Home?

Home is a funny notion. When we're born, it's (at least ostensibly) simple. Our home is where we live, with our parents. As we grow, however, we learn that other people have different concepts of a home--some have more than one, some have none, others have more of an idea than a physical space.

I was once told that you are only an adult when you no longer consider your parents' house your home. Well, I'm 27 (!) and landing in Rochester in grey clouds still feels like home, as does our wonderful house so full of memories, or my synagogue which I could probably draw the blueprints of, but now I've added to that list my apartment in Tel Aviv, and many parts of Israel.

Recently, though, one of my favorite parts of home was on fire. As you may have heard, there was quite the fire in the Carmel, up north from here by about 45 minutes (a huge distance in Israeli terms). Without getting into details, I discovered that the tragic death of a 16 year old boy, who had run to volunteer to put out the fire, was terribly close to my home of Haifa and the people I love there. His parents' home, filled recently with so many sweet memories, must now feel like a foreign nation. That is to say nothing of those who literally lost their houses, containing so many family memories, good times, familiar smells.

A few weeks ago, the boyfriend and I had the great fortune to be in Budapest and Prague. We were struck, not only by the beauty of the cities, but most poignantly, when we bought our tickets for the Jewish sites in Prague. Since the sites were all synagogues, we expected shuls--memories of a lost time, a lost home, indeed, but living organisms, or signs that they once were--full of old rows, a worn-out ark, a nice old man collecting tzedakah, a lecture poorly attended. We found, instead, a museum to a people long since gone. One of the shuls is nothing but a building with names of those murdered in the Shoah on the inside walls, several others, literal museums to a people that once were, like I've seen in Smithsonians.

"Rosh Hashanah was a holiday celebrated by the Jews in such and such a way," proclaimed one sign, while another explained what a Torah is and when it is read. None of this was a monument to a living people, however, but a dead one. It was like an exhibit of the Babylonians, or the Assyrians. We did not see a single synagogue open for use. The Nazis--they didn't just destroy their people, their homes. More than 60 years later, the community appears dead. Their homes, their rituals, their families--but parts of a museum.

While I think a Czech Jew today would feel at an utter loss being in Prague, there's good news. Anyone want to take a guess? That's right: Israel! We have a home! With working shuls, and living Rosh Hashanah, and Torah scrolls not behind any glass, but rather treasured and used regularly, we've built a new place to call our own.

That softened the blow somewhat. But I must admit: I always feel more comfortable in a place knowing there is a Jewish community around. I've been inside shuls all over the world (they're maybe like the Hard Rock Cafe for our family--must go to one in each city), and I've rested better wherever I've traveled, knowing I'm not the only one. A shul makes a place feel almost like home, whether in Paris, Venice, Cape Town, or somewhere else altogether.

And those shells of what was--those memorials to a people long gone--those are not home. In some way, Prague felt deeply familiar, and yet deeply foreign. In any case, returning to Israel even briefly before my trip back to the States was like a warm cup of tea on a cold day. Home, I was, and home for good.

Reflections on One Year as an Israeli

I'm betting you don't remember much about October 7th, 2009. For most people, it wasn't a big day; but for a select few, it was huge, life-altering. I'm thinking here mainly of myself, my parents, and my boyfriend. One year ago today, I became an Israeli. I made aliyah.

That's a funny statement; although my ID card says I'm an Israeli, and I suck down hummus and fresh juice with the best of 'em, most days, I don't feel Israeli. Some phone menus still have me confused (um, in English, too), I caught myself unable to ask for my meat to be ground at the supermarket the other day, and any native-born Israeli can tell from a mile away that I was born in the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

I don't really feel like an American, (or Canadian) either, though; I have no idea who Justin Bieber is, trying to reach my friends to chat is a herculean task, and although I'm still following American politics more closely than most (new tagline: some people follow sports, I root for the Democrats), I'm nothing compared to what I once was.

Identity is a funny thing, and mine shifted in a profound way, a year ago today.

It's been a long, hard year. I'd be lying if I said there weren't a few breakdowns along the way (largely witnessed by the amazing boyfriend referenced above), and if I said I could have done it without your support. The love and warmth, and in more than a few cases visits, of family and friends has been incredible, and I do not think I would be here without all of you.

