The Big Transition...

Israeli Independence Day by all means trumped Purim on the scale of out of control celebration throughout the country. Although I only saw the excitement and festivities in Tel Aviv, I spoke to friends in various locations who said the same. Streets were blocked off, fireworks lit up the sky, people sprayed foam on one another at a rally at Rabin Square, and it was nearly impossible to hail a taxi because everyone hustled and bustled to and from. The Big Transition that I anticipated really happened and the logic began to make sense. While I wondered how people could switch from mourning loved ones to partying, I see it. These people died fighting for Israel’s independence. We were honoring what they died for.

Palestinians call Israeli Independence Day “The Nachba,” The Tragedy, but millions of Jewish Israelis and tourists danced their way through the streets last night wrapped in Israeli flags, and filled bars all over the city celebrating Israel’s 60^th birthday. We also celebrated Nikki’s birthday on the same night with a large gathering at Academia on Montefiore. I finally had an occasion to wear my white and blue print bubble skirt with pride. People inevitably partied throughout the night, and woke up just in time to pack up goods to barbeque outside.

Since we weren’t allowed to grill on the beach, we setup camp on a park by the Hilton just above the beach. Our skewers, salads and pita looked wimpy and amateur compared to the elaborate smorgasbords that filled the blankets and grills around us. These people have transportable grilling down to a T! Smells of gourmet burgers, spreads and fresh breads filled the park and put us to shame, but we enjoyed the sunshine and our first experience joining the masses of people “making fire” (grilling) on Independence Day as it is The Thing To Do.

Again the sidewalks spilled over with people coming to and from the beach, parents taking kids to get ice cream, or passersby just enjoying the lovely day. Something special really circulated in the air. Police blocked off the streets that lead to the beach, and I’m guessing that was more for safety precautions than to prevent traffic jams... Knock on wood, so far so good.

The Siren Rang, Life Paused

Apparently, in about half an hour I will experience The Big Transition. At sundown Israel will shift from enduring the saddest day of the year in Israel to celebrating the happiest in approximately one minute. Israelis and tourists alike will go from mourning the death of thousands upon thousands of fallen soldiers and hundreds of victims of terror attacks to celebrating Israel’s 60^th birthday in a matter of seconds. The talk on the streets revolves around The Big Miracle: that Israel has existed for 60 years while surrounded by millions of neighbors who wish that she didn’t. One Hell of a miracle? Or many little miracles… plus a lot of planning… many tragedies… and years of sacrifice by the generations before me?

This morning I went with the Duvdevani family to Har Herzl, the military cemetery in Jerusalem for a Memorial service and to pay respect to her grandfather, her friends, and fellow soldiers who died in war or on missions. It was on honor to be with Michal and her family which is so entrenched in and emotionally connected to the IDF. When I first entered the cemetery, if I didn’t know better, it might have seemed a bit like a celebration because masses of people clogged the walkways and crowded the gravestones. Although all of the radio stations played sad war songs and TV stations aired documentaries on soldiers, victims and their families to observe the day, people were reuniting after periods of time apart. I guess they are making good of something so awful. Thousands of soldiers in uniform came to honor friends and represent their units. Family and friends came to grounds to put down rocks and flowers, say prayers and remember their loved ones. Israeli Scouts and youth volunteers stationed themselves throughout the cemetery armed with thousands of bottles of water to dispense to mourners from near and far.

Just before the two minute siren and screeching halt of life, Michal’s father recounted the mystery of his father’s life and disappearance at the time of the War of Independence. He told the story of his father, Moshe Duvdevani, whose whereabouts were unknown for 50 years. Moshe was wounded in 1948 during the Battle of Latrun in both legs, but when a fellow soldier tried to carry him out Moshe, as an officer, threatened the man and ordered the soldier to leave him behind. After retrieving all the injured on the field, he was kidnapped by the Jordanian legion. This is possibly linked to the fact that this battle was the first to be fought in uniform and his markings as an officer made him a desirable goal to obtain information. Yehuda, Michal’s father, grew up anticipating the day that his father would be returned, but in 1998 intelligence pieced it together that Moshe’s body was buried in the military cemetery in Tel Aviv. He has since been properly buried in Har Herzl with other soldiers from the Battle of Latrun.

While hearing Yehuda tell his story was moving, the most powerful part was the twist that I knew was coming... Any good teacher or speaker who tells about an experience ties it in to a big picture or lesson. Right? Why is it important? What can we learn from it? Well Yehuda linked it directly to the group of Americans visiting the cemetery standing before him. To Yehuda, these students were living out Moshe’s dream, and the cause for which he died, by supporting Israel and the Jewish people. Overwhelmed by the same question that’s been looming overhead since August I put myself in the moment of Yom HaZicharon 2008 in Har Herzl: What am I doing here?

