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.