Features
Former Winnipegger Zev Cohen publishes book of short stories: “Twilight in Saigon”
Former Winnipegger Zev Cohen, who now lives part of the year in Israel and part of the year in Calgary, has just published a book of short stories titled “Twilight in Saigon”. The book is available for purchase on Amazon. Here is how the book is described on Amazon: This eclectic collection of stories crosses genre lines – war, crime, romance, espionage, science fiction, fantasy –
as it moves in time from World War II through the present and into the distant future. Its common thread is humanity and love in the face of adversity.
A journalist finds love and misfortune in the upheaval of the Vietnam war.
Working for the West, a spy is saved from the hands of the KGB.
A straight-laced British accountant finds the love of his life and evil in Hong Kong.
Immigrants grapple with despair, love, and the vicissitudes of life in new surroundings.
Politics, love and tragedy in the life of a president.
Stationed on a distant world, a Terran ambassador adapts to an alien culture as love overcomes sentient diversity.
A loyal android fights for his cruel leader.
Teenage romance during the Six Day War.
A day in a dog’s life.
…and much more
We present here one of the stories from the book, titled “Gulfs and Pleasures”:
I DO NOT RECOMMEND HAVING SEX WHILE WEARING A GAS MASK. BEYOND the empirical fact that it prevents kissing from being part of the act, it’s difficult to breathe during the strenuous effort. Within a couple of seconds, the mask fogs up, and you can’t see a thing. Moreover, the waves of giggling break your concentration. Try imagining what a naked woman and a naked man look like while wearing gas masks. You’d have to agree with me that it looks funny if not grotesque. But when there’s no choice, you do what you must do and enjoy it, if only in a limited way.
I called Orna’s cell phone as soon as the siren went off in the middle of the night. She picked up after the first ring.
“Are you alright? Is he at home?”
“No. Two hours ago, he was called up and ran off to join the guys and play war. I don’t believe that he’ll be back today. Who knows how long it will last? It’s scary, and we didn’t even prepare an airtight room. He insists that there’s no chance that it will hit us of all people. Anyway, what does he care? He’s sitting in the underground bunker ogling the girl soldiers. Nothing will happen to him.”
Orna was one of the regular participants in my first-year course on the history of European art since the Renaissance that I ran in the large lecture hall of the Gillman building. She used to sit in the front row with the other “stenographers.” Those were the co-eds who conscientiously scribbled down every word that came out of my mouth, including flat jokes and burps. She was older than them, mature and sure of her intelligence amid those Barbie dolls. As opposed to them, she would, from time to time, fire a challenging comment that proved she was listening carefully and under- standing. To my shame, or not, I wasn’t attracted to her brains, although they did arouse my curiosity. As I droned along, lecturing on autopilot, my look wandered from her hazel-green eyes to the swell of her breasts and her shapely legs. What could I do? Even a professor is a human being, isn’t he? On a depressing winter’s day, between perusal of desolate seminar papers on the play of light and shadow in Venetian painting and suicidal thoughts, I ran into her in the cafeteria. The usually hectic and packed room was unusually quiet. We were alone, not counting Sonia behind the counter. Perhaps the atmosphere of impending doom chased the regular café denizens away.
I’ll jump forward because there’s not much to say about the develop- ment of our relationship. We didn’t go for in-depth discussions about art, politics, or interpersonal relations. There was no sophisticated seduction or so-called love at first sight. We were two lonely people with their eyes open, who found something in each other that had been missing up to that specific moment. We went for it. For me, her presence filled a void that was characteristic of my life here since returning from New York and a string of what Erica Jong called “zipless fucks.” She never revealed what she found in me. I doubted that it was about my less than god-like physique. I didn’t ask for fear of bursting the bubble. I didn’t want to find out that I was just a reasonable alternative to Amnon, her here again, gone again husband. And the sex was great.
“Amnon will always be Amnon,” I replied with a tinge of baseless hypocrisy. “With or without Iraqi ground to ground missiles, he’ll always look out for number one. Anyway, you always know how to take care of yourself.”
I couldn’t help adding a bit of pretentious and hollow male know it all superiority, and I said, “But he’s right about one thing. The chance that a missile will land on top of you, in Ramat Gan of all places, is tiny.”
