love, to still want you, to still be there, when I don’t expect to get the same in return?

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Poppin Kaden harari iPhone

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Falling Shira Simchon

Life gives us many problems.

Life gives us many challenges.

Life can feel like you’ve hit rock bottom , A place where you need to cover up your scars with colored bandages.

You are an angel with broken wings, Broken wings which tell a story; A story which is a song you sing, A story which I can see.

You have fallen, Many times, However your story is not forgotten, And we can read in between the lines, You can get back up and keep fighting, And continue the story- writing.

Or you can stay down, And live life as if you have drowned.

Life is meant to be lived, Life is meant to be loved, Life is meant to fight, Life is meant to persist.

So keep living the life which you have, Keep loving the people who care, Keep fighting the war which seems impossible, And keep going.

Because one day, it will all be worth it.

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Change your Stars Eleanor Ashkenazie

Paper Sculpture, Photoshop

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Fine Shelley Shamah

Acrylic on Canvas

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Guiding Light Kaden harari iPhone

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Gillis

Shelley Shamah

Growing up, I was always a very friendly kid. I was comfortable around children and grown ups alike and I was never shy about expressing my feelings. But in addition to being friendly, I was also extremely curious, which can sometimes be a pretty dangerous combination. But sometimes, it works out alright.

I was nine years old. I had woken up late for school so my dad was planning on driving me in. It was a peaceful morning. The sun was shining, there was a soft buzzing coming from a lawnmower across the street, my mom was making Eggo pancakes in the microwave. As I pulled on my denim skirt and pink sparkly t-shirt, I heard screaming outside. I knew it couldn’t have been my father because he was downstairs, sipping his coffee (little milk, no sugar) and reading his newspaper (always the Times), so I peeked out my window.

The great part about my room, aside from being the biggest in the house (don’t worry, I have to share it), is that it has a straight view of the Verrazano Bridge. The first thing I saw when I opened the shades to see what the ruckus was about, was the sun blinding my eyes as it sat on top of the Verrazano. The peaceful scene was a stark contrast to what was going on across the street.

Down below, I could barely make out my neighbor but one thing was clear, he was not happy. He was yelling at his gardener, towering over him, his face turning beet red. The gardener, a small Hispanic man, stood there in his bright green t-shirt and baggy jeans and would not look up to his boss’s eyes.

I was so transfixed on the scene in front of me, that when my mom called, “Shelley, let’s go!” I almost fell off my bed.

I rushed downstairs, popped a pancake in my mouth, and headed out the door. When I got in the car, my dad pretended not to notice the dramatics occurring across the street. We were rounding the corner of our block, where the park and playground are, when my dad said, “Shell,” (He was the only one who was

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allowed to call me Shell.) “I’m gonna tell you the most important thing you’ll ever hear.”

Now, this was not an unusual sentence for my father to say. Over the last 17 years, he has told me many “most important things I’ll ever hear”. ‘It’s only money,’ ‘Hard work gets you as far as you’ll ever need,’ ‘Don’t ever forget how much I love your mother,’ you know, things like that. But what he said after that stuck with me.

“Don’t judge people by how they treat their equals, but by how they treat their inferiors.” Thinking back, he probably ripped it off of a billboard or something, but still, it stuck with me.

A few months later, I was waiting for my sister to pick me up from our meeting spot in school at the end of the day. Every day, we met up in a preschool classroom and then we’d wait for my mom to pick us up.

I was sitting in a tiny blue chair when Gillis came in. Broom in hand, he knocked on the door.

I looked away from the picture book I was reading and stared at him. I had never seen anyone so dark. It was like someone had poured chocolate all over him. He smiled and his teeth shone like pearls.

“Excuse me,” he said in heavily accented English, “I need to sweep da floor.”

He rolled his r’s in a way only few people actually can. This guy was authentic. I never asked him, but I believe he was from Africa.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I responded. I hurriedly got up from the chair and started walking out of the classroom.

“No, no iss okeh,” he called back. “You can stay here. I will come back laytah.”

