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.

My Visit State-Side and Back

After hearing that my little brother’s deployment was set for the beginning of March to Djibouti for fifteen months, Mom and I decided I should jump on a plane for a quick visit with the family. After going one and a half year’s without seeing him between basic training and serving in Korea, I couldn’t fathom feeling that way again knowing that I could prevent it. Coincidentally Mom had also planned a surprise birthday party for Dad’s 65th and the whole family planned to come to Charlotte to celebrate. So, off I went: home to America. Seeing how surprised and happy Dad was to have all five of us together made the stress and cost of the flight seem trivial and well worth it. I knew from the greeting at the airport between Howie, Philip, Mom, Dad, and Melanie (my cousin) that we were all in for an excellent weekend. As expected, the week revolved around meals and quality family time. Lunches ran until dinner time, and we dwelled at brunches until it was time for lunch. But good company is good company and I really lucked out in seeing aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends from near and far. I spent my days at home like always… trips to the gym and Harris Teeter. I spent lots of time throwing the tennis ball for Chloe, wrestling with Philip, and finally meeting Howie’s dog, Nacho. Noah and I made interview movie clips about inaccuracies of Sponge Bob; he is, after all, an invertebrate. Elizabeth, Mel and I had cousin slumber parties. Mom, Dad, and I lingered at the dinner table for hours. I even got to see the Barons. It felt frighteningly normal and totally weird all at the same time to be home; to drive myself around Charlotte and to realize that while on the one hand everyone and everything has moved forward and moved on… not much has changed. Friends who I treasure from childhood came home for the weekend and were graciously patient to see me amidst my family’s hectic schedule and it felt as if we haven’t missed a beat. I’m learning that that’s what true friendship means.

Even during all four years of college, I was able to celebrate Dad’s birthday (and mine) with my family because either they drove to Chapel Hill or I jumped home for a weekend. The same when I lived in Charlottesville. I guess I am lucky that it worked out such that even an ocean and a continent or so couldn’t stop us.

The trip home was a treasure and it was painful to say “see you later” to my family all over again. My dad always reminds me that if I didn’t miss our family… it wouldn’t speak very well on there behalf. That said I am really excited to be back in Israel. I am excited to return to my volunteer work, to my below poverty level housing with a stunning view of the Bahai Gardens, and obviously to the beach.

Today, however, has been a bit of a hard day. I know it’s understandable to have them from time to time. Between the incident in Chapel Hill and the shooting in Jerusalem, my stomach muscles just won’t relax. Moments like this make me miss home the most. A lot. As lovely as the people are around me… they are not my parents or siblings. They aren’t my lifetime friends. Yet, anyhow. I know the UNC community is distraught about the loss of Eve Carson, and I wonder what Israel will be like after tonight’s occurrence. On the one hand I feel like Israelis are unfortunately quasi accustomed to happenings like this one, but I think this was more symbolic of a greater picture as tensions in the south have escalated rapidly. I’m going on a run and hope to feel a bit better…

What are we fighting for?

A few days ago Otzma hosted an educational day for us called "Aliyah Day." Allegedly we were going to learn about the waves of immigration over the past few generations, and we were told that moving to Israel would not be shoved down our throat. Well... instead we spent hours upon hours listening to people tell us why they moved to Israel, why we should move to Israel, and how to do so. I was put off quite a bit and unfairly shut out most of the speakers as I ventured into Lala Land. At least I'm honest?

Every few minutes I took something in. I listened to a bit of what this woman who reps an organization who helps "Anglos" build their lives in Israel had to say . Never in my life has the term "Anglo" applied to me living in the states, but I guess in the Middle East things differ. Anyhow, she discussed reasons why people move to Israel in terms of push and pull factors. She explained that many new immigrants who move to Israel move here because of push factors. Either because of discrimination in their homeland or perhaps life there is just bad for everyone. Thus, these factors push immigrants to find a "better" life for themselves in Israel. However, she explained, that most Americans, and English speakers in general, move to Israel because of a pull: an emotional, spiritual or political calling to live here. As she sees it, and as it probably is, life is more comfortable in our countries. Or perhaps it is easier to make a comfortable life for one's self. She made light of it, but put it in perspective by saying that some community centers help immigrants from Ethiopia or the former USSR earn their bread and coffee... this organization helps Anglos find their neighborhood cafe to pick up a mochaccino. In other words, they help us find the luxury and comfort to which we are accustomed. Apparently, out of all of the nationalities of people who move to Israel, Americans have the highest percentage of returning to their country of origin. Maybe because the pull wears off. Maybe because it is hard to find work that makes the same amount of money that one can make in the states. Because it is hard to be so far away from family... the list goes on. Food for thought.