“Yes, definitely, Mr. Professor of art history and great international expert on ballistic missiles,” she shot back, taking me down a few notches. “Do you suggest that I drink a glass of water and calm down? In a minute, you’re going to replace Nachman Shai.”
I tried another tack.
“I can be over at your place in a few minutes to set up an airtight room. I’ve been hoarding plastic sheeting obsessively for months, and I’m sure there’s a technical drawing by Da Vinci that could guide me through it.” She giggled. It worked. She could have guessed that my building skills were negligible, but there was nothing like a bit of self-deprecating humor to bring her around and hide the truth. She accepted my generous offer, and I was on my way before she put down the virtual receiver.
The streets were abandoned at that early hour. The oily puddles left by the rain reflected the brake lights of the few cars on the road. On the radio, there was an endless stream of talking and talking. Nobody could say what was happening. Were we hearing distant explosions or just echoing thunder? Should we put on our masks or take them off? It all just went by me. My thoughts focused on expectations of Orna – hot caresses, electrifying touches, sweet breath, erect nipples, wet, wet, wet.
Here’s another suggestion for my male friends. Don’t come to your lovers tight as a spring, heart beating rapidly with passion and sweaty palms. And it doesn’t matter if it’s the first day of war or any other circumstance. You’ll come, in every meaning of the word, and it’ll be over in seconds. Much too quickly.
We were getting ready for another round when the second siren went off. Being good citizens, we put on our masks and checked the limits of human sexual capabilities under the threat of chemical attack. Between bursts of muffled laughter and the pungent smell of rubber, we got a passing grade for the efforts invested.
The cell phone rang, and Orna answered. “It’s him,” her lips expressed silently. Amnon.
“Yes, I understand. I’ll think about it. I’m not sure that it’s a good idea. She must already be hysterical, and she’ll make me crazy too. That’s the situation. Yeah, it’s disgusting, but I got them out of the attic, and if they tell us to, I’ll put on the mask. Be careful. Call me when you can. Kiss, kiss. Bye.”
She looked pale. “It looks as though it’s serious this time,” she explained after the short conversation with her loving and concerned husband. “His unit is moving, and for the next few days, he’s not coming home and won’t be available on the phone.”
“Where is he going? Somewhere around here?” I wasn’t asking because of some sudden fear for Amnon’s safety. I just wanted to weigh the chances that he might show up by surprise and see what the civilians were doing in the rear…at his home.
“He said that it’s secret and he can’t talk about it. He wants me to move in with his mother in Jerusalem until things calm down. You heard what I told him. It’s out of the question.”
Amnon’s secret location was troubling. My plan to get comfortable in Orna’s bed for the next few days has a whiff of danger about it now. Suddenly he calls. Suddenly he’s worried about her and wants to send her to Jerusalem. What is he scheming? He might even show up unannounced to see if she was okay.
There wasn’t much time to consider the options, as the undulating howl of a siren broke the silence. This time we could distinctly hear the distant boom that followed it. The minute that the all-clear sounded, we were in the car on our way to Eilat. We even sang “Heading South to Eilat” loudly on a childish high at 4 a.m. On the Arava highway, we joined a slowly crawling jam of vehicles. It appeared that others, lots of them, came up with Orna’s brilliant idea to get out of the bull’s eye and as far outside of the missiles’ range as possible.
Orna wanted us to move into a holiday apartment in the southern town owned by her former schoolmate, best friend, and current neighbor, Rachel. Thanks to her outstanding bodily dimensions, Rachel had taken up a modeling career that frequently brought her to Paris, London, and New York. She changed her name to Tiffany and, when traveling, left the keys to her apartment and the Eilat hideaway with Orna. She often invited her and Amnon to use the Eilat domicile. I tried to convince Orna to come to a hotel with me to survive the war in bed with room service.
Near Beer Ora, Amnon called again. He heard as we did that a missile had hit Ramat Gan, destroying his and my low probability theory.
“Calm down. I’m still at home, and nothing happened on our street,” she told him. “There was a giant explosion, pretty close by, and the walls shook, but nothing more than that.” The lies slipped off her tongue smoothly. What else could she say?
“I might go to your mother’s later. In the meantime, if you can’t reach me on the phone, it’s because I’m down in the shelter. I don’t trust that plastic sheeting that we don’t have anyway.”