Then, he picked up the picture book I was skimming through. For the life of

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me, I can’t remember what it was. Something that started with an M, I think.

“Are you reading dees book?” he asked, pointing at the cover.

“Oh no, I was just looking through it. I like the pictures.” I quickly responded.

Over the next few minutes, I learned that this janitor’s name was Gillis, he had a daughter that was learning how to read, and he had been working in my school for over ten years.

When I asked Gillis’s name for the third time, after not understanding it the first two times, he told me, “Say it with me. Gil,” he paused, waiting for me to repeat, “iss” he finished with a soft s at the end. I had never heard such a name before. I liked the way it sounded.

He asked me my name so I told him. He, like me, needed some help pronouncing a foreign name.

“Sherri?” he asked. I corrected him.

“Sheddy?” he tried again. Finally I taught him the same way he taught me.

“Shell,” I said. “Like what you find on the beach.” He laughed, finally getting the first syllable right.

My sister walked into the room. What a strange sight it must’ve been to see her nine year old sister having a conversation with a black janitor, broom leaned against his hip. “Come on Shelley. Mommy’s waiting!”

I waved goodbye to Gillis, fully expecting him to never remember our short conversation. He waved goodbye and smiled. “Goodbye Shelley!” he called in his accent.

The next time I saw Gillis was the following year. I was with my friends, coming out of the recess yard and I saw Gillis come out of the Kindergarten hallway.

He squinted from across the hallway, looking in my general direction. As if making up his mind that it was indeed me, he put a hand up in a wave and called “Hi Shelley! How are you?”

My friends looked at me, waiting for an explanation as to why a preschool janitor knew me by name. But I gave them none. I raised my hand up and called

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“Hi Gillis!”

For the next few years, I saw Gillis every so often. I started to pay more attention to the people who worked for the school, whom many of my friends and family considered inferior, whether it be because of their job or the color of their skin (most of them were black). But I just wanted to learn more about them. They worked at the school that I spent most of my life at. We practically lived under the same roof and I didn’t even notice them. It bothered me that these grown men and women had to ask permission of a nine year old to sweep the floor. I began to take notice of the different maintenance workers. No, I didn’t know all their names, but I would strike up a conversation with Red Hair Lady, and Tall Skinny Guy from time to time. And then there was Gillis, tall and broad, his black hair cut so short, but you’d never know because of the blue cap he always wore, and his wide nose and even wider smile.

I applied my father’s quote to my life every day. I thought about it when I went to restaurants, thanking the waiters. I thought about it when my mom hired our day worker, offering to make my bed if she had extra work to do. I thought about it when I said hello to Gillis, when I smiled at him and he smiled at me.

After I graduated middle school, I hadn’t even given a second thought to Gillis. But just today, nearly a decade after I first met him, I saw Gillis when I went to pick up my sister from school. He was the first face I saw when I walked into the building, and it practically lit up. “Shelley! How are you doing!”

I smiled at him. “Hi Gillis! I’m okay, how are you?”

“Shelley, you grow up so fast. When you get so tall?”

Gillis is not the richest in the world, he is not the strongest in the world, he is not the best looking, or the most important. But for a moment, when he picked up that picture book and told an eight-year-old girl about his daughter that was learning how to read, he looked like the happiest in the world. And all it took was a little curiosity and friendliness, some respect, and open mindedness.

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Reaching Etty Jajati

Acrylic on Canvas, Photoshop

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Gliding Kaden Harari iPhone

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Good vs. Evil

Esther Shemia and Sara Salama

“The battleline between good and evil runs through the heart of every man.”

But what is good?

And what is bad?

I searched it up on google, it states good is the quality of being good or virtuous. ,bad is the lack of or failure to conform to moral virtue; wickedness; evil.

But what does that mean?

I know good is helping my siblings with their homework.

I know bad is stealing from a store.

But what if I’m stealing to help my siblings stay alive?

I know bad is lying to my parents.

I know good is telling the truth.

But what if I’m lying for the greater good?

Let’s paint a picture, I’m the devil’s advocate.

And I’m the angel’s advocate.