Although all of this is a challenge, I had an amazing opportunity recently to attend a rock concert of an Israeli star (Shlomo Artzi, for those who are curious). With my boyfriend, and some of his far-beyond-supportive family, I went off to the show. It was a packed night, right after Sukkot (fall harvest holiday) ended, and the show was in an amphitheater.

It was a great show--he's like the Israeli Bruce Springsteen--and a few songs in, one of the attendees (who shall remain nameless as I have not asked permission) turned and remarked on the wonder of the fact that this is all happening in Hebrew. What a wonder; just 100 years ago, it was a dead language, and an empty state, and now here we are. Rocking out, under the stars. At one point, Shlomo Artzi sang a holiday song, sort of the equivalent of "jingle bells" and everyone joined in. But it was our song. In our state. In our language. How different from my past bitterness towards the Christmas carols forever stuck in my head (which, ironically, I now relish).

Later on, he paused to pay tribute to Gilad Shalit, and a silence fell over the crowd of thousands, as we all spent a song wishing and praying that he be returned home soon. Because he's not just some kid from somewhere; he belongs to all of us. I need only think about it for a minute before I, too, am in tears.

And that's when I realize. Maybe I am becoming Israeli. Maybe I always was. Because these songs are my songs, and I too long for Gilad to come home, long to sit in the sun by the side of a highway, to cheer him forward, to celebrate with my fellow citizens. I'm proud to be a part of a country where prayers for a missing soldier come with a rock concert, and where the holiday greeting is for my holiday. I'm proud to be an Israeli.

Despite all the difficulties, I'm glad I'm here. This is a place of meaning, and I'm building a life of meaning. That's not a small thing.

So, I just want to conclude with a thanks to all of you who helped me get here, and make it through this year, coming out with a smile on the other side; you are my teachers, my friends, and of course, my
amazing, amazing, amazing parents. I quite literally could not have done it without you.

Shanah Tovah--reflections for 5771

Note: Due to my massive incompetence at blog keeping, I'm switching back to email. All my emails will be posted here, so if you are wondering about the change in format, that's why. Onto the blog...

Dear friends, family, and those who have taught me that the line between the two is not related to blood,

Shanah tovah from beautiful Tel Aviv (you know, to those of you celebrating)! It's been, as you know, quite a year, with my aliyah being the obvious and major event in my life in the last year. I've been quite atrocious at blog keeping, because it just doesn't feel personal to me in the way it does when I write an email. So from here on out, I'll be emailing. Let me know if you want off the list--no offense taken. Or if you want on. I'll post my emails on the site after.

Tonight, sitting around the Rosh Hashanah table with my boyfriend's family, there was a toast made, a l'chaim. A common feature at many Rosh Hashanah tables, wishes were uttered for the coming year. First among them was peace. And then, a wish that if there was no peace, at least there would be quiet.

And that was when I understood what Time Magazine got wrong in their piece, about which it seems everyone has something to say. In case you missed it, this week's Time Magazine cover story is an article called something like "Why Israelis Don't Care About Peace." The basic thesis, from what I understand, is that we Israelis are too busy worrying about our hip boutiques and beautiful beaches to be concerned about peace. The economy is booming, the wine is flowing, who cares about the Palestinians?

In that one moment, when a glass was raised to the idea of peace, or at least quiet, I understood why Time Magazine thinks we don't care. Caring is painful. A constant reminder that people just a few miles away (Qalqilya is 12 kilometers. That's a bit less than 8 miles.) want us dead is a pretty heavy burden to carry. So we talk about the unbearable heat, the delicious pomegranate, the new job, the upcoming trip. We talk, as you outside of Israel talk, about other things. Time is right--the conflict does not occupy every conversation.

What Time got wrong, though, is the background to this dialogue. While we talk about these things, I'm the only one around the table who hasn't served in the army. Some still serve, bravely and valiantly, I might add. So if we're talking about weather, food, jobs, or travel, it's because it's a distraction, a reminder that the guns and uniforms were put away before the holiday, a reminder that we exist outside of the holiday.