After saying goodbye with kisses, she reported no chance that he would make it home in the coming days. He must make do with the underwear he took with him. I breathed easier.
In Eilat, we dragged from hotel to hotel, the bed and room service plan falling to pieces. The same scene played out everywhere. Lobbies had turned into battlefields between separate Jewish combatants. Israel war-time solidarity gave way to exchanges of curses, pushing and shoving, and an awakening of Sephardi-Ashkenazi infighting. Never did hotel managers discover so many long-lost close friends from school and the army, relatives on the side of granny from Afula, and various other people with exclusive rights. Everyone was squeezing up against the reception desks trying to get hold of even the smallest partially furnished closet. It was a nightmare. In one of the luxury properties, the security guards were unsuccessfully attempting to take apart an outpost of suitcases and sleeping bags established by two families with a hive full of nervous brats.
Again, it’s Amnon on the phone. Orna shouldn’t try to reach him at his unit. He won’t be available due to radio silence and communications security. That’s fine, I thought. The walls have ears.
We dredged up Orna’s original plan. In a few minutes, we found the holiday apartment building. It was a nondescript structure with balconies overlooking a dilapidated neighborhood minimarket. The elevator was out of service, so we climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. On each landing, we stopped for a couple of moments of hurried necking, expecting what was coming. Hands were sent out to intimate parts, lips locked, tongues writhed. As Orna tried to fish the keys out of her bag while loosening my belt, I was busily unbuttoning her blouse to get at her bra.
The door opened, and we fell into the apartment. A pleasantly cold gust of air from the air conditioner welcomed us in. Someday had left it on since the last visit. We couldn’t wait for the bed. Clothes were rapidly removed and thrown aside, and the plush carpet hosted our vigorous sexual duet.
Eventually, things calmed down, and we could hear muffled, unidenti- fiable voices coming from somewhere else in the apartment: mumbling, quiet moaning, a cadence of creaking. We got up to check the noises that seemed to be coming from behind the closed but flimsy door of the bedroom. Just in case, I picked up a thick rolling pin in the kitchen. I pushed the door open, and no terrorist jumped me. Only Orna’s somewhat hysterical laughter penetrated my consciousness. Amnon pulled back from between Tiffany/Rachel’s legs spread wide as though bitten by a snake and stared at us incredulously.
Features
“The Desert Doesn’t Forget” – a short story
By H. C. Piloski
Foreword
This story is loosely based on a true event shared between father and son. The exact year has blurred with time — somewhere in the early to mid1960s — but the Las Vegas my father described was unmistakably the Las Vegas of that era: hot, bright, and dangerous in ways polite men didn’t discuss.
Many years after the incident, my father introduced me to one of the businessmen involved. As we approached him, my father leaned in and whispered that I was not to mention Las Vegas — not to ask, not to hint, not even to let the word cross my mind. The warning was quiet, but firm, and it told me more than any story could.
The details here have been fictionalized, but the core incident — a trip abruptly cut short after a threatening encounter — comes from those private recollections. Some memories fade, others distort, but certain moments remain sharp as desert glass. This is one of them.
Las Vegas, 1965
The desert air hit Harold Bernstein like a blast furnace the moment he stepped off the plane — not just heat, but a smell, too. A dry, mineral sting carrying dust, sun cooked metal, and the faint tang of jet fuel settling over the tarmac.
Winnipeg men weren’t built for this. They were built for honest cold, for wind that cut straight and didn’t pretend to be anything else.
Harold paused at the top of the stairs, blinking against the glare. Miriam had tucked a small prayer book into his suitcase “just in case.” He almost smiled. There was no “case” for this — not the kind Miriam meant, anyway.
He and his business partner, Leonard “Lenny” Krawitz, ran Bernstein & Krawitz Apparel Distributors — a respectable prairie outfit, steady as a metronome. They’d been raised in the North End — synagogue basements, rye bread, and quiet rules — but now lived in Tuxedo, where the houses were larger, the streets quieter, and success felt like something you had to defend.
Harold had known Solly Markowitz since they were boys in the North End — same streets, same synagogue basement — but Solly had always moved faster, talked faster, lived faster. Too fast.