The following morning I went with Michal to a memorial ceremony commemorating the death of Amir, one of Michal's high school friends who fell during war. Unfortunately for Michal, and most other Israelis our age, she has had many friends from high school or her military service pass away while serving in the Israeli Defense Forces. Car after car arrived, and people poured into the cemetery to remember Amir. Friends of his from school, from the army, family friends, and current soldiers sent by the military itself. Now, my Hebrew may not be perfect, but I didn't need to understand a word of Hebrew to feel the pain of his parents and his friends who spoke, read, or led prayer. While watching and listening as best as I could I couldn't help but focus on the fact that I have never been to a funeral of someone who was killed by another person. Cancer, car accidents, sudden heart conditions... yes. But someone who was murdered? In America when someone's child dies we think of the pity that a parent must bury a child, but in Israel politicians preach about the day that parents will stop burying their children... and children will start burying their parents.

I had another one of my moments wondering what I am doing here. Am I lucky that I wasn't born here? That my friends and I didn't all have to serve in the military? Do I think it is crazy or admirable that my little brother and closest friends voluntarily serves in the American army? Philip, Rob, Juls and Warren... I find it most admirable and I respect you more than I could ever tell you. I looked at the attendants and wondered how many fallen soldiers each of them knew. How many of their friends or siblings died fighting for this country.

I thought about the mourner's kaddish itself; the prayer recognizing those who have died by recognizing life itself. It's one of the first Hebrew prayers that I memorized by heart- possibly before I was even capable of reading Hebrew. Why? Because I remember that being the one prayer that Dad always said in honor of his parents at the end of services. I remember him choking up, which he still does (sorry, Dad), and hurting because my dad was hurting and remembering those that he loved. To this day, any time I am in any type of service I recite the mourner's kaddish. Even if I'm not honoring someone's yartzheit. Even if I'm a woman, and therefor not supposed to recite it, I recite it in honor of my grandparents, relatives, friends, and those who have no one reciting it for them.

So the ceremony continued. His friend spoke about the current situation in Israel and how Amir, as an upright good-hearted person, would not sit back and watch, but would fight to make things better. He said that Amir didn't fight and die so that the situation would be as it is. He died to make it better for others. Fortunately I had a car ride to digest with Michal...

After we agreed that extremism in any matter is dangerous, she admitted that she holds an extreme stance on one thing: Michal will never leave Israel. Why? Because if she leaves Israel then everyone who died fighting for this country's death is in vein. So many people fought for this land, how could she just turn her back- be it for love? for a better job? for a change? She is not staying in Israel for religious purposes (such as people who stay because they believe that Gd gave this land to the Jewish people), not because of political purposes... but because thousands of years ago people go married on this land in the same manner that Jewish people get married on this land today. We write the same kitubahs (contracts), stand under chuppahs, and stand for some of the same values as the Jews who lived here many generations ago.

I'm really not drawing any conclusions here... or making any statement in particular. Rather I'm presenting food for thought and saying out loud how grateful I am to have the opportunity to be here right now. To have the experiences that put me in agonizing emotional turmoil, expose me to things I'd rather not think about, to dance like no one's watching, to struggle at the market with a foreign language, to be invited into random families' homes for Shabbat dinner, and even to live in a run down absorption center with people who come from all over the world.

Bright Sunshiny Days...

