Ashkelon
Image Credit: Rita Mendes-Flohr.
As the melody of the soul, poetry resounds with the enduring anguish of Israelis and Palestinians ensnared in an unrelenting cycle of violence. Within this poignant chorus, Naama Gershy's poem, "Ashkelon," adds its voice.
Here, we offer the poem in its original Hebrew alongside an English translation by Elik Elhanan. For the translation, simply scroll down if you are on a mobile device.
By Naama Gershy
אַשְׁקְלוֹן
.אֲנִי מְכַסַּה אֶת הַיַּלְדָּה בִּשְׂמִיכָה לְבָנָה
,כְּשֶׁאֲנִי פּוֹרֶשֶׂת אוֹתָהּ
,הַגּוּף הַקָּטָן שֶׁלָּהּ נֶעֱלַם לְרֶגַע בַּמִּשְׂחָק
.וַאֲנִי רוֹאֶה גּוּפַת נַעֲרָה עֲטוּפָה בְּתַכְרִיכִים
.אֲנִי מְמַלֵּאת אֶת הָאַמְבַּטְיָה לִבְנִי
,הַמַּיִם בַּטֶמְפֵּרָטוּרָה הַנְּכוֹנָה וּבַגֹּבַהּ שֶׁהוּא אוֹהֵב
,וַאֲנִי רוֹאֶה יְלָדִים בְּפַאֲתֵי עַזָּה
.מְחַפְּשִׂים בֵּין הַחֳרְבוֹת מַיִם נְקִיִּים
אֲנִי מְכִינָה אֶת אֲרוּחַת הַצָּהֳרַיִם
וּמְרִיחָה אֶת רֵיחוֹת הַמָּוֶת שֶׁעוֹלִים
.מֵהַבָּתִּים הַנְּטוּשִׁים בַּקִּבּוּצִים
,אֲנִי נוֹעֶלֶת אֶת דֶּלֶת הַבַּיִת לִפְנֵי הַשֵּׁנָה
נוֹגַעַת בַּיָּדִית וְחוֹשֶׁבֶת
,כַּמָּה שָׁעוֹת אוּכַל לְהַחֲזִיק אוֹתָהּ בְּכוֹחַ
.לִשְׁמֹר עַל יְלָדַי בַּחַיִּים
.יְלָדַי נִרְדָּמִים
,אֲנִי מַקְשִׁיבָה לִנְשִׁימוֹתֵיהֶם הָרַכּוֹת
וְשׁוֹמַעַת מְטוֹסֵי קְרָב
כְּמוֹ נְחִיל צְרָעוֹת רוֹעֵשׁ
,סוֹבֵב בִּשְׁכוּנוֹת הַמְּגוּרִים שֶׁל עַזָּה
.מְחַפֵּשׂ יְעָדִים
.אֲנִי לֹא מַשְׁוָה
.אֲנִי מְסַפֶּרֶת
מָה קָרָה לָעֵינַיִם, לָאָזְנַיִם, לְיָדַיִם שֶׁלִּי
,מֵאָז הָיִיתִי יַלְדָּה קְטַנָּה
וְהָלַכְתִּי בָּרְחוֹבוֹת הַשְּׁקֵטִים
שְׁטוּפֵי הַשֶּׁמֶשׁ שֶׁל אַשְׁקְלוֹן
,עִם שֶׁקֶל אֶחָד בַּיָּד
,לִקְנוֹת סַבְּרֵס קָרִיר
,נוֹטֵף דְּבַשׁ
מִיָּדָיו אוֹחֲזוֹת הַסַּכִּין
שֶׁל הַיֶּלֶד הָעַזָּתִי
.שֶׁהִגִּיעַ אֵלֵינוּ בַּקֵּיצִים
.אֲנִי לֹא מַשְׁוָה
אֲנִי מְסַפֶּרֶת
,מָה קָרָה לָרֹאשׁ, לַלֵּב שֶׁלִּי
שֶׁרָאוּ בְּאַרְבָּעִים וְאַרְבַּע שְׁנוֹתֵיהֶם
אֶת סְפִּירָלַת הָאַלִּימוּת
,הוֹלֶכֶת וְעוֹלָה
,הוֹלֶכֶת וְגוֹבֶרֶת
,מְמִּיתָה כָּל מָה שֶׁהָיָה חַי בָּאֵזוֹר
.וְלֹא הִצְלִיחוּ לִמְנֹעַ דָּבָר
Ashkelon
I cover my daughter with a white blanket.
Spreading it over her,
Her small frame briefly vanishes beneath it,
And I see the body of a young girl, wrapped in shrouds.
I prepare a bath for my son,
Setting the water temperature just right, the level to his liking,
And I see children on the fringes of Gaza,
Searching the rubble for clean water.
I prepare lunch,
And smell the scents of death emanating
From the abandoned homes in the kibbutzim.
I lock the house door in the evening,
My hand on the handle, I think about
how long I can hold it, with every fiber,
To preserve my children's lives.
My children drift asleep,
I listen to their soft breaths,
And I hear fighter jets,
Like a cacophonous swarm of wasps,
Scouring the neighborhoods of Gaza,
Seeking their objectives.
I don't draw comparisons–
I relate
What has happened to my eyes, ears, hands
since I was a little girl,
walking the tranquil,
sunlit streets of Ashkelon,
A shekel clutched in hand,
To purchase a cool prickly pear,
Dripping honeyed juices,
From the hand gripping a knife,
Of the Gazan boy
Who came to our street in the summer,
Every year.
I don't compare,
I relate,
What has happened to my mind, my heart,
Who have witnessed in their forty-four years
The spiral of violence growing and escalating,
Growing and intensifying,
Killing all that was once alive,
And were unable to prevent a thing.
Naama Gershy
Poet Naama Gershy was born and raised in Ashkelon, an Israeli city bordering the Gaza Strip and currently resides in Jerusalem with her husband and two children. Beyond her talent as a poet, Naama serves as an Assistant Professor of Child Clinical and School Psychology at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.