Rumors drifted back over the years like smoke: Vegas. Casinos. “Connections.” And the darkest whisper of all — that Solly had been with Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel the night Siegel was shot to death in his Los Angeles home in 1947.
Siegel, one of the architects of modern Las Vegas, had built his empire on danger. Siegel’s murder was never officially solved. Men tied to Siegel didn’t retire. They drifted into darker corners.
You don’t play around with the mob.
Still, Solly called every few years. Usually around the High Holidays. Usually to ask if anyone remembered his parents.
This time, he had a business proposition.
“A warehouse,” Solly said. “Distribution. Vegas is booming. You boys could expand. And listen — you’ll be dealing with our people. Markowitz runs things on this end. Good man. Efficient. You’ll be safe.”
Harold didn’t trust men who promised safety.
But Lenny was curious. And Harold had been partners with him long enough to know that curiosity was a tide you didn’t fight. So they booked two tickets, packed their best suits, and flew into the desert.
The Strip
The taxi was a 1965 Dodge Coronet, the kind every Vegas cab company seemed to buy in bulk — boxy, dependable, sun bleached around the edges. Its vinyl seats were hot enough to sting through Harold’s trousers, carrying the ingrained smell of desert dust, gasoline, and a hundred previous fares who’d sweated their way down the Strip.
The driver wore a shortsleeved white shirt and a narrow black tie, loosened past respectability. A pack of Luckies sat tucked above the visor. He didn’t talk. Vegas drivers rarely did. They’d seen too much, and they knew silence was sometimes the safest tip a man could give.
Neon signs flickered to life in the early evening glare — reds, blues, golds shimmering like they were trying to outshine the sun itself. Billboards shouted from every corner:
FRANK SINATRA — LIVE AT THE SANDS; SAMMY DAVIS JR. — TONIGHT ONLY; DEAN MARTIN — MIDNIGHT SHOW; DON RICKLES — ONE NIGHT ONLY — CAESAR’S PALACE
Harold watched the lights smear past the window. Vegas looked like a city built by men who didn’t believe in consequences — men who thought the world could be rewritten in neon and smoke.
At a stoplight, Harold noticed a man in a dark suit standing outside the Desert Inn. Ninety degrees even after sundown, yet the man didn’t sweat. He stared at their cab with the flat, patient look of someone waiting for a decision already made.
Harold looked away.
Their hotel was one of the older ones — brass fixtures dulled by fingerprints, red carpets worn thin, cigarette smoke curling under chandeliers. The casino floor hummed with slot machines, dice clattering, and the low murmur of gamblers who had already lost more than they could afford.
Harold felt the city watching him.
They checked in, rode the elevator up, and began unpacking. Lenny talked about expansion, about opportunity. Harold listened, nerves tight.
Then came the knock.
The Knock
A heavy, deliberate thud — the kind that didn’t wait for permission.
Lenny froze. Harold felt his pulse climb into his throat.
Lenny opened the door.
Two men stood there — tall, broad, wearing dark suits that didn’t belong in the Nevada heat. Their faces were blank, carved from something that didn’t melt. One shifted slightly, revealing the unmistakable outline of a holstered pistol.
“You’re Bernstein and Krawitz,” the first man said. His voice was calm, almost bored — the tone of someone who had delivered this message before.
Harold nodded before he realized he’d done it.
“Mr. Markowitz appreciates your interest,” the second man said. “But he doesn’t want you involved. Not now. Not ever.”
Lenny swallowed. “We just got here—”
The first man stepped forward, jacket pulling back just enough to show steel. “If you stay,” he said, “the desert will take you. And the desert doesn’t give anything back.”
They turned and walked away without waiting for a response.
Lenny closed the door slowly.
“Harold,” he whispered, “we’re leaving.”
Harold was already zipping his suitcase.
The Retreat
They moved through the casino like ghosts. The noise felt distant, muffled, as if the city itself were holding its breath. Harold avoided eye contact with everyone — dealers, tourists, men in suits who always seemed to be standing just far enough away to pretend they weren’t watching.
At the front desk, Harold slid their room keys across the counter. The clerk raised an eyebrow.
“Checking out already, sir? You just arrived.”