Since the sun came out and the horizontal rain and hail that stung my skin because the wind was whipping so hard, life is looking up in Haifa. The 'hood doesn't seem quite as terrible when the sun shines and I am finding alone time outside... Usually while I study Hebrew on the beach. The whole concept of such warmth in February is brilliant, in my opinion, but I think Israelis are a bit perplexed. Today it must be around 65 or 70 degrees so I walked out of my apartment in yoga pants and a tank top. When I stopped at a kiosk to pick up a bottle of water I received the most appalling looks and was accosted by the clerk who told me that I must be cold. Now, I'm pretty sure that someone cannot tell me that I am cold, but that's neither here nor there. Everyone on the beach right now is in a winter coat as I prance around in gear for late spring. I'm not sure if it is because compared my winters at home this is so warm or people here think that just because it is February one must be dressed for winter. Either way, things are looking up.
Last Shabbat I spent the evening with my friend and treasure Amir, one of the warmest hearts and loving people I have met. He took me to his family's house for Shabbat dinner, my first Moroccan familial experience which entailed lots of food, and lots and lots of love. The intense adoration around the dinner table reminded me so much of home that I couldn't figure out if I felt a twinge of homesickness or just extreme happiness for them and to be a part of it. His aunt placed plate after plate of food in front of me, which I later found out was because Amir kept secretly telling her to bring me the next round. I instantly felt at home with his family and found myself cackling (you might know what I'm talking about) within minutes and had his family rolling in tears at my boisterous laugh. Danielle, his little sister who spoke to me in only Hebrew, told me about all of the pets she has and we bonded as fellow animal lovers. She also tried to convince me that she knows some English because she can sing a song or two from the radio. I hope that I offer a tidbit of the warmth and comfort that Amir's family offered me when I interact with people who need it.
The same weekend, Otzmanikim came from all over the country to spend the weekend with us in Haifa. People filled both the boys' and the girls' apartments and slept everywhere... doubled up in beds, on the floor... everywhere. It was the best slumber party I've been to/hosted in quite a while. A Shabbat full of good company, good stories and games. Saturday afternoon we cut up kilo upon kilo of fresh veggies, sliced fresh pita, packed salads, melons and rugelah and spent the day picnicking on the beach. Relaxing, rejuvenating ourselves and enjoying good company.

Bridging the Gap/Furthering the Gap?

Picture 45 overenthusiastic American twenty-something year olds intertwined with 70 more than overenthusiastic Israeli twenty something year olds in a dining hall banging on tables, clinking their glasses with spoons, climbing on seats and chanting at the top of their lungs. To some people this might sound like a huge balagan (chaos), but to some this scene might be easily recognizable just by my description. Yes, this is a description of previous campers chanting the birkat hamazon, the prayer after a meal. It’s arguably an inappropriate way to say a prayer… but an accurate description of the tradition at many camps and a tradition that hits close to home for thousands and thousands of Jewish Americans who attended summer camp or youth group conventions. Apparently it is a tradition familiar to many Israelis who travel to the US to work at sleep away camps for the summer. I cannot begin to explain to anyone what a special treat it was to meet Israelis who have this special secret incite into the lives of campers from all over the country: to have experienced the euphoria and elation created within, and only within, camp gates.

Although I was there just a few months ago, I forgot about the magic of camp until this past Friday night when Otzma spent Shabbat with 70 or so Israelis who spent last summer working at American sleep away camps, and plan to return this year. This Shabbat had something magical about it- the memories and the energy of camp. The silly competitions at meals, song circles around a guitar, and making new friends. The fun, however, came in tandem with heavy conversations regarding topics such as life decisions, Jewish identity, and -of course- politics.

On the one hand some such topics showed me that despite so many obvious differences and a great distance between us, we (Israelis and Americans) are just alike. On the other hand many responses and comments made me feel completely estranged and far away from Israelis seemingly just like me. To the point that it made me doubt what I am doing and why I am spending a year here at all. Some of these comments were made out of heated moments or ignorance, but even acknowledging that fact I couldn’t help feeling pushed away.

Multiple times per day I think about what I will do when the program ends in June. Will I return to the states? Am I ready to go back to school? What type of job should I look for if not school? (Suggestions are welcome here.) Frequently I feel guilty thinking about returning to America. Why did I have the luxury (as I see it) of being born in America? Do I have a duty to move to Israel? Will I be more fulfilled or happy if I stay here? What will my contribution be on either continent? I can’t tell if spending time with my Israeli peers made it seem like a more viable option, or pushed me to let my return flight home in June stay as it stands.

Swim lessons = life lessons

(The community center where I work with new immigrants is pictured above on a freezing rainy day!)

I thought volunteering on the pediatric oncology floor was emotionally challenging, and it is. But today I stepped out of my comfort zone a bit further and experienced more heartache than I have in a good while.

This morning I went to teach swim lessons at the Leo Beck Community Center, where I teach twice a week to children or considered both “regular” and “special”. On Tuesdays some of our classes have “special” children with relatively mild physical or mental handicaps. Thursday mornings, apparently, are reserved for children with extreme debilitative disorders. Most of these children cannot speak, move on their own, or communicate for that matter.