We’re hovering over your shoulders.

You’re a surgeon, and there’s a life on the line.

While operating, you find out this patient killed 7 people.

7 people.

One. Two. Three.

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Four.` Five.

Six. Seven.

What do you do?

Why would you save this killer, who cost the lives of several people?

If you don’t save him you’ll be considered a killer as well.

If we save him he can inflict even more harm.

Our job is to save lives, does he not count?

What’s the right thing here, there is no more good and bad?

It’s not black and white anymore.

Don’t underestimate the allure of darkness, Don’t overestimate the quality of goodness, They are both corrupt in their own way, These powers are only satisfied when fed.

If you feed them, the desire just becomes greater, You can either do one or the other.

There is no in between.

But what if there is?

Why is it so hard to choose?

Maybe we know neither is right completely.

Maybe we are scared of the outcome.

Maybe we are just afraid of change.

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We don’t know love without hate, We don’t know happiness without sadness.

Light only shines in the dark.

Darkness is only dark without light.

When forced to choose between left or right, Are you able to choose neither?

Is there good and is there bad?

Maybe it’s all in our head.

Life is full of choices.

Each will lead us down a different path.

Sometimes, there is no right and wrong, Sometimes it’s just grey.

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Blink and You’ll Miss it Shelley Shamah

Acrylic Paint, Resourced Images, Photoshop

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The Wonders of the Night Sophia Madeb

In the night When the time is right Where there are no Spotlights But only the starlight With the moon insight From the stars that are bright And from the skylight Start to Imagine dreams of spaceflight To see, there is no plight Then start to lose eyesight So we sleep tight With no fright

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Embrace Sara Mudick

Acrylic on Canvas

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Falling Linda Shamah

Illustrator, Photoshop

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All at Once Sonya Bakst

Collage, Acrylic Paint, Watercolor

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College Essay Joey Alhadeff

In February, I broke a personal record and ran a half marathon in under two hours. I couldn’t feel my legs for the entire last mile, and when I crossed the finish line at an hour and fifty seven minutes, I couldn’t even describe how I was feeling. I had just finished running the Disney Princess Half Marathon and had raised $2,000 for a community-based charity organization called Sephardic Bikur Holim (SBH).

Before the marathon, I trained for months with a goal of finishing the race in under two hours. I ran to honor the memory of my late grandfather and to support an organization that needed my help raising money, to support people in need within my community. In addition, I had other running responsibilities as well. I was the captain of both the Cross Country and Track and Field teams. I had to maintain a certain physical standard, so I trained hard for that too. I ran for my teammates, my coaches, and to make my father proud on race day.

Shortly after the half marathon, the pandemic hit. I was stuck at home, and all the sports that I loved were cancelled. Playing football on Saturdays with my friends had been the highlight of my week - a time to unwind, bond with friends, and play a sport I loved. When that was taken away, I was really struggling mentally and physically. I felt trapped at home and limited cognitively. For the first two weeks I felt sorry for myself, I sat home scrolling social media and playing video games. Then SBH had an emergency fundraiser and raised 1.8 million dollars in two days. With my community making a monumental effort to help out, I recalled why I started running in the first place.

After experiencing that restless feeling for too long, I decided to go out and run. But this time, I wasn’t running for my teams, for SBH, or for my dad. I was running for myself. With energy flowing through my legs, I finally felt alive again.

I was motivated to feel good about myself, which left me hungry for more. I kept

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running, because it was the only thing I could control. My form, my breathing, and my times were in my hands. Running was the only thing that couldn’t be taken away from me during this absurd time. It was consistent, and always there for me. I ran simply because I love the sport.

Now, the Track Team is back on. The school hired a new coach, and I was interested to see how he was going to run the team. At the first practice, I ran really well and showed him why I was the captain of this team. At the end of the practice, he told us that his motto for this uncontrollable year was, “For the love of the run.” It was in that moment that I realized I was doing it right all along.