Because the truth is this: we are here for a greater reason. We are here to celebrate Rosh Hashanah in a way we can't outside this place. We're here because it's our home, because it matters. We're not here to fight a conflict. And if there is anything in this world Israelis want, its peace. We're just sick of having a candy we really, really want, dangled in front of us and then taken away, all the time. That's what's going on here--it's the classic case of the boy who cried wolf. We've heard these claims before, that people will bring peace, etc, etc, etc. Putting aside the fact that I personally still believe in President Obama and his vision for the Middle East, Israelis are sick of it. They're sick of hearing that it'll happen, that we could reduce the size of our army, that I can send back the gas mask I just picked up a couple of weeks ago. They're sick of promises. That's a different thing than not caring.

On a different note, sometimes I'm reminded of just how much and why I love this place. Those are good reminders for the days when everything in sight makes me CRAZY. Yesterday, while running around doing all my shopping before the holiday, I was in the shuk (market) and all of a sudden, a six-year old boy exclaimed "shanah tovah!" Someone responded in kind, and everyone continued about their business, buying and selling, always wishing each other a happy and blessed new year. But it stuck me again, in that instant, the beauty of a place where a six year old has no idea there is anything going on other than Rosh Hashanah. Because here, that's what's happening.

Yesterday, I realized, yet again, that my Mum was right. When we would walk out of TBK after Rosh Hashanah services, and the ever-present sponge cake and punch reception, she would exclaim  "don't you feel so lucky to be Jewish? Isn't this just so great?" That's not a knock on any other religion, simply a statement that she was glad to have our own. I agreed with her then, and always have. But perhaps never more so than the day before my first Rosh Hashanah as an Israeli, hearing a child's innocent Hebrew exclamation.

So, shanah tovah to all of you. It's been wonderful to see so many familiar faces over this last year, and with a bona fide guest room now in place, I look forward to welcoming more of you as you find your way here.

Finally, I would be remiss if I did not issue a massive thank you to all of you for your support over this past year. It has been a challenging year at times, but there are no people like my people, and your love has helped me make it through.

Shanah tovah u'metukah--a happy, sweet new year to all of you filled with good health, laughter, and maybe a visit to Israel.

Much love,

Rachel

PS If I'm missing people, I'm sorry. Feel free to forward this message. If you're a friend of my Mum's who gets this from my Mum in addition to me, I'm also sorry. Tell her you're on my list and I'm sure she'll take you off of hers. Everyone is bcc'ed in the interest of privacy.

On the question, "so, how's life in Israel?"

It's been an abnormally long time since I've written (though I suppose when it's only the seventh post ever, there isn't really a "normal" anyway), but I've been mulling around lots of thoughts.

The latest sort of clarified itself this afternoon, when some tourists were clearly lost, and I offered to help them, both a) wanting to be nice and b) hearing Canadian accents (my (other) people!). They asked what I was doing here, and I explained, briefly. Then, of course, they asked how the aliyah process has been.

I answered, at least somewhat truthfully, "some days are better than others," and sort of moved on to the next topic--telling them where to go. It was clear that I didn't tell them what they wanted to hear: that life after aliyah is one falafel eating hora after the next, perhaps followed by a sunset stroll on the beach.

The whole exchange, however, reminded me of what I've been thinking they don't tell you about aliyah: this is HARD.

Much of the time when I'm talking to friends and family in the States or Canada, I gloss over what's hard about being here. When I'm talking to Israelis, I often do, too. It would be hard for people who've never moved country/culture to understand the challenges.

Interestingly enough, other new olim get it--instantly--and often discuss the difficulties of adjusting to life here.

And it's everything: let's take learning a new language, for instance. It's not just about finding a job, or making friends; it's also about the grocery store, understanding the cheeses here (there's no "reduced fat colby jack" in Israel), or at the bank, understanding the jibberish which I can barely manage in English. It's about not wanting your boyfriend's delightful friends to have to speak in a second language just for you, or wanting to understand their conversation, even if you're not privy to years of inside jokes. It's about every single time you go to a cafe and get a menu. In short, it's about everything.