While on the one hand I feel more myself in Tel Aviv than anywhere else and completely a part of the Israeli people, this day reminded me of what I see as the largest barrier between me and Israelis. I did not serve in the IDF. I didn’t lose childhood friends or siblings in war. I never sat anxiously awaiting loved ones return from a special mission. Although my little brother and a few good friends of mine are in the American Army and I do know what it feels like to wonder if loved ones are in danger or safe… I still feel this barrier. In the meantime I’ll continue to ask all the questions I can and understand where people are coming from.

The siren rang, life paused, a ceremony consisting of speeches by important people ensued, and everyone on Har Herzl sang Hatikvah together. Chills enveloped my body like never before during Hatikvah did yesterday morning. The anthem took on a whole new meaning on Har Herzl.

So, The Big Switch from the saddest to the happiest moment in Israel is creeping up… I’m off to prepare!

A Week of Mourning

This past week has been a heavy week on Israel’s shoulders. In a matter of seven days Israel honors Yom Hashoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day), Yom HaZicharon (Memorial Day), and Yom Ha’atzmaut (Independence Day).

Since August I’ve had Israelis and Americans alike telling me how special it will be to be here in Israel during this time. In August all the rage was to talk about how special it feels during the High Holidays, but once they passed the anticipation for May began.

Last Thursday we paid tribute to the Holocaust. Wednesday evening everything shut down. All restaurants, shops and stores are mandated by law to shut down that evening, and the day of remembrance was marked by a minute long siren that rings throughout the country. Even soldiers training in the middle of the desert can hear this dull gnawing sound. The following morning stores operated as normal, but at 10am a two minute long siren rang and everything stopped for a moment of silence.

It was the most true moment of silence I’ve ever experience. People stopped walking on the sidewalk and cars pulled over on the side of the road so that passengers could climb out and join everyone else. For that two minute period everything ceased to exist. It felt like I was in a movie that paused the present. As if that is actually possible. As the siren ends, it fades slowly and gnaws a little bit more. As silence approached people began to reactivate and return to normality. Such a bizarre sensation. Very Big Brother like.

Almost all television programming revolved around World War II and the Holocaust, and most radio stations played music to match the tone of the day. It definitely drew attention to a strong connection between the catastrophe of the Holocaust and the creation of the state of Israel and made it very poignant how the aftermath strongly affects the identity of Israelis.

Fast forward to yesterday… the eve of Israel’s Memorial Day, which could not be more different from Memorial Day Stateside: a long weekend and excuse to pack coolers and hit the beach. Here, the entire country goes into mourning. By entire country, I obviously mean all Israelis who support Israel… Traditionally it has been a day dedicated to all soldiers who have fallen during wars or attacks, but in recent years it has added another category of people: victims of acts of terror.

Last night was also marked by a minute long siren which caught me on my way to Rabin Square for a Memorial Service. Again everything stopped. I continued my walk and accidentally (honestly) slipped into a VIP section of seating for the ceremony and waited for the flames to light all around the stage. It was an evening of singers, instruments, words by family members, and mourning. After that I trained out to Modiin to experience today with Michal’s family, my family away from home. I feel lucky to have spent the day with the Duvdevani family, a family deeply passionate about the Israeli Defense Forces and the existence of Israel. Hearing Michal’s father tell the story of her grandfather firsthand in front of his grave helped me tie together a few more loose ends regarding where Israelis are coming from. Especially Michal.

Survival

Whenever something goes really wrong with a reservation or service, it is frequently too easy to shrug it off and say “Well, it is Israel…” For example when Anne’s family, like my family, had complications with the car rental agency, Anne’s natural response to her parents was, “Well, now you have seen the real Israel.”

Similarly, when something really strange happens, or we see someone doing something really strange, we also attribute the occurrence to the fact that we are in Israel. For better or for worse, it helps me take things with a grain of salt when I put it on Israel’s tab.

Example? Last Saturday I was reading on the beach with Lauren and Anne when a French film crew set up shop merely a few meters from us down the beach to conduct and interview with someone seemingly important. That in itself is not so strange. A few moments later a man with long curly hair sat beside us who’s entrance was a line asking us if we have ever seen the Israeli Survivor TV show. After we told him that, indeed, we have never seen an episode he proceeded to tell us that he was the first contender eliminated but the show was “fixed”.