This morning I held Ronnie, a nine year old boy the size of a one year old baby, whose legs and arms are essentially permanently tucked into fetal position, ribs are deformed and jut out of his tiny torso, and (according to the teacher) might not live much longer. The hour dedicated to these children is considered hydrotherapy. For example, the goal with Ronnie is to try to help him have any movement in his legs and arms. I was horrified to snap a little limb of his and sick to my stomach with fear holding such a life in my arms. On occasion he seemingly used all the strength he could muster to bend his head down peering straight down into the water. Other times, the closest thing I sensed in the vein of communication, he completely relaxed his neck resting the back of his head on my arm as I circled the pool carrying him along on his beck.

The terrifying climax occurred when a more mobile girl, Hadar, jumped and splashed us which I guess caused Ronnie to swallow a tad of water. I have never seen such a violent attempt at heaving. His tiny little body flexed and his arms even extended by his own volition. It is amazing how the body responds and expelled the water from his system before he relaxed and floated along some more.

I was so far out of my comfort zone and spent most of the time thinking about what the families of these children must experience. All the time, love, emotions, struggles, doctor’s appointments, special care etc… What must it be like? It almost kept me from realizing that spending one hour in the water might very well be the highlight of many of these children’s day. This morning presented me with many theological, philosophical, medical and ethical questions. Not questions I feel like exploring in a public forum, but surely one could imagine what they might be. I do not know how politically correct my words and thoughts above are, so please do not be offended...

First Thoughts on Haifa...

I feel a bit uprooted since arriving in Haifa. I guess, despite the fact that most people choke thinking about the idea of living in Beer Sheva, I made this city in the middle of the desert my home. I took advantage of the fact that I knew the names of the cashiers at the supermarket, I recognized the people walking their dogs in our neighborhood, and bumped into the same faces time and again while exploring the university area’s nightlife.

From my understanding the numbers in Haifa and Beer Sheva are close- both around 200,000 people- but Haifa feels much bigger, much more spread out, and much more intimidating to conquer and learn. Not to mention much more intriguing in itself. After all, Haifa has mountains and the sea, the shrine of the Bahai religion, Christians/Moslem Arabs/Jews living intertwined with another, culture, and restaurants devoted solely to the art of sushi. A US Navy ship even greeted us kindly in Haifa's harbor upon our arrival (pictured above). Our "three bedroom flat" they gave us is remarkably better than the decrepit rooms we expected. I might have even used the word "amazing" to describe it to my friends living in other cities. I might have been grossly over-exagerating by using the word "amazing" but it's all relative. Besides, it's a short walk from the bottom of the Bahai Gardens (pictured below) and location is everything, right? I clearly look forward to all of the opportunities Haifa holds before me.

I spent my first day volunteering at the Meyer Children’s Hospital (part of Ram Bam Hospital) of Haifa. Spending a few hours in the oncology department sent me on a rollercoaster of emotions and exposed me to conversations I can’t imagine being accessible under any other circumstances. The oncology department has two floors due to construction. The two floors, one for outpatient treatment and one for overnight patients, have their own area designated for teaching space, games and arts and crafts. Obviously I endured conflicting emotions processing sadness and pain being with children fighting sickness and the pleasure I received from making these same children laugh or helping them complete an art project.

Day one: I volunteered on the outpatient floor where I did not interact with a single Jewish child. Not by choice, but because every single child who came into the classroom happened to be an Arab child from a Palestinian territory somewhere- be it Janine, Ramala or Gaza. Perhaps this was just by chance, but the point that I’m trying to make is that a huge percentage of the patients in this department are non-Israeli Arabs and I was shocked to see Israeli hospitals treating non-Jews who live in the territories in such big numbers. Is this because of the picture painted by media or because I misunderstood the facts?

Sadness and happiness were compounded with frustration and confusion because again I experienced a language blockade. Yes, that is beyond a language barrier. At this point I have a grasp on basic conversational Hebrew… but in this instance both English and Hebrew got me nowhere; these children spoke only Arabic. Luckily children have a universal language of smiles and gestures, and in case you didn’t know: holding out a coloring book and markers means, “Want to color?” in all languages. After spending a chunk of time with little ones, I acknowledged the “too-cool” teenager sitting on the computer who pretended like he didn’t care whether or not he had anything to do with us. However, the look on his face when I first spoke to him had “I want affection, too,” written all over his face... As did how quickly he turned his chair around and neglected the computer for the remainder of the day- except for when he decided to show me Arabic music videos online. Saala and I spoke a sticky concoction of Hebrew, English, and hand gestures. In case you are wondering: Manga means mango in Arabic.