At the risk of sounding truly banal, aliyah is also hard because of what you are losing: I gave up being close to the world's best friends (definitively) and the greatest parents ever (also not up for debate) in favor of a place where I have few people to fall back on, and where all the medicine is in a different language when all I want is some FREAKING PEPTO-BISMOL. It's hard to leave all that's familiar, and it's hard to get used to things where everything is new, and some days, everything feels like a challenge.

Of course, there are some serious silver linings. The people you can lean on are extraordinary, like my host family who took in a stranger four years ago, and now considers me their fourth child, or my boyfriend's family, who automatically set a place for me at shabbat dinner. There's my ulpan family, all undergoing the same challenges I am and the olim I know who are not so new, and have successfully integrated.

And of course, there is the pride of living in the place in which you were meant to live. This is not a small thing. Nor is it a small thing when you can make your way through an automated phone menu in Hebrew, or read apartment listings in Hebrew.

But, truth be told, when you're at the bank trying to do something and you can't remember the right word and you're sweating and it's July, and the woman behind you is screaming at you to hurry up, it's hard to be an idealist.

So the moral of this story is what no one will tell you about making aliyah: it's not all welcome ceremonies or new immigrant discounts. It's hard, getting-used-to-a-new-place work, day in and day out.

I promise a more uplifting post soon, about some of the wonderful things about living here--but I want to be honest, too.

If it's 97% fence...

It's been a long time since I've written, and I apologize. I've been delinquent not for any lack of thoughts, but rather quite the opposite--between Yom Hazikaron (Memorial Day), Yom Ha'atzmaut (Independence Day), and more, there's been a lot to consider. In an effort not to get too lost, though, some thoughts on a trip IDC (my graduate school) organized today, to the security fence. Or BIG BAD WALL, depending on who you ask.

I've known for some time that the barrier is roughly 97% chain link fence, and 3% wall. David Makovsky of the Washington Institute for Near East Policy has a great piece on the fence, downloadable for free at http://www.washingtoninstitute.org/html/pdf/DefensibleFence.pdf.

But it was very interesting to be up close and personal with this barrier, which has caused so much angst. It's all the rage to be opposed to it, now, from here, without cafes blowing up, and more and more restaurants forgoing a security guard. Our leader, however, reminded us of why the fence is in place, and how small this land is.

At one point we were looking at Qalqilya on our right and Kfar Saba on our left. To say that suicide terrorists would walk ten minutes and explode themselves is a literal statement of fact, not an exaggeration. These places are so close to each other, its scary.

The Israelis have made a LOT of mistakes--for instance, the high rises now going up in the midst of where there used to be only Arabs. Sure, they're on our "side" of the Green Line, but they're just going to provoke strife and make it harder to ever come to a peace agreement.

No one, however, deserves to live in fear, and before the fence was in place with its high-tech surveillance systems enabling the IDF to keep us safe without sending patrols in, Israelis did. Innocent people died, because they decided to eat at one cafe instead of the other. And that's not ok.

I'm taking a class on "the democratic dilemma of counter-terrorism." This fence, vs. suicide terror, is the epitome of it all in my mind--with one exception. The fence is not a tough call--its our lives versus their rights, just like every decision, from torture to home demolition. But no people should have to live in fear, and now, thanks to a non-violent, easily-removed fence, we don't have to.

In case you thought we don't need Israel anymore...

When I talked to people in the US about why I chose to make aliyah, there would inevitably be some eye-rolls--not from my amazing, non-Jewish friends, but from my Jewish ones. Why would I choose to pick up and leave a career, just starting out doing what I love, all my friends, my family, and that which is familiar, to live in a desert, monitor my water intake like a heart attack patient monitors fats, learn Hebrew, and probably struggle to find a job?

Some days I wonder myself. I still don't have many of my own friends here, and those I have are mostly leaving at the end of the school year. It's been a little cold recently, but every time I turn on the heat, I feel spoiled. And frankly, getting up and into ulpan 5 days a week by 8:15 can be a major drag.

