Perspective

I keep making excuses for my lack of productivity on this blog. The goal was to write about my aliyah. Well, that is old news. There comes a time in an olah's life where it switches from "oh! You just got here!" to "oh! You've been here for a while!" and I truly do not know what the delineation is, but it's happened. And the reason I have time to blog today is because the Tel Aviv municipality has canceled non-essential work for a Siren Day! Gone is the era of snow days. In this country, only an election or an incoming rocket will cause businesses to close. Not to mention we're having the warmest Autumn in nine years so snow isn't only not an issue, it's nowhere on the horizon. But the funniest part of this all is that I've been here long enough that this isn't even my first siren experience! That happened a few days after I got here.

This is the Iron Dome- Gd bless the Iron Dome

My mother calls me in a panic, wants to make sure I did the siren the right way. In the fortified room, in the basement, stayed there an extra 15 minutes to be safe. I didn't but I say "yep!" I take care of myself pretty well. It makes me laugh to think she's worried about me, here in the Jewish state. I face the enemy we know, in this case Islamic Jihad who are angry we've killed a leader of theirs. Meanwhile, my family sits in New York City, often referred to as Jew York City for its enormous Jewish population, now facing religious threats much like the rest of the country where I once lived. 

I recently went to NYC to visit my family and meet my new baby nephew (he is SO poopoopoo I literally can't even!) and my mom and I went to shul for Yom Kippur prayers. My mom kept glancing at the door, which made sense because she really can't wait to get out of shul. We were in the basement group service, whereas the other two services were upstairs near the front entrances. My mom turned to me and said "I don't like how that entrance isn't guarded" like the other two upstairs were. "Doesn't it make you nervous?" Now, by nature, I'm not a worrier and my mother is the definition of one (Jewish moms, yadda yadda) but for once I thought her anxiety might be founded.

I left America, the goldene medineh- the promised land for a people that was tortured by every country in the diaspora where they fled. Europe, North Africa and the Middle East all became inhospitable to their Jewish populations and it seemed like America was the first country to break that mold. And honestly, I would never compare America to what Jews are facing elsewhere in the world in 2019. I don't generally worry for my family's safety. But I do hear about a new incident (or ten) every day- a swastika on a synagogue, a vandalized cemetery, a beating of a Hasidic-looking Jew, a BDS resolution, a bomb threat, an anti-Semitic outburst on a subway- that makes me wonder if the clock is ticking on our time in the US.

Jewish cemetery in Nebraska vandalized, November 2019

I hope not. I don't want anyone to feel scared to threatened, least of all my family and friends. I don't want anyone to have to hide their Jewishness or their support for the Jewish state. And as much as I want people to make aliyah and come home, I don't want them to do it because they have to. I love my family intensely, but they don't want to move here (try as I might to badger them about it in nearly every conversation.) And if they ever do come, I want it to be running toward, not running away. So as I sit here on my unexpected Siren Day off from work, I think about how funny perspective is, with my mom terrified of rockets falling on Tel Aviv, and me feeling like I'm living in the safest country in the world to be Jewish. Perspective.

This Is Just a Drill

        It is 7:10 PM, Jerusalem time. I just left the stairwell of my very old apartment building, following the second emergency siren today. Don't panic. If you're concerned because you haven't been up on the news today, there's no great cause for alarm. These sirens were planned weeks (and maybe months) ago to prepare the nation in case of war. We require these drills like elementary school kids require fire drills- in case of emergency. And yet we know all too well that in this country, an emergency is a very real possibility. I don't mean to scare anyone, especially in the relative calm that we Jerusalemites have been, thank G-d, enjoying these past few months. But today was a wake-up call, that those of us who live here can get comfortable, just not too comfortable with the status quo.

       I read that today is one year since the "three boys" went missing. In case you don't know, I'm referring to Eyal, Gilad and Naftali- three Israeli boys who were kidnapped and killed in short order, but whose whereabouts were unknown for weeks, causing Jews in Israel and around the world to unify in a way that had never happened before to my memory. I can remember in my life pre-aliyah, going to a rally in the center of Manhattan, demanding the release of the boys (who we hoped were still alive) and praying with a fervor reserved for Yom Kippur. I can remember Jews coming together regardless of observance level or denomination or political orientation, praying for the safe release of our Jewish brothers. As we all know, it was not meant to be. The boys were killed immediately, but their whereabouts remained hidden for those torturous weeks. A revenge attack on an Arab boy followed, vilified by almost all Jews, because even in our deepest grief, that is not how we as Jews behave. And then the rockets. And the sirens. And the tunnels discovered. And the human shields. And the soldiers' funerals with mourners in the thousands. And the Iron Dome in all it's blessed glory. And the canceled Israel trips. And the ceasefires. And the ceasefires broken by Hamas in mere hours. And the flight cancellations. And then the quiet. The quiet end to a summer deferred.