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Rain of Shimmer Kaden harari iPhone

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Mirrors Sara Mudick

Acrlilyc on Canvas, iPhone, Photoshop

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Enlightenment

Enlightement

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Tick, Tock Kaden Harari

My heart is constantly beating Some call me too slow Some say I run too quickly Does anybody truly know my value?

They glance at me They discuss the position of my hands They wind me up Try to change my meaning But despite their attempts, I keep on moving They greet my face with different expressions When they see what I have to say Some jump for joy Some pick up their pace Some run from what I tell them Some don’t understand There’s much worth to my every motion A slight movement of my hand And the world can change

Don’t Leave Rose Sternberg Illustrator

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Enlightement

E = mc2 Shelly Matsas

Illustrator

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Reflections of Time Michael Oved

To the young, with whom I fly with no wings I ask: let me play with you a little more Before you’re not little any more.

To the busy, whom I elude, I beseech: seek me out And share yourself with the people you love, Lest they be lost forever.

To the aged, whom I run out on, I hope that you have learned and will teach others How truly priceless I am.

And, to all others in between, Know that all pursuits to Stop, slow, or reverse me are in vain.

I never stand still.

Don’t try to own me, I cannot be owned.

But use me and spend me wisely Because once I am lost, I can never be regained.

And while no one escapes life alive, When you embrace and share me You will not just live, but be alive.

Come, take my hand Let’s walk together.

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Sunday Morning Kaden Harari iPhone

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Coincidence Shelley Shamah

Our story is a pretty simple one.

I first met you when I was seventeen, I met your eyes and nearly came undone.

I sit here and think back- my favorite scene Comes to the forefront in my favorite play.

You were a single snowflake in the sky The ice was falling down and blew away My red umbrella hit a passer-by.

You buzzed around the street and ran from that Monstrosity of red. It chased you down.

At last I caught you two in fierce combat.

I grasped that red umbrella, looked around And saw the city streets were nearly bare.

I met your gaze and felt a change in air.

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Delve in Deeper Etty Jajati Marker on Glass

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I’m Better Now Rebecca Sitt

I’m aware I’ve caused catastrophes Stripped the lives of humankind Created unspeakable sickening legacies Demolished the hopes and dreams Of the pure and sinless youth I locked up their laughing beams I have suffered through my suffering Apologized to those who I have wronged Acted as my best self continuing So let me free to spread my wings And share my newfound wisdom To retouch the grins of kings I won’t repeat history and mishandle my power So take my hand and allow me to flourish at my finest

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It’s a Blur Shelly Matsas

Canon Rebel, Photoshop, Illustrator

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Success

Michael Oved

Success.

It is the most appealing of all in life.

Some have the key to this iron door in society But, some don’t.

Ironically sometimes, it is those Who we conclude do not deserve this golden key Who receive it.

And, those who deserve it Receive none of itOr just a portion of it.

But! It is in all.

Except, society is ignorant.

They may all share the golden key If only they were wise.

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Cenoserd Abigail Madeb

iPhone, Illustrator

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Aunt Lily Shelley Shamah

I grew up in a community that loves giving. We give charity in the form of money and time. We give food to the needy, smiles to the children, and most of all, stories to each other. Stories from perspectives of old and young, stories from fifty years ago and from last week.

I’m six, my legs dangle over the green couch in Grandma’s living room. My belly, full from dinner, my body, curled in Grandpa’s lap. One pink loafer falls off, my yellow striped sock droops, alone but loud as ever. “Alright, story time!”

Grandpa jitters his legs to wake me. His eyes crinkle in preparation for the story: She’d be over a hundred by now, but in her prime, Aunt Lily was about four foot six and smoked like a chimney. Great Grandpa Willy, her brother, could not be more her opposite, well, except for the height thing, he was five feet tall, at best. While Aunt Lily babbled about anything and everything, her expressions loud and colorful, Grandpa Willy was silent as a stone. He spoke when spoken to, his demeanor, calm and wise. Sometime in ‘73, Aunt Lily was robbed! She came home to find a man with a knife, sniffing through her jewelry, and screamed to high heaven. Grandpa Willy, who lived upstairs, ran down to investigate. That night, everyone gathered in Aunt Lily’s living room and listened to her dramatic retelling. Grandpa Willy, who had been sitting on the armchair, cleared his throat.