But then there's a day--or rather a class--like today. In my uplan class, we've each written texts about a city we grew up in, or lived in. Nothing particular--just to practice writing. Our teacher grades them, and then one at a time, we discuss them in front of the class. Needless to say, I wrote about Wegmans, my beloved city of Rochester, and my other city, Washington, DC. I finished my somewhat amusing (a girl can dream, right?) presentation after another classmate, from Amsterdam.

Then it was another classmate's turn; for her sake, we'll call her Sarah (safe Jewish name, right?). Sarah's the oldest person in my class, at about 50, and today during a conversation, she told me that when she came to Israel, she didn't even know the Hebrew letters. Her husband sells classroom supplies, an hour's commute from where they live, and works ten hours each day. I'm not lying to say I was sort of wondering about why she made aliyah. If it was hard for me at 25, I can't even imagine what it would be like later.

But it turns out that unlike me, who ran to something, Sarah ran away. And today, she told us why. Her grandparents moved from Syria to a small town in Turkey (I assume it's small because I've never heard of it, but it could be a huge city, for all I know...), and she is really, really Turkish. As in, she speaks only Turkish, and when she needs to look up a word in a dictionary, she has to use two, because there's no Hebrew-Turkish one.

She told us how in her home city, she remembers one Passover when men with guns circled her house, and it was only by luck that no one was injured. She paused to stop the tears streaming down her cheeks. They went to the local government, but nothing changed, and the threats and shooting of the Jewish community continued. The threats against the community grew to be really unsafe, so they left. Some came to Israel, and some went to Istanbul.

She went to Istanbul, got married, had two children, and a career. Eventually she came to feel unsafe there too, she said, crying again. The government does nothing to protect it's Jewish citizens, and she's not a fearful woman, but the fact that her Prime Minister rails against the Jews continually really upset her.

I'm not an expert on the Jewish community of Turkey. But I know Sarah, and she's not an alarmist; she's a middle-aged woman, who probably would have been perfectly happy not learning another language, taking two different buses to Hebrew class. But she felt unsafe--so unsafe she had to leave. In 2009 (when she came).

I'm not nearly doing justice to her story, but there's a reason that three of the people in my class of 20 are Turkish. And there's a reason they could make aliyah--that they will be able to learn Hebrew, find jobs, and pay rent. And that reason is partly due to the Israeli government (though don't get me started on them...) and partly due to the generosity of the people who read this blog, American Jews who give.

This is not an advertisement for the Jewish federation system--I'm not being paid, and though I used to work for them, I didn't do any of this. But I can tell you that a serious part of why Sarah's in my ulpan class, why she was able to run, and come to a thriving place--it's because of the philanthropy of American Jews, and because of the Federation system.

So if you're one of them, who thinks maybe in 2010, our local federation should leave more money in the local community (I know about the devastating effects of the economic crisis), because really, who needs Israel today, I'd rather go out for dinner or on vacation, I could spend my money somewhere else or any other excuse, I'd ask you to reconsider your gift--or to raise it.

Israel matters for people like Sarah, who have somewhere to run when they have nowhere else where they can simply be. It matters for me, when I chose to live my life in a place where the air is Jewish and Sunday is just another workday. And it matters for you. Because we're all in this together. Because all of us are responsible, one for the other. Because this is your place, if, chas v'chalilah, you ever need it. Israel matters--and we all need it. Because when someone kicks us out of our cities, like they did to Sarah, they have somewhere to go.

On the importance of "mishpucha"

I came to Israel on my own. When I came here for the year after college, that is.

Coming back, on aliyah, for real, I knew I was coming home, in more than just one sense.

Although we have no "blood relatives" in Israel, I was given a host family when I was here for the year--people to spend holidays and weekends with, a place to call my own. Many people in my program enjoyed their host families, but few like I did. We were a match made in heaven--I was young enough to be both a sibling and a playmate to all three kids, and old enough that my host parents felt like friends in addition to parental figures. Even when I was in the States, at least every couple of weeks we would talk--catching up, telling me about dance recitals or birthdays I had missed, and since I've been here, I've loved being a part of all of it (when I can make it to Haifa...).

I always knew the importance of family, but never have I felt it more than in the last 3 months, since I've left my own home, with my amazing parents and brother, and an incredible community. So many olim (people who move to Israel for good) go back home because they just can't do it. This is a HARD process. It still remains to be seen whether I'll succeed myself.

