Two Poems by Emma Goldman-Sherman

How Amal's Father Died During the First Intifada [1]

He was a farmer.
He had a truck
to take our produce
to the market.
The truck was small,
a flatbed with high
wooden fencing. 

When it started,
the shih-bahb [2]
used to hide
in the back
to throw stones
at the soldiers. 

My father put a lock,
but they would climb in
anyway. 
                        First
the soldiers
tore up the back
                        of the truck.

My father made a new one. 
Then we heard them
destroying it again.

He went to ask them to stop,
and they arrested him
for being outside
                        during curfew.

My father went to jail
                        for six months.
When he returned to us,
                        he rebuilt
the back of the truck.                                                                                             

Then one night he heard
                        the soldiers.
Afraid to go out to be
                        arrested again.
We could hear them
                        attacking the truck.

They called my father
                        by his name.
They pounded
                        our door
and demanded
                        he join them.
And he stayed in.

So they set his truck
                        on fire.
When he saw the flames
                        he went.

And they shot him.

 

[1] from a transcript I made to document human rights abuses in the West Bank and Gaza, 1993. Amal is her real name, used with permission.

[2] bunch of young kids

 

 

Paraphrasing from a Video of a Retired Mosad Agent on Twitter that I Lost but Can’t Forget

We used to go from house to house
to show them we're here
there's a phrase for it
to sit on the back of their neck
                        so they can't forget.

We worked in shifts in groups
walking down the street.
We'd pick a random house.
It could be 2 in the morning
whatever         pound on the door
wake everyone up. You can
                        imagine the scene.

Families asleep, all their things
we'd line them up, search the house
for what           for nothing
just to be there, to show them
                        here we are.

We can touch your things
                        do this to you
whenever we want.

Walk out leave their mess behind
pick another house or break for lunch
whatever         eight hour shifts
five days or nights a week.

This was my job like
combing for lice you divide
                        the head into sections
only we weren't really looking
                        only sitting
on their necks. 

 

 

About the author: Emma Goldman-Sherman's plays have been produced on 4 continents. Abraham's Daughters, about Palestinians and American Zionists, is available as a podcast at The Parsnip Ship. Emma's poetry has been published or is forthcoming in The Bangalore Review, long con, Oberon, Queerlings, Non-Binary Review, Writers Resist & others. Their first flash fiction won 3rd prize in the new Fish Anthology in Ireland. They've received residencies at the Millay Colony, Ragdale & twice at WordBridge. They teach for the Dramatists Guild Institute and offer support to writers and artists at Substack and Brave Space

You can also find Emma on Facebook, Instagram, and X.