             A year has passed since that crazy, scary, incomprehensible time and today I heard my first siren in almost that long. And it wasn't to warn me that a rocket was headed my way. It wasn't sounded to warn me that we were living in a war zone, and that we had just 90 seconds here in Jerusalem to take cover. It was to remind me that here in Israel, with enemies named Hezbollah and Hamas, Syria and Iran- we will always be targeted, so we must make sure that we stay safe as a country, and that we stay strong as a nation. Am Yisrael Chai.

Aaaaaand...We're Back!

            Quick update on "the situation" here as it pertains to my life. In case your home is under a rock, the cease fire has ended and rockets are back to flying over all of Israel. The perpetrators are Hamas. They live in Gaza, and they hate Jews. Not Israelis, not settlers, Jews. Me,  my friends, the old guy collecting money, the children in kindergarten and the dudes learning in yeshiva, you in the USA- all of us. This week, those of us naive enough to have thought "the war is over!" (myself included) were rudely reminded that it wasn't. 
            Tuesday night, after coming home from a fabulous dinner with visiting American friends, I started getting ready for bed at the ulpan. No sooner had I taken off my shoes than I heard the familiar, but recently unheard shrill rocket alarm outside.) My actual internal monologue: "Jords! (I call myself Jords) Is that the siren? No way! What is this, July 15?! Jerusalem hasn't been targeted in weeks! I was just telling my friends today 'see? Good thing you didn't cancel your trip here! look how safe it is! The worst is behind us!' I hope they don't blame me for this! Where are my shoes? Where is the miklat (shelter)?! Let me just follow the stampede downstairs."
              So I raced downstairs with the 160 other internal students in my ulpan, in various stages of undress (towels, robes, pajamas and the like) and waited for the all-clear. There was a lot of nervous tension in that miklat, people making jokes about turning this into a shelter rave, taking #bombshelterselfies and such. There were also those of us trying and struggling to watch the Israeli news (the highest-level class doing what I thought was a pretty solid job of translating for the less advanced students) and all of us comparing how many shelter experiences we had under our collective belts ("This is your first?! I've had 5 already!") It is true that a harrowing experience bonds people; I got to know people in those moments that I hadn't really spoken to until that point.
          We all waited the requisite time and headed back to our rooms, slightly shaken (not stirred) but I did notice something great. None of us said one word about this whole aliyah thing being a mistake, or going back to the safety of our birth countries. We were all truly firm in our resolve that we were now Israelis, this is our country, and we are all in this together. It was really special to be in a room full of people who felt as I do- that regardless of the hard times here (and this summer has truly been tough emotionally), there is no place else we'd rather be. Am Yisrael Chai.

(#bombshelterselfie!)

In Tribute of Sgt. Sean Carmeli

              Life is basically a bunch of experiences, strung together over time. Most of these experiences are mundane- going to school, the bank, lunch with friends. But some change who you are and how you see the world. Last night, I had one of those experiences. 
               Israel experienced the tragic reality of a ground war yet again, when 13 brave soldiers from the Golani brigade faced a tank explosion in Gaza. Two of these soldiers were chayalim bodedim, or lone soldiers. This means that their families live outside the country, and they are here in the IDF in Israel essentially on their own. One of the soldiers was a young man from Texas named Sean Carmeli. His parents were Israeli and moved to Texas to raise a family. When he was in high school, Sean moved back to Israel without his parents, to finish school and then join the IDF. He was a sergeant in the Golani brigade infantry, and he was just 21 years old.

               Whenever there is a chayal boded, there is a fear that his or her funeral will be forgotten, or poorly attended. After all, they are not from here, they grew up in another country and their family and friends generally live abroad. Therefore, social media took over, publicizing Sean's funeral details for anyone who wanted to attend. The Haifa soccer team (Sean was a huge fan) put the details on their Facebook page, the Michael Levin Lone Soldier Center publicized the details. I heard about the funeral at 7 PM and made an impulsive decision to take the next bus to Haifa (about 2 hours away) to attend Sean's funeral.
               There were a few reasons I made this decision. Most obvious is that I wanted to pay final respect to a soldier that had given his life for his country and his people. But more than that, I felt a pull, a need to represent American olim, those of us who had grown up as American Jews like Sean, spoke English like Sean, loved America like Sean, but decided to move to our Homeland. His story was similar to that of Michael Levin, another lone soldier, killed in the second Lebanon War. An American kid, filled with a tremendous Zionism, I always wished I could have met Michael, or attended his funeral. It was important for me to do whatever I could to represent American olim for Sean Carmeli.
               The experience of getting there is a story unto itself. After arriving in Haifa, a city with which I am extremely unfamiliar, I asked everyone on every platform if they were going to the funeral, or if they knew where it was. No one was, and I started to worry. I finally got vague directions and boarded a bus to the cemetery area. As the bus made its stops, it began to fill. And fill. Until at the cemetery stop, the bus was standing room only. Once off the bus, all you could see was people. People on foot, in cars and on buses. People in uniforms and plainclothes. Men and women (and a few children), religious and secular, Hebrew and English-speaking. It was an absolute mass of humanity, all at a cemetery at 11 PM in Haifa to pay their last respects to a soldier they never even met.