“Change of plans,” Harold said. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
Outside, a row of gleaming Cadillacs and Lincolns lined the valet area, their long bodies catching the neon glow like blades. The desert air smelled different now — harsher, metallic, as if the heat itself were warning them. The Strip looked less like a playground, more like a trap.
At the Western Airlines counter, Harold’s hands shook so badly he dropped his wallet. They managed to get seats on a late flight to Los Angeles, with a connection north to Winnipeg. Luck, or something like it, was still on their side.
On the jet, Lenny stared straight ahead, silent. Harold didn’t speak either.
When the aircraft began its run, the engines didn’t just roar — they howled, a rising metallic fury that made the cabin tremble. Harold gripped the armrests as the desert dropped away beneath them, Las Vegas shrinking into a glittering lie the desert never bothers to hide.
Only when they were safely above the clouds did Lenny finally whisper, “What do you think that was about?”
Harold didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
They both knew.
Home Again
Back in Winnipeg, winter arrived early. Harold welcomed it. Snow didn’t lie. Cold didn’t threaten. The prairie wind didn’t bury men in unmarked graves.
Their wives were waiting at the airport, bundled in coats, cheeks pink from the cold.
“You’re home early,” Miriam said, frowning.
“Business fell through,” Harold said. “Whole thing was a waste.”
Esther looked from her husband to Harold, suspicious. “Barely two days?”
“Solly wasn’t organized,” Lenny said quickly. “Nothing to see.”
Miriam touched Harold’s arm. “You look pale.”
“Heat,” Harold said. “Didn’t agree with me.”
It was the closest he had ever come to lying to her.
That night, Miriam asked again. “Something happened.”
Harold kissed her forehead. “Nothing we need to talk about.”
She didn’t press. Tuxedo wives knew when a door was meant to stay closed.
A week later, Solly called.
“Boys! You never showed! Markowitz said you headed home early. Shame — I had everything lined up. Next time, we’ll make sure things are clearer.”
Harold hung up without answering.
Lenny unplugged the phone.
They never spoke of the trip again.
Not to their wives. Not to their families. Not to the men at shul or the ones they played cards with on Thursday nights.
Some stories were too heavy to carry into daylight.
Years Later
Decades passed. Their children grew. Their hair thinned. Their business went to younger hands.
Sometimes, late at night, Harold would wake in the middle of the dark, heart pounding, hearing that knock again — heavy, deliberate, final.
And he would think of Solly. Of Vegas. Of the desert.
How it didn’t forget. How it didn’t forgive. How close he and Lenny had come to disappearing into it.
Features
Turkey’s Rising Power Worries Israel
By HENRY SREBRNIK It has long shared intelligence with Iran, and it remains the only NATO country to have refrained from sanctioning Russia after its 2022 invasion of Ukraine. It is, along with Qatar, the main international sponsor of the Muslim Brotherhood, including its Palestinian branch, Hamas. Its poor human rights record consistently stir unease among NATO allies.
This is President Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s Turkey. He wants his country to become the preeminent power in the Middle East. If Iran emerges from the current war with Israel and the United States weakened, whether politically, economically, or militarily, Turkey’s relative influence in the broader region will increase. Ankara has already consolidated significant influence in Syria and Azerbaijan, and it continues to pursue strategic connectivity projects across the South Caucasus.
Since Erdogan and his Justice and Development Party (AKP) came to power in 2003, relations have steadily deteriorated. The Hamas victory in a legislative election in Gaza in 2005 felt in Ankara like a personal win for Erdogan, who had advised Hamas on its electoral strategy.
Three years later came the Mavi Marmara incident. A Turkish ship chartered by the Humanitarian Relief Foundation (IHH) attempted to break Egypt and Israel’s blockade of Gaza. The vessel was boarded by Israeli commandos, resulting in nine deaths. Erdogan accused Israel of “state terrorism” and appealed to the “international community” in a speech to the Turkish parliament. Things kept going downhill and are now worse than ever.
Turkish Foreign Minister Hakan Fidan recently remarked that “the Israeli authorities are a burden that humanity can no longer bear.” Fidan’s words came in a TV interview July 2 following Israel’s recognition of the 1915 Armenian genocide: “Israel is not just Turkey’s problem, nor is it just the issue of our president, he said. “But everyone knows it, feels it, whispers it in hidden corners, and occasionally speaks openly. This is what we must call it.” True, he stepped back from those remarks in a later interview, contending that Turkey and Israel aren’t destined for conflict. Was this second comment perhaps made at Donald Trump’s urging?