But I can tell you that of all the things that have been hard, having a family here has made each of them easier. I have a place I can go anytime I like, where I'm not a guest to be waited on, but a member of the family. Sometimes the kids are in a bad mood, sometimes I go read a book, sometimes we do nothing at all, and sometimes we go hiking, or something else. They had to meet and approve my boyfriend, and they call me, worried, if I go too long without being in touch. Just like any other family. And coming from far away, with no friends or "family" here, that is invaluable.

It's been three and a half years now since we met--I've watched each child turn into someone new and frankly, delightful. And at my host brother's birthday dinner last night, I again reflected on how lucky I am. Making aliyah for me didn't just mean coming home to Israel, but also to my wonderful family here. It doesn't make it not hard, but it's a whole lot easier.

If Israel wants to know how to make olim feel at home, they need do nothing more than give them host families who will love them, take care of them, and make them feel a part of the family. A rent subsidy or arnona discount doesn't even come close.

Ulpan Begins, and What is Israel's Destiny?

I started Ulpan this morning. For those of you who don't know what that is, it's basically a really intensive Hebrew course (read: five hours per day, five days per week, for five months). It's free to new immigrants, and due to my previous knowledge of Hebrew, I'm in a class with people around the same level (the fourth level, but called level Bet--basically B--go figure).

There are a few interesting things about Ulpan, but the most interesting to me is the variety of places we all come from; my class is entirely new Olim (immigrants) from: the US, Russia, Holland, Ukraine, Brazil, South Africa, Australia, France, Switzerland, and...I'm sure I'm missing some. Everyone made aliyah (immigrated) within the last year and a half.

It's exactly the vision those first Zionists had. Here we all are, most, if not all of us, there actively, of our own choosing, not running away from anything. We're choosing to build a new society, one of our own making, a Jewish state.

It's also amazing to think of all those who came before us, to these same classrooms (Ulpan classrooms all basically look the same--sparse, maps from the 70's, etc), and if not the same rooms, needing the same knowledge--pioneers in the early days of the state, from everywhere, Jews from every country you could imagine--who came by choice, and not by choice.

Jews who had nowhere else to run, and so they ran here--from Syria, Iraq, Morocco, Russia, Argentina, Uruguay. It also makes you think of the blessing of this place; there are still some Jewish communities where things are tenuous at best; there are 25,000 Jews still in Iran, and life is not great in France from what we're hearing.

Those are bad situations, but what a difference from what was the case, oh, 65 years ago. I came here of my own choosing--but what would have happened if I didn't have that choice? We know the answer to that question, which is what makes the preservation of this place all the more interesting.

And it also makes you (or at least me) ask what the essence of this place is--what is it supposed to be? A great example (and by great, I mean incredibly complex) of that question is what we do about African refugees pouring into Israel (at least one of whom was at the same Ulpan placement test as me--hence the somewhat dubious connection). They're coming here because they literally have nowhere else to run, and as a people that's been running for a long time, we Jews should get that, and offer them refuge.

On the other hand, particularly when the conflict in Darfur was particularly bad, they were attempting to pour into Israel--in numbers that would have left Israel unable to help them or its own citizens. We had an obligation to help them, but we're dealing with our own problems too, and fundamentally, this is a Jewish state, right? Not an African Muslim one? So what do you do with African Muslims who are risking their lives to get here? What do you do with their children? We cannot ethically send them back to a place where we know they will be killed--we blame those who did that to our people during the Shoah--but there's a limit to what we can do for them here. It sounds like a flimsy excuse, but there is no state in the world that can offer shelter to millions without changing its identity. What does that mean for a state whose identity is the reason for its existence?

As per usual in my life, I've got no answers but lots of questions. I'd love your thoughts, here's an article on the topic from US News and one from Haaretz, as well as one from Slate for those of you who are interested. (Look at my linking skills!)

Finally, thanks for your comments (both made publicly and to my email). They are fascinating, and I am glad someone other than my Mum is reading this (though yay, Mum!). Happy 2010 to you all--may this new year fill us with intriguing questions, and at least a few answers...