Towards the end of the day (yes, still the first day) a well dressed guy around my age escorted his five year old brother into the classroom. After an attempt to speak with him in Hebrew, he asked me in good English to speak with him in English because this is what he studies at university. If I could think of onomatopoeia for confusion or put an icon for the reader to click on that makes the sound of extreme perplexity… that would be placed precisely here. Somehow within only a few minutes our conversation went from light and friendly to borderline uncomfortable questioning, and I mean me asking questions about his circumstances.

What is it like for you to travel from the Palestinian territories into Israeli borders? Do you have to obtain permission to travel to Israeli hospitals? What is life like where you live? He explained to me that only he and his mother are allowed to accompany his little brother for treatment, and they must reapply for permission periodically. I asked him if once in Haifa he is allowed to go to restaurants or shops nearby the hospital, and he explained to me that he is, but he has no desire. What frustrates him the most is that he cannot travel from Janine to Ramallah or Jericho, or any other Palestinian city without interrogation. We spoke about his studies, his desire to study in the states, and the privileges that come with living in a safer more well-to-do territory, and then we were interrupted by a call for treatment. I hope to see him again.

I also worked side-by-side with Fadia, another volunteer who is a Lebanese Christian girl living in Israel. She studied for one year in the USA and one year in Canada visiting family members. Fadia told me bits and pieces of life and oppression in Lebanon towards the Christians who live in southern Lebanon and Israel’s role in protecting them. She explained to me that the Christian Lebanese love Israel for helping them and the dynamic between Israelis and Christian Lebanese living here in Israel; in a weird way Israelis must be good to them because they collaborated with Israel during the war. Her family cannot speak directly to the family still living in Lebanon because the government will find out and make life difficult. Instead, they hold three way conversations via Canada in order to speak with one another.

I closed the day by going with people on my program (Otzmaniks) to an event hosted by university students in Haifa. They created a program called Student Village which entails students living in a poor neighborhood and immersing themselves in the community in exchange for a small scholarship. One part of the commitment is a weekly gathering either for discussion or activity. We attended a drum circle where first we learned to play and then we listened to the instructors’ music. I think Haifa will provide plenty more interesting experiences down the road…

Lintz Family Does Israel

After arduous conversations over who will visit who and on which continent, Howie, Mom and Dad departed Charlotte east bound for their first adventure to Israel and a reunion after the longest stretch of time we have ever gone without seeing each other. Sitting outside of the arrivals gate I watched many families reunite before seeing my own. So many children burst out of the gates galloping towards grandparents they seemingly hadn’t seen in ages with recognition I would expect only within the capacity adult minds. I guess the heart is full of its own senses and wonders. Flashing in neon green letters I read on the electronic chart that the flight from Atlanta had landed at Ben Gurion airport circa 5:51pm and it was a matter of moments before I saw my own family after four months of phone conversations- doing the best we could do to paint pictures of our lives and own adventures. Finally they walked through the gates with pieces of luggage neatly stacked on a rolling cart; one compact suitcase each plus a gargantuan duffle full of my winter clothes and miscellaneous items I miss from home [sans Chloe]. (Thanks Mom and Dad- this couldn’t have come at a more perfect time as it is quite cold in Haifa.) Off Dad went to pick up the rental car, and off we were to our hotel in Jerusalem- a forty minute drive that between my navigation skills and Israel’s well marked roads took us nearly an hour and half.

It is amazing how little time the four of us spent backtracking and filling in gaps of the past few months. We make an effort to communicate over email and phone, but it must be the phenomenon of what happens when you are with people you love and have known your whole life… just pick up as if no time has passed. Okay, it might also be partly because I was a bit of a slave driver who jam-packed our itinerary with a plethora of activities and little sleep built. Thus, all conversation time was clearly needed to process history, politics and thoughts on all that we were seeing and doing, right? I guess all of my Taglit Birthright Israel experience has paid off because tour guiding came quite naturally to me. I know not everyone will read the entire blog entry… so in one sentence: This was the most magnificent Lintz family adventure (including Elizabeth) I can recall and I only wish Philip could have been with us. I use the word “adventure” because I think that true travelling is not a vacation at all. The way we have learned to let each others’ neuroses, faults and habits go in order to appreciate and enjoy our time together made the time that we had unforgettable. We filled our time in the car- road trip after road trip- with questions and conversations about Israel, the upcoming American elections, Jewish peoplehood, history, opinions, future plans, and adoration. I always tell people that my parents and brothers are wonderful people, but I have a new New Year’s resolution: to embody even a small fraction of the selflessness, generosity and love that my family exudes and reaches out to even the most perfect stranger.