He’d blended into the room like a throw pillow. He hadn’t spoken all evening, for he had nothing to say. Surely, whatever he had to say must offer some importance, if not wisdom.

“How big was the knife?”

I must’ve heard that story a thousand times. There was no intentional lesson, but I understood: Speak less and your words will have more value. But I had one issue, I was an Aunt Lily, still am, if I’m being honest. As a colorful, pas-

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sionate, loud kid, I laughed at every joke and called out in every class, sentences tumbling off my tongue in an excited stutter. But there was always something nagging my subconscious, begging me to keep quiet, as if marionette strings were fighting a losing battle pulling my lips shut.

The average human brain produces 70 thousand thoughts per day, but for me, it felt like 70 thousand thoughts per minute. My imagination runs on overdrive, feeding me ideas, concepts, dreams and colors, so many colors. Truthfully, I’m afraid. I’m afraid that one day I’ll forget every precious thought and vision that has ever crossed my imagination, so I say them aloud. Words and stories serve as an insurance policy that maybe someone else will remember what I said.

But it didn’t work that way. The Aunt Lily story instilled in me the less you speak the more you will be remembered. But I couldn’t stop. My hand raised in class against my will, my voice rang through hallways and bounced off lockers.

The posters in my classrooms read, ‘Listen and silent have the same letters.’ I longed to be the soundless girl in the back who flew under the radar. I didn’t want to be remembered as the one who laughed in colors and sang to the moon.

I thought that girl would be forgotten, her stories lost in the depth of others’ memories.

Alas, I can’t help it. I’m Aunt Lily. I’m feisty, passionate and colorful beyond belief. Over the years, however, I learned to be a better listener. I can pour my ideas and dreams onto a canvas or through a camera lens. I give my stories through computer software or a bass guitar and they don’t mean any less than if they were words floating through space. I can only hope that, like my heritage, my legacy is brimming with color and stories.

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Dancer Etty Jajati

Color Pencils, Photoshop

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Grief Vivian Hamui

Canon Rebel, Photoshop

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Advice on Analytics Ronnie Mizrachi

To be a “numbers person,” one must have a mind That processes all that may arise And analyzes the common patterns, themes, and trends that most don’t find.

A mathematical person must realize That all that he sees should be dissected Into theorems and models as a means to rationalize.

He is one who recognizes that what may seem disconnected, Like the real and the imaginary, or the algebraic and the transcendental, Must be intertwined in ways still undetected.

He is one who understands that event occurrences are linear, not incidental, And to connect those dots is essential.

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Unfenced Liam Ohana Medium

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Knowledge Nicole Levy

Canon Rebel, Photoshop

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What Do You See? Ruthie Khaski

Canon Rebel, Photoshop

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Letter to Max Marilyn Dweck

Dear Max, I miss you. How is everything? Times are very bland without you. You gave me uncertainty in the beginning when you first came, but then I got to see you for who you really are. It was very hard having someone new in the house who I was unfamiliar with but I definitely learned a huge lesson. In life you have to give people a chance and you may face hard times with people you don’t know but it’s all about making the best of your situations, and you’d be surprised what you end up with.

I am proud to call you family which is totally crazy because of the fact that you’re Jewish and I’m not. You had my back and I had yours. You are such an amazing person for so many reasons, the first being you’re a considerate person. You knew that it was risky staying in my house and you did everything possible to make sure we never got caught but you also taught me to give, and that is the true meaning of family. To give physically and mentally. Everytime I gave you something, it made me feel closer to you. You wrote a book for me. Your heart is full of kindness and we built a relationship.

Thank you for everything! Without you, I don’t know what I would have done.

You complete our family. You helped each and every one of us grow.