…Of course he would have won the competition had there been no politics involved because he was the most fit for the competition blah blah blah. Of course. He then turned to Anne and asked her, quite sincerely and with a thick Israeli accent, “Anne, can I survival you?” I don’t think he realized the grammatical mistake he made, but everything about this exchange made me burst into laughter. And it continues…

Moments later one of the many people who walk up and down the beach with a cooler strapped to their chest yelling “Vanilla, chocolate, limone…” to sell their delicious ice cream loot they carry all day comes and sits with the three of us plus The Survivor. What? We don’t know him. Finally Lauren sits up, looks around, and asks the question running through all of our minds: Are we on TV right now? What is going on? Of course I bust into more raging cackling laughter, we pack up our bags and call it a day. Only in Tel Aviv.

Anne's Womanhood

Passover vacation began on an upbeat with Anne’s Bat Mitzvah. People gave us funny looks when we out that night celebrating Anne’s entrance to womanhood as if to say, “She’s 13?” Nevertheless Anne, who didn’t have a Bat Mitzvah during the lovely years of middle school, read beautifully from the Torah in front of the southern wall in Jerusalem last Thursday. Her mom, dad and grandmother planned to visit during our vacation, so they were able to celebrate and say a few words as well. Their speeches, I must admit, were much funnier than I remember parents’ speeches when we were 13.

While I am not usually very moved by prayer or services, something in particular struck me about this service: the entire service was conducted and led by our friends, people our age. The “congregation,” so to speak, consisted of 30 or so 20 something year olds, the Otzma staff, and Anne’s family. Jenny conducted, and we all stepped up to lead various prayers in English and Hebrew. It was by no means a perfectly rehearsed flawless performance, but it was our effort at keeping tradition alive without the help of professionally trained leaders. I find something very special in seeing my friends read from the Torah at our age because our moms and dads aren’t “making” us at this point; it’s because we want to.

We celebrated over lunch at a themed restaurant in the Cardo where we all wore costumes of robes and togas and blew the shofar. And again that night at Rusty James, a fun dance bar tucked under the bridge where HaYarkon meets Ben Gurion.

Welcome to Tel Aviv

Passover vacation has arrived, and as excited as I am to have little obligation other than sleeping in, playing on the beach, and enjoying Tel Aviv, I am a bit panicked that it is already the end of April. Seriously?

In just a few weeks I will be on a plane back to the States for a short visit home before staffing a Birthright trip at the end of May and coming back to Israel for an open-ended period of time. Conveniently I will be able to attend Miss. Julia Buckner’s wedding in Cape Cod and I could not possibly be more excited. I feel like I should use an exclamation point at the end of that sentence to express my excitement, but it feels too forced. You probably get the gist…

Now for a bit about my time in Tel Aviv. We moved in to our apartments at the beginning of April and it was already hot. Perhaps unseasonably hot. Our living arrangement is by far the nicest accommodations that I have had, and that says a lot. We are three ladies living in what is essentially a low star hotel. Anne and I live in one bedroom and Serena lives on the pull out couch in the common room which doubles as a “kitchen”. Our kitchen is a four foot long counter with a sink and a transportable stove burner. One burner. No worries, it is more than sufficient. We live on the northern end of Ben Yehuda in an adorable and safe neighborhood. Our street is dotted with comfortable cafes, sushi restaurants, art galleries, ice cream shops, and five minute walk to the beach. Also the gym I joined, Pure gym, is not more than four long blocks south of our residence.

I love this gym. The people who workout at Pure are insanely fit and I’m slightly intimidated, but it is inspiring and pushes me to work hard. There are DJs on the cardio floor and even a DJ for my kickboxing class. By the way, kickboxing class has an entirely new added element knowing that the teacher was a badass (for lack of better word) fighting soldier in the Israeli Army. Not that I asked him what he did in the army… I’d rather just think that way.

I spend my time interning at Save a Child’s Heart, a magnificent organization which brings children from all over the world to Wolfson hospital in Holon for various surgeries and care to treat congenital heart conditions. The office is attached to a large house in Azur where the children reside before treatment and while recuperating. The children come from literally all over the world. From Vietnam, Ukraine, Eritrea and the Palestinian territories just to name a few places. Because of the large financial burden and lack of space, not every child’s mother comes along. As a result, mothers take responsibility for several children from their respective countries. For example, if four children come from Kenya, one mother might cook, clean, and care for all four of these children for weeks or months until they are all ready to return home together. That said, people from around the globe live together in this very house in close quarters simultaneously.