So, off we set to conquer Jerusalem. We visited Har Herzl- a military cemetery and memorial, Yad Vashem- the Holocaust Memorial and museum, and a cute café called Anashim in Ein Karem. The next day we had a true Israeli experience when our rental car wouldn’t start and we were bullshitted (sorry Mom and Dad but I must use that word…) by the company for hours before behaving Israeli-like right back, handing the keys over and getting a new car from a new company. While spending several hours in the garage of a hotel could be considered a waste of time by some, I think that in a weird way the Lintz family enjoyed the challenge of reading each other, collaborating in fighting The Man, and seeing how we have all grown or changed a bit. I know for sure that Mom and Dad got a kick out of seeing me argue (borderline screaming) with the employee who was sent to jump start our unjumpable battery. I guess I forgot to explain to them that Israelis yell *a lot* and that when he was done hearing my voice he would make it very clear. This whole yelling thing became a bit of a game between the four of us and while it was frustrating it was almost fun in a way. We spent the next day with Elad, a tour guide I found on Facebook (seriously) and who I would recommend to anyone visiting Israel. He took us to the City of David, around the Old City and the Western Wall, showed us the sites and filled in gaps that tour books won’t. It was also a magnificent opportunity for my family to speak about Israeli society and politics with someone other than me- particularly an educated and thoughtful Israeli gentleman. For a never-ending conversation ask my dad these two questions: How did you enjoy driving the Ford Mondeo? Can you tell me what an upstanding young man Elad is? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

We finally made it to our desert destinations: Ein Gedi, Masada, and the Dead Sea. Followed by adventures northbound to the captivating site of the Kineret (Sea of Galilee) where we stayed in a lake front cottage with a breathtaking view from our patio on Kibbutz Ein Gev. Surrounded by Golan Mountains and hills, the day was so clear we could see the city all the way across the lake from us. I have not quite embraced the extent to which we lucked out with weather. For ten days, in the end of December no less, we had not one bitter cold day or drop of rain. Continued northbound to checkout Mount Bental, an old army bunker from which you can see Syria and Lebanon and which previously served as a critical power point in order to survey the neighbors and protect Israel’s fresh water source, the Kineret. On to Rosh HaNikra, a cliff at the Lebanese border on the Mediterranean where ancient merchants (and the British in the early 1900s) ran an old transportation route from Lebanon through Israel, down to Egypt and onwards. We made a quick stop in Haifa, and spent a leisurely afternoon in Ceasaria (another grand establishment created by Herod in ancient times) on the coast before meeting Elizabeth in Tel Aviv.

Having Elizabeth, the closest thing I’ll ever have to a sister, with us made the whole trip feel like home, and the fact that her trip coincided so perfectly with ours was such a treat. We couldn’t have spent Shabbat any more gloriously than we spent our Saturday venturing south to the Negev where we visited Sde Boker and Machtesh Ramon, the largest non-crater crater in Israel. That sounds weird, but it is a natural phenomenon that exists only in Israel. In three places in Israel erosion and water carved out mammoth craters. En route back to Tel Aviv we stopped in Beer Sheva to show the family my residence for the last four months at the absorption center and spent a couple of hours at my friend Tal’s apartment drinking coffee and discussing (once again) American politics, school systems, and Israeli culture. We spent our final day in Tel Aviv exploring the market in Jaffa, wandering around modern and hip Sheinkin Street, looking at the city from the 49^th floor of the Azrielli towers at sundown and visiting with Michal. It wouldn’t have been a complete Lintz adventure without a hectic departure full of tears and “I love you”s. Luckily I had two more days to explore Tel Aviv with Elizabeth- including New Year’s Eve- and off she, too, returned to the States after just a few more tears. Just a few, I promise. And ‘zeh hoo’ (that’s it) folks. A not brief digest of a wonderfully splendid visit with my family… and more to come about my first few days living in Haifa.