             People (myself included) hopped over fences and ringed the graves, jostling for a spot to see something, to hear something, to be a part of the community. Haifa weather is most unlike Jerusalem. In the summer, the air is as stifling at night as it is during the day, still and humid. It was not a comfortable feeling, but it felt appropriate for the time- it was not a comfortable situation. Bodies parted as his coffin, draped in the Israeli flag, was carried through the crowd by Sean's comrades, followed by his grieving family. Instructions were given to the crowd in case a siren should sound- get to the ground quickly, cover your head. It was our new grim reality here in the midst of our communal grief.

             Prayers for the IDF and the people of Israel were recited. Sean's father recited the most heartbreaking kaddish for the crowd- the cries of "Amen" filled the air. The mayors of Ra'anana and Haifa spoke, as did his high school principal. They talked about how he loved sports and his girlfriend, how he was a good student, and how his family were pillars of the Texas Jewish community where they live. His family recently became more religious, and Sean spent some time before the army learning in yeshiva. How Sean would talk about his family when he was with his unit, and his unit when he was with his family. How Sean was told he didn't have to serve right now, due to a wound on his foot but chose to stay with his unit in their time of need. They mentioned his ever-present smile, and always positive attitude. There was even a speech in English, enabling me to soak up every word I could about this impressive young man, taken way too soon. I was able to get to know this beautiful boy who I would never actually know. The service ended with a gun salute, and the crowd dispersed. 
                Estimates of attendance were between 12-40,000 people. We did not know Sean. But we all loved him, and wanted to thank him for his sacrifice. It is because of people like Sean that we are able to live in our Homeland. What struck all of us in attendance most was the absolute sense of unity we felt as a Jewish nation. When you are in grief for a fallen soldier, religious differences and cultural differences and political ideologies are forgotten. We all, every one of us, lost our brother Sean Carmeli, and we all came to mourn our fallen hero. May his memory be a blessing to his family and the whole nation of Israel, and may we all know no further sorrow.

"Stay Safe!"

           Every time I start to write a post about my day to day life acclimating to a new country and a new culture, I am jarred back to my current reality in the form of a "buzz." I want to write about my shabbat in a chareidi area and --"buzz." I have a funny story about my foray into Tel Aviv and-- "buzz, buzz." I mentioned earlier that I downloaded an app which alerts me to every rocket fired by Hamas toward Israel. When I first downloaded the app, the buzzes jarred me. My cousin and I would call out "Sderot. Ashkelon. Ashdod. Ashkelon..." 
            But soon the locations changed, the net widened. "Tel Aviv, Hadera, Jerusalem, Beersheba..." until no place was safe. Just today, "The Golan Heights?!" (Thanks for your help, Syria!) While leaving Beit Shemesh Saturday night, right before heading to the bus stop, two more sirens had me rethinking my journey back to Jerusalem. To risk being on a bus as rockets landed indiscriminately all over the country? Even me, in my indestructible new-immigrant fantasy world wasn't willing to chance that. So I stayed close to my friend's trusty apartment shelter and she made me a cheese toast to calm me down.
            And so to the title of this post. Normally, when saying goodbye to a friend, some common goodbyes include "see you later, have a great day, call you soon." I, and most people I meet now, will end our interactions with "Stay safe!" That is not how I would ever fathom ending conversations in Queens, New York. The Bronx, New York? Maybe. But Queens? The Five Towns? The Upper West Side?! Nope. 
            I remember the fears I had before I made aliyah (even just reading old blog posts, I can laugh) where I was anxious about making friends, finding a job, navigating bureaucracy and tackling the language barrier. Now I think about whether I'll be in the shower when a siren goes off, how to help fight a losing media battle on Israel's behalf, and whether my mother will really, truly lose it with worry over me at some point soon. I worry that there will be no end to the rockets, that this life will become the new normal. I fear that the Iron Dome will prove fallible (G-d forbid), that tourism will stop and the economy will suffer. I worry that people will stop visiting me, stop visiting their home. I worry about people I know every time a rocket reaches a familiar address. I check in with friends in Tel Aviv, friends in Arad, in Haifa. I worry that my precious homeland is in danger.
             But to be honest, I don't worry too much of the time. When the sirens sound and I am praying for our safety, I allow myself those moments of worry. I allow my mind to wander into darker places. But it never stays there long. Because, at the end of the day, I am a person of faith. I feel like I am lucky, to have a faith which constantly reminds me that "if He sees you to it, He'll see you through it." It is my faith that allows me to laugh off the fears of family and friends in the States. And it is that faith that realizes that while Israel has seen better days, she has also seen worse ones. And so when I say goodbye now, I always say "stay safe". Because even though we'll be just fine, it's still nice to be careful.