This piece is part of our Wit­ness­ing series, which shares pieces from Israeli authors and authors in Israel, as well as the expe­ri­ences of Jew­ish writ­ers around the globe in the after­math of Octo­ber 7th.

It is crit­i­cal to under­stand his­to­ry not just through the books that will be writ­ten lat­er, but also through the first-hand tes­ti­monies and real-time account­ing of events as they occur. At Jew­ish Book Coun­cil, we under­stand the val­ue of these writ­ten tes­ti­mo­ni­als and of shar­ing these indi­vid­ual expe­ri­ences. It’s more impor­tant now than ever to give space to these voic­es and narratives.

A Japan­ese poet once said,

Beneath the cher­ry blossoms

there’s no such thing as strangers
 

But I found you beneath a fig tree.

Leaves rus­tled in the breeze.

We shared with­in the shade.

Sweet taste of summer,

we weren’t strangers then.
 

But then came fall.

We prayed for rain—

Were plunged in flames—

Amid the ash—

Our tree was charred.
 

A Japan­ese poet once said,

Beneath the cher­ry blossoms

there’s no such thing as strangers
 

But I found you beneath a fig tree.

Branch­es burnt and barren.

No shade for us to share.

Bit­ter­ness of fall,

we aren’t strangers now.
 

And then came winter.

We prayed for strength—

Marched off to war—

At last some rain—

Our tree could final­ly drink.
 

A Japan­ese poet once said,

Beneath the cher­ry blossoms

there’s no such thing as strangers
 

But I found you beneath a fig tree.

When you see the leaves,

you’ll feel the breeze.

We’ll share this shade.

Sweet taste of summer,

we won’t be strangers then.

The views and opin­ions expressed above are those of the author, based on their obser­va­tions and experiences.

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