All the best, Liesel

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Sapped Shelley Shamah

Acrylic on Canvas

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Imagination Shelley Shamah

I picked up the word ‘Imagination’ at three years old. My very first memory is an oxymoron. It’s full of blobs and hazy, colorful shapes, yet I see it with the sharpness of yesterday’s outfit. The naked light bulb in the upstairs hallway stared me down. We held eye contact for a solid ten seconds before my little saucer eyes gave out and blinked away the flooding light. But when I blinked, the light didn’t subside, but rather transformed. A slow pink blob formed in the center of the darkness, giving it a space. The ambiguous black that overtook my vision, if just for a split second, was now a room, with four walls and a floor and a floating pink blob, moving around in slow motion.

I opened my eyes and ran them along the fraying green carpet. There it was again, as if a static light was now the lens I saw my colors through, the blob trailed my vision like a stop motion video. I screamed down the hall, “Momma, I can see my imagination!”

Like that sentence, Imagination followed me for years. It trailed me like a puppy on a leash. It was physical, tangible, palpable. It was something I could hold in my palm and roll between my fingers like a magician finessing his audience. All I needed to do was look at the light.

But as I got older, I looked down more often than I looked up. I looked down at my papers, my food, my legs that would not stop growing. But Imagination was still there to guide me. The colors were there, even when the light was not.

Colors and light do not break, they bend and reform, but they cannot break. Colors began to define names, sounds, time. Reds and silvers and browns surrounded the concept: Synesthesia.

Synesthesia was devoured by Imagination and it controlled everything, my head, my heart, my fingers that it rolled in between, but most of all, my feelings.

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Emotions fuel my Imagination, which in turn fuels me. I’m unable to survive without the constant presence of colors and nondescript shapes that grow from emotions. I grew up immersed in an Israeli culture and if there’s one thing about Israelis, it’s that we are extremely emotional and passionate people. I am no exception. Joy, excitement, anger, frustration, and overwhelming grief spun this hurricane of colors that walks alongside me.

Imagination gave me my first paint brush, my obsession with color and light and ultimately led me to my artistic mindset. It delivers my brightest ideas, like an email swooping into my inbox.

Although Imagination may have started out for me as just a solid blob in the palm of my clammy, three year old hand, it is now an endless waterfall whose every drop, every memory, every wild vision, every color I welcome.

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A Return Stephanie Tarrab

Whirlwinds of days of flight and streaks of colored faces with lollipops and playdates and basketballs and dimples sparkling irises darting from one rainbow to the next of crayola and silly bandz and painted hands of black-and-blue and greenish hue of polka-dot bandaids and a get well teddy bear unstoppable irresponsible invulnerable?

Vulnerable Brown leaves float Sway Down to the ground And I I listen To the redbird Gently pulling me Out of my reverie A silent hum The whisper of now Is the sky’s tear Intertwined with my own Pure liquid and salt Drop From my cheek To another’s From human, insignificant To earth, mighty A return 156 Pegasus 2021

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In the wind Betty Hidary Photography

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The Cello Player Rachel Sanders

Color Pencils

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Neutralize Shelley Shamah

Acrylic Paint, Pencil

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What is Voice?

Stephanie Tarrab

What is voice? Is it simply sound waves emitted by an open mouth? Can it be the defiant tone you take when standing for something you believe in?

What is voice? Could it be silence? Struggling in silence to express the unutterable, perhaps, is vocal enough.

What is voice? Is it physical? Science says yes, but can sound waves truly make up for a hug, a hand?

What is voice? If physical, is it unique to each being? What does it mean to imitate somebody? No- to embody somebody? What is voice?

In Witness Theater, I have used no other part of my whole body in this program more than my mouth. I’ve embodied a student, a friend, a mother. My mouth is worn out. It has borne a mother’s wrinkles, a child’s playful smile. It has borne my own trembling lips, salty with tears. My mouth opens with interest- Tell me more. It closes with reverence- I will listen to every word you say. My ears open, enabled by the silent mouth and active mind. I could blur my eyes- I could gently lay my glasses down next to my notepad and not miss a thing. My ears report back to me that there is a smile in her speech, a grimace in his grim narration.