After Hamas’s October 7, 2023, attack on Israel, Erdogan emerged as one of Israel’s most outspoken international critics, accusing Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s government of committing grave violations during the Gaza conflict and intensifying Ankara’s diplomatic support for the Palestinian cause. Israeli officials have interpreted this rhetoric as evidence that Turkey increasingly views itself as a political counterweight to Israel across the region.
Already in December 2023, Erdogan had compared Netanyahu to Adolf Hitler, and Israel’s actions in the Gaza Strip to those of the Nazis. In March 2024, he referred to Netanyahu and his government as “modern-day Nazis” and called for bringing these “murderers” to justice under international law.
He subsequently accused Netanyahu of committing “genocide” in Gaza, claimed that his actions “would make Hitler jealous,” and even described the situation in Gaza as “worse than Nazi camps,” while portraying the West as standing aside and enabling the continuation of the “brutality.” In a speech posted on X on March 30 this year, Erdogan called on “Allah” to “damn Zionist Israel.”
The narrative accusing Israel has become a structural component of Turkey’s domestic political discourse. What is new is not the use of extreme imagery and Holocaust terminology, but the role they play. Unlike in the past, the rhetoric is no longer merely an expression of political anger or protest; it has become a component of Turkish policy, intended to lay a normative foundation through which Ankara seeks to deny Israel the moral legitimacy of its actions.
Turkey portrays Israel not as a state confronting a grave security threat from a murderous terrorist organization but as an entity that has crossed the bounds of humanity, committing crimes it equates with those perpetrated by the Nazis. This framing intentionally downplays the severity of Hamas’s actions and prepares the ground for collective action against Israel, including exceptional punitive measures against it. At the same time, it depicts any Western hesitation or lack of restraint regarding Israel as a moral abandonment of Gaza’s residents, expanding responsibility and blame to the international community beyond Israel itself.
On November 7, 2025, the Istanbul Chief Public Prosecutor’s Office announced the issuance of arrest warrants against 37 Israeli figures, including Netanyahu and other senior officials, on charges of genocide and crimes against humanity. Although these domestic warrants lack practical enforcement, their significance lies in the ongoing legal threat they create. They limit the movement of senior Israeli officials, discourage other countries and institutions from engaging with Israel, and enhance the criminal framing of Israel in the international arena.
Its identity as a Muslim state and a NATO member, but critical of the liberal-Western order, has allowed Turkey to position itself as a leading moral voice, strengthening its regional and international standing. In addition to the importance the Turkish government attributes to the Palestinian issue and the broad support for the Palestinian position among the Turkish public in general, and Erdogan’s electoral base in particular, this issue serves as a platform for positioning Turkey as a voice challenging the West and speaking on behalf of “the oppressed in the world.”
Erdogan’s tenure has seen a systematic shift toward Islamization within Turkey. His government has expanded religious education, restricted alcohol sales, and promoted conservative social policies. These measures, coupled with the suppression of secular institutions, align with his stated goal of raising a “pious generation.”
Erdogan, from his comments, seems to consider himself the rightful leader of the entire Muslim world. In the interim, he evidently sees himself as the Middle East’s next great power broker, claiming leadership while chaos reigns.
Already entrenched in Syria, steadily expanding an indigenous defence industry capable of producing sophisticated drones, naval vessels, and eventually advanced fighter aircraft, while seeking a foothold in Gaza, Ankara increasingly appears intent on filling the regional vacuum Iran leaves behind. Tehran sought to surround Israel with a Shi’ite ring of fire. Ankara appears willing to create a Sunni one.
Henry Srebrnik is a professor emeritus at the University of Prince Edward Island
Features
Can Deni Avdija lead Portland to the title next year?
It is too early to say if Deni Avdija is ready to lead the Portland Trail Blazers to the NBA Finals in 2027, but it’s not too much to hope for. But the trade to Washington in 2024 is arguably a signature move for Portland. All those who followed him on basketball results on SportyTrader have seen him grow from an all-purpose prospect into an All-Star creator and a testament to the Blazers’ rebuild.
