Today is a good day. 

Today is also a bad day.

A few days ago, my fiance was reading the list of the prisoners to be released in exchange for Gilad Shalit. He read through life sentence, after life sentence, after life sentence--killers who would be set free by this deal. I read the papers, and the stories of the families of their victims, begging for the deal not to go through, begging to be able to live, knowing that those who killed their loved ones would be locked up forever.

And I said no, the price is too high, we can't do this.

I woke up this morning, turned on my and my fiance's computers, and begged the internet to work (we don't have a tv). I watched the first images come in of Gilad, and tears fell down my cheeks. He's ok, I thought to myself, and was riveted, taking a taxi to a friend's to watch. In the taxi, the driver had live coverage on full blast, and we exchanged only the barest of words. He got a call--hung up quickly--no one was not listening to this extraordinary series of events.

And I saw the pictures of him, hugging his family, who have been so graceful and valiant this whole time. I heard Karnit Goldwasser, Udi Goldwasser's widow, talk about how today, her tears have turned from sorrow to joy. Mine, too. I listened to Prime Minister Benyamin Netanyahu, who I normally cannot stand, and the tears ran down my cheeks as his words struck a chord.

He talked about the pain of those who have lost family members to terror. He said he didn't know if he made the right move, but that we bring our guys home.  He talked about returning Gilad to Noam and Aviva, his parents.

And in that moment, I knew I was on the right side. Watching this kid hug his father, salute in his uniform after five long years in captivity, I was so much more moved than I expected. I may not know Gilad, but God willing, my children will fight in this army. I know lots of other soldiers. And the idea that we bring them home is so powerful, so strong. So Israeli.

We've put a price on soldiers lives with this trade, but it's not news to anyone that they'd like to capture our guys, or that we value them. And we've made it crystal clear today. We bring our soldiers home. 

I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I hope that if any of the killers commits any crime, we go after them hard and fierce. But I believe in this army, and this state. And maybe, just maybe, today, I got a reason why.

Today was a good day, and a bad day, and a hard day. But maybe, just maybe, it was mostly good.

Kiev

I've never felt much attached to the verses, but the chorus of Peter, Paul and Mary's version of the folk song "there, but for fortune" has always stuck with me. Short and to the point, it says "there, but for fortune, go you or I," speaking to the randomness that defines who we become, and the luck that has filled my own life.

Having spent time in March in Kiev, Ukraine, on a work trip for my new job with the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, those words seemed to follow me wherever I went--and with them, the burden they seem to place; the duty to make life better and easier for others. In my own mind, taking care of family--in my case the Jewish people--has always been the way I have lived those words, and I have never felt it more clearly than in Kiev.

Sonya, with the towels we brought her

Sonya, in her kitchen

I visited Sonya, an elderly woman who was never married (so many Soviet men died in the war that many women are that way), and who is alone in the world (pictured above). She lives in two small rooms, with no toilet or shower, an empty, 60 year old fridge, and a broken television. Of her monthly pension of $110 per month, $75 goes for roof repair to a neighbor. $35 is what is left. She has health problems, and can hardly leave her house, requiring medicine she cannot afford, and leaving her unable to go to buy food. In Sonya, I saw my father's students at the JCC, my friends' grandparents, and a fate not so far from my own. "there but for fortune..."

Sonya would die without help. It's literally that simple. But JDC provides her with a home care worker three times a week, who empties the bucket she uses as a toilet, lovingly provides her with care, cleans her home, and eases her loneliness. As Sonya spoke, tears welled in her aide's eyes. We provide her with hot meals she can reheat at home--not as much as she or we would like, but enough to live on. Without the help she gets from JDC, Sonya would not be alive. Because of us, and only us, she is. There's not a lot of competition, you see, for providing essential services to elderly Jews in the Ukraine. At the start, when JDC arrived there, we too came with books and ambitions to build schools--we had no idea of the poverty we would find.

Taisa, in her finest clothes

Taisa, with JDC crafts

After Sonya, I met Taisa, and her mother. Walking up the five flights of stairs to their apartment, I carried only small gifts for them, unlike the food and supplies they must carry daily. Taisa's mother is hard of hearing, and a nurse who works 24 hour shifts at the hospital, leaving her ten year old daughter to feed and care for herself and their tiny apartment, because there is no alternative. What would happen, we asked, if something happened--if she forgot to turn off the gas, or got sick? The answer was that she tries not to, and they try not to think about it. Taisa has a digestive disorder (though you wouldn't know it to look at her--video once I upload it), and her mother cannot afford to care for her--there is not even a bed for her mother, who sleeps on a chair.

But through JDC, Taisa and her mother received a fridge and a washing machine, and a monthly food card enabling Taisa's mother to care for herself and her daughter with dignity. Taisa takes art classes, making projects that I must have tossed by the hundreds--papier mache, small bracelets, etc. All were kept as treasures in a worn shoebox, and she showed them to my colleagues and myself with great pride, explaining how much she loves Jewish holidays like Purim and Passover. Through JDC, Taisa goes to camp in the summer, and has a social worker, who checks in with the family regularly (as the mother was raised in an orphanage, she is alone) and who was waving from downstairs back up at Taisa as we drove off. "There but for fortune, go you, or go I. You and I..."

Babi Yar, the second memorial.

Babi Yar. A tragic story, and one worth knowing.

We visited Babi Yar, too, where tens of thousands of Jews (that's not an exaggeration) were shot, point-blank, over mass graves. We heard the story of a mother who shoved her live child and herself into the grave, realizing it was the only way to survive. They did survive, but what comes after survival?

Children playing, kilometers from Babi Yar

Milla, who captured my heart

We are what comes after that. After Babi Yar, I met Milla, a student in the nursery school of the community. A yummy child (that's the only word) with slightly crossed eyes, she immediately invited me to come dance, and I was sold. With her blond hair and bright smile, Milla is what comes after Babi Yar. Because of JDC, kids like Milla and Taisa get to grow up cared for, loved, part of their Jewish community. As she danced around to a children's song in Hebrew, I thought of all the children of Kiev who didn't get to grow. And then I realized the honor implicit in this work.

I do my job--we do our jobs--so that Milla can dance, and Taisa make bracelets, so that they can dress up for Purim, and so that Sonya lives to see tomorrow. We do it so the other women I met are not alone, so that they are cared for, and loved. We do it because they are ours.

Some of the clients who get food cards through JDC

A JDC food card, like a debit card, can be used in the grocery store.

Evelina--93 years old, still volunteers for JDC!

A warm-home, where seniors who are alone come together several times a week. They were so excited to meet us!

Having originally written this in March when I returned, it seems appropriate to be sending it out during Pesach, when we celebrate the story of how the Jews returned to Israel, our home. How Pharoah (himself a tool of fortune) was so cruel, and how JDC is so very kind seems, to me, the best kind of story of redemption. Chag sameach.

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.