I have a Jack and a Julius, a Sally, a Cipora, an Anita. I hold their voices in my head, the five voices may lose their owners too soon. So I have adopted their voices, I’ve made them my own. It is emboldening, a truly coming-of-age experience. There is no heavier consciousness than realizing that we are the only ones that can pick up what remains of past generations. The rest is lost. The rest is forgotten. The very thought sends shivers down my spine, it makes my ears perk up. So we hold their voices, their precious voices, and embody them to preserve the humans they belong to. The group of humans they represent. Our voices are

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now an amplifier of theirs.

I, personally, am more of a listener than a talker. My ears remain at attention, my mouth responds with expression. Though the very essence of this program is about listening, about absorbing, I have grappled more with the delicate art of letting my voice enter and break silence with balance and with compassion.

When do I break silence? How? Through the necessity of using verbal expression I’ve discovered a voice that has matured into my own. My personal transformation in communication and empathy is in the present, yet simultaneously dedicated to the telling, retelling, and embodiment of the past.

I feel as if I am the next stop in this transfer of responsibility. These five voices are intensely valuable and I’ve grown to be well versed in expressing this outwardly. Witness Theater has loosened my vocal cords, it has unblocked my windpipes. It has demanded of me to use my own voice perpetually and for the sake of perpetuity, so I will. But it has also granted me permission to be emotional in expression and proud of a voice that is uniquely my own.

Voice is a responsibility, it is simultaneously being active while constantly learning. Voice is legacy, an intersection of the past and the future.

My voice has undertaken responsibility. It bears parts of those five legacies, it bears my own legacy.

My voice is emergent.

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Death Vivian Hamui Photoshop

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Headspace Shelley Shamah

Watercolor

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SVA Essay Shelley Shamah

You’re standing on a train platform. You’ve left from work and walked two blocks in the rain before descending onto the platform. It’s long and lit up with fluorescent lights, the one above you flickers violently, so you look down at the gray-green concrete to ease the tension behind your eyes. You look up and realize the platform is full of people. People walking, people looking at their devices, people waiting, as one does, for a train. Black people, white people, gay people, straight people, men, women and children alike. You find yourself wondering about the stories behind each and every face, the unspoken words left undetonated, diffused in every mouth that breathes around you. Every person is another element making up the scene that unfolds around you. For me, this is art.

Actually, the exact definition of art is, “the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form.” but I’ve grappled with this definition. Yes, I can paint and draw and work with many types of physical mediums, but perhaps my favorite medium is empathy. My ability to put myself in someone else’s shoes has paved the way for some of my greatest projects to come into fruition. Empathy pulses through my veins and plunges me into the other realms of what the world looks like from the perspective of someone else’s eyes.

The people I surround myself with are my personal canvases and the empathy is the paint. When I zoom out of my own world, I realize that the world is not only how I see it, it’s different from each person’s perspective. I’m not the center of the universe, nor the only one with problems. When you use empathy to communicate with someone, you realize your own humanity.

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I carry people’s stories as a medium, for someone else to see it, physically laid out in front of them, whether it be a photograph, a painting or drawing, or even a graphic, and remember their own stories. This makes us more connected to each other.

Other people make the story whole. The scene assembles piece by piece but it is not complete without the other people. Art and empathy pave the way for each other. Stories are spilled out on canvases and masterpieces build stories.

And that’s what I adore about art, what pulls me back to it. Because although its definition is to create something that will appeal to your physical senses, its impact is magnified beyond the physical world. It reaches the deepest, darkest corners of my soul and overtakes my physical being, until my story is laid out on a canvas for all the people to see. For me, art and empathy intertwine like two people bumping into each other on a train platform, their stories mingling in the air.

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Lost in Thought Etty Jajati Color Pencil

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Wrapping my Head Around it Etty Jajati

Color Pencil, Illustrator

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Pegasus 2021 Literature & Art Magazine Dedicated by Laura and Joe Tawil

Yeshivah of Flatbush Joel Braverman High School Al and Sonny Gindi Campus 1609 Avenue J, Brooklyn, NY 11230 www.flatbush.org