It is not Avdija’s question as to whether he can be a one-man savior. Whether his scoring and playmaking, defense and competitive edge can support a roster that’s become ambitious.
The catalyst: Avdija’s arrival and Portland’s new hope
Deni Avdija was traded to Portland on July 6, 2024, with Washington receiving veteran guard Malcolm Brogdon, the draft rights to No. 14 pick Bub Carrington, a 2029 first-round pick, a 2028 second-round pick, and a 2030 second-round pick in return. The cost seemed to be very high, but the deal with Deni Avdija is becoming more and more justified.
In the 2025-26 campaign, Avdija averaged 24.2 points, 6.9 rebounds and 6.7 assists in 66 games played, and had a shooting percentage of 46.2 percent on the field and 80.2 percent at the free throw line. He has made his first All-Star call-up, his first call-up as an Israeli player. That was a turning point in his career and catapulted him into one of the most prominent Israeli athletes.
One thing that is still being questioned is his perimeter efficiency. He was 36.5 percent on 3-pointers in 2024-25, falling to 31.8 percent with an average of six attempted three-pointers per game. However, his versatility to attack closeouts, get to the ball, rebound, play several positions defensively, and start transition offense means that he is valuable.
What does ‘leading a team’ truly mean for Avdija?
Avdija is not quite in the Nikola Jokic or Giannis Antetokounmpo class; he doesn’t dominate each possession defensively, nor is he a Giannis Antetokounmpo who sets a championship system in motion. He’s becoming a more realistic high-level foundational leader, a part scorer, a part connector and a part tone-setter.
Standards are as necessary as statistics are in Portland. Avdija is aggressive with the ball, physically in it and plays with his heart. Those habits can become the culture on a young team that will ultimately foster contention.
He could still keep on climbing his ladder. The leap from 16.9 and 3.9 assists in 2024-25 to 24.2 and 6.7 indicates that the new found creation is more than just additional minutes. Whether he will grow into an All-Star every year comes down to avoiding turnovers, being able to break from defenders with pull-up shots and providing reliability in the playoffs.
Analyzing his fit with the current Blazers roster
Earlier discussions about what Portland is to look for at Deandre Ayton and Anfernee Simons are now outdated. Then, the 2026-27 bunch now contains Ja Morant, Damian Lillard, Jrue Holiday, Scoot Henderson, Shaedon Sharpe, and Toumani Camara, and Donovan Clingan should be added as well.
That’s opportunity and tension. The combination of Morant’s rim pressure will be a gamebreaker, and if Lillard is able to come back from the Achilles, he can pose defenses a threat with his shooting. Avdija can be used as a backup secondary initiator, attack mismatches and cover a tough defensive task. Camara and Clingan provide volume and bulk following him.
But, ball placement will be key. Morant, Lillard, Henderson and Avdija are all in need of touches. New coach Micah Nori will have to find a way to build an offense that takes advantage of Avdija’s abilities without it becoming a ‘spot-up’ forward.
The reality check: Portland’s long road to contention
There are no signs of a championship next season. Portland reached the playoffs for the first time since 2021, but were eliminated by the San Antonio Spurs in the first round of the Western Conference playoffs, with Victor Wembanyama’s return from a concussion in Game 4 proving decisive in San Antonio’s series win. That’s good, but not good enough to prove that they are champions.
Blazers still have work to do in the scoring, line-up balance, and postseason experience departments, plus clarity on who they’re going to rely on to be their starting closer. Morant is packed with star quality, and some risk. Lillard is 36 and coming back from a major injury. In the younger core, the prospects are good but not certain.
The rebuilds that generally work the way they’re supposed to go, go through a number of phases: asset building, playoff success, series success, then placing a claim on the title. Although Portland is past the beginning stages, one successful season isn’t going to close the gap between the team and the NBA elite.
The verdict: Can Avdija be a champion in Portland?
Avdija likely will not be the man for Portland to win the title next year. But he can also be the invaluable asset to a future contender. With his shot accuracy back at three-point, the turnovers will come down, his decision-making in the playoffs improves, another All-Star season is possible.
He’s a Portland Trail Blazers development litmus test now. Maybe not the only superstar that brings a trophy, but he can be the multi-faceted cornerstone that makes a real title structure possible.