A few days ago I was in the house playing a revised version of soccer with a few little boys. One little one from Iraq, one from Kenya and one from Zanzibar. With no common language amongst us we played until exhaustion and boredom was written on their little faces. The child from Iraq just ran around yelling “One, two, three, four, five,” in random outbursts, the child from Kenya was sporadically yelling “balagan” which is Hebrew for big mess. The whole time I was trying to teach the kids not to use their hands while playing soccer by holding my hands behind my back and saying outloud, “No hands.” It is unclear to me if they understood, but it resulted in the little Iraqi child yelling the following stream repetitively: Balagan! One, two, three, four, five! No hands!” These children might be the model for us to follow to learn how to coexist and learn together…

In terms of Israeli non-profits, I hope this organization receives the most publicity possible. Out of the 1848 children who have received care since SACHs beginning in 1996, 828 of the children have been from Palestinian territories. Considering that the next highest receiving country is Ethiopia which accounts for 345 children since SACHs inception. Clearly, I would recommend anyone who is looking for causes to donate money to donate to SACH. Or to get involved in any way possible whether by raising awareness or organizing a fundraiser.

SACH right now has an international photo exhibit in circulation which can be transported to any location interested in hosting it. For more information click on the “From Art to Heart” emblem from the mainpage (saveachildsheart.com).

More to come later…

Gabby's Visit.

Gabby emailed a few weeks ago telling me that she was coming to visit me in Israel. Truthfully, I didn’t really believe her until emailed me her flight itinerary. Actually I held my breath until I saw her walk through the arrivals gate at Tel Aviv airport. The fact that news broke out on the shooting in Jerusalem just before her parents drove her to Newark airport didn’t give me any boosts of faith. It’s easy for me to say that I feel very safe walking around the streets in Israel, but another for someone who has never been here before to understand that feeling.
So she landed. Shortly after, her distant (very distant) relatives who live in Lod picked us up at the airport and drove us to our destination: a lovely beachfront apartment in Tel Aviv with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Mediterranean. (Thank you Ora and Moshe.) I must admit that I did not realize how meager my housing in Haifa is until I spent many nights in luxurious, civilized habitation. I guess one just adjusts.

Gabby came along on an Otzma fieldtrip during which we learned about the life of minorities in the north. She was a trooper as I threw her to the wolves- into a pack of 45 Americans with extremely strong personalities. We hiked outside of Haifa, visited a Druz village called Dalyat AlKarmel, stayed on a rundown Kibbutz, visited a yeshuv settled amidst Arab village neighbors, and even met with college students in an Arab village called Sachnin. I have never felt as unwanted and out of place as I did in Sachnin. We met with a group female students under the auspices that we would ask any questions we wanted about what it’s like to live as minorities (Arabs) in a Jewish country. I guess I was expecting a little bit of fluff and a shared dream of peace in these tension-stricken boundaries. Speaking euphemistically, my expectations were not met. In short, in their opinion, they want their land back and they want the Jews out. Not only do they want the Jews out, but they couldn’t care less where they go or what happens to them/us. I could write an entire blog on this two hour experience, but suffice it to say that it was not an uplifting conversation.

After subjecting her to a few nights in Haifa so that I could volunteer, we ended the week with a few more nights in sacred Tel Aviv in true vacation form: relaxing on the beach, drinking coffee… on the beach, shopping in adorable boutiques on Diezengoff and Shenkin Street, laughing myself horse, and dancing until we stumbled home with aching feet in consequence for wearing high heels. Have I mentioned my excitement to move there in a few weeks?

Gabby’s visit was magnificent on several accounts. Firstly, it was special to play hostess on her first trip to Israel. I clearly talk about how much I love being here all the time and I could finally exhale when she said that she loves it here, too. It was exciting to show a close friend from home the life I have built for myself here. It reminded me of when Rob came to visit me in Charlottesville and I got to show him the little niche I carved for myself. Most importantly, it can never be overstated how refreshing it is to spend time with old friends who mean the world to me. To not feel the need to explain myself, to have the ability to reference something from five years ago, and to be with someone other than my mom or dad who might have insight into my future endeavors.

I have been a little bit blue (understatement) since Gabby left, and I feel more assured than ever that going home for Julia’s wedding in May is the right decision. I wouldn’t miss it for the world and I cannot wait to spend time the three of us together.

I also am quite sure that I will spend the summer in Israel- preferably working in Tel Aviv. Any ideas or suggestions are, of course, welcome.