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.
