Laura in ISRAEL

I have neglected my blog for too long.

There have been no entries for nearly 3 months and for good reason, although only a brief discussion on the matter is necessary. Part 1 of my program in Israel brought upon a lot of stress for me. Entering the program with a not-healing-so-well incision from my back surgery, I found myself constantly in pain, weak, tired- not myself. Pair that with adjusting to a new society and way of life and you have a total wreck of a human being.

Well, maybe not a total wreck. But whenever I found down time, I took it upon myself to rest, relax, socialize. All of this combined with leaving for a break home, discovering I had to have surgery, having the surgery, recovering from the surgery, shelping myself back to Israel, taking 10 buses to my new city, finding my new apartment, starting new volunteer work that day, leaving immediately from my new apartment to a 5 day Conflict and Hope Seminar in Jerusalem and the West Bank, and then, if life couldn’t seem to possibly get any more hectic, upon returning to my new home where I absolutely could not WAIT to blog about my experience, I come down with a horrible case of the flu, which I am fighting off as I write this…One can maybe catch a drift of why I haven’t been able to write…

With that being said, this begins a new era in the Laura blogging world (I hope). Pray for my health, both mental and physical, or you ain’t getting any writing.

Cheers!

The students fight over who gets to read with the cool American “big kids”. Because of this, the teacher has set up an order system, a way to keep track of who has or hasn’t had the chance to spend time with us, who has gone more recently or less frequently, who needs more one on one attention. The lucky ones get to pick out their favorite book from the shelving unit and scurry upstairs and into our respective reading stations at the tables we have chosen scattered throughout the school.

I had a student last week, right before Sukkot break, who I rarely get the chance to work with. He is quiet and reserved, intimidated by me because of his inability to speak any sort of English. Unable to even read the words on the page, he struggles much more than the rest of his classmates and it pains him because he knows it, too. I watched him saunter up the stairway, turning the corner to look over and see the chair next to me vacant, ready to be filled with his frame. Most of the children run over to me, smiling and eager to say whatever they can to me in English, showing off what talents they’ve learned within my native tongue. But him, he walks as slowly as possible, the book almost slipping through his fingertips as if he dreads the moment he has to sit down and try to read in a language he is less than unacquainted with.

I smile at him, even though he isn’t looking at me, and ask “Ata muchan?” (Are you ready?) He shakes his head yes and slumps into the seat next to me. He opens the book to the first page and looks up, making it clear that he has no idea where to start. I realize, though, that he is not looking at me. Something has caught his attention; for the first time in all my weeks of being there, I see a spark in his deep, emerald eyes.  Excitedly, he says to me “At ohevet Gilad Shalit?” (Do you love Gilad Shalit?)

I am taken aback by this question. Up to this point, I had spent all of my time with the children answering the same things over and over. Yes, I am Jewish.  Yes, Miami is very hot. No, I do not live in Disney World but yes, it is in Florida. No, I have never met Justin Bieber. No, he is not American and no, Canada and the United States are not the “same thing.” Yes, I am 22 and yes, I went to college and yes, it’s just like the movies.

But this question? I was not so quick to answer. I did not know why he was asking or how I should respond or why a 10-year-old boy was concerned with the happenings of the Israeli Defense Force and their unfortunate situations with terrorist organizations. I look into his eyes full of wonder and amazement and ask “Lama ata medaber al Gilad Shalit achsav?” (Why do you talk about Gilad Shalit now?)

He lifts his hand and points past me to my bag lying limp on the chair opposite of me. Most people would look at my bag and see nothing more than a brown over-the-shoulder purse, a cheap deal I got that serves my purposes on a daily basis. But this child, he saw the most important part of my satchel. Tied tightly to the side strap, tucked away underneath the bulk of the bag is a plain and simple yellow ribbon tied in a bow. The ribbon serves as a constant reminder that one of our own is missing; for 5 years and 4 months, the yellow ribbon was the only face of Gilad Shalit we had.

When Gilad Shalit was taken hostage, it was as if every, single household in Israel lost a son, a brother, a friend. The country mourned as a collective whole; whether you were 5 years old or 85 years old, you knew what was going on and it pained you just the same. I was in Israel in the summer of 2006 when he was taken hostage during the Lebanon War. I can say wholeheartedly that it has been one of the most gratifying and emotional experiences to be blessed enough to now be back and witness his safe return. Life has come full circle.

Hamas demanded 1,027 terrorists, murders, and convicted felons be released from Israeli jails in return for 1 Israeli soldier, a young boy who had done nothing wrong but serve his country, a young boy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yesterday, a nation rejoiced as Gilad stepped foot onto Israeli soil after so many years away. Pale, weak and having not seen the sun in 5 years, he stood as tall as he could in his IDF uniform, now baggy around his famished frame, and saluted his prime minister. “I hope this deal will lead to peace between Palestinians and Israelis and that it will support cooperation between both sides” he said.

This deal between Hamas and Israel is being widely debated across the globe. It is hard to understand why a nation would give back 1,027 terrorists in exchange for one, single person. Unlike any other country in the world, Israel is the only land of the Jewish people. Just as Italy may adhere to Catholic ideals and Saudi Arabia to Islamic fundamentals, Israel makes it a priority to hold fast to the values and morals set by those who have come before us. Life and the preservation of life, in the context of Jewish thought, is the most important value one can adhere to. During the Holocaust, those who risked their own lives to save those of Jews are now known as “Righteous Gentiles” and are held to the highest regard in Israel and throughout the minds of the Jewish people in the diaspora. This ideal is why it is required of someone to break the Sabbath if there is a medical emergency, why you cannot fast on Yom Kippur if you are ill or on medication, and why while most would see it a foolish mistake to give back 1,027 radical extremists in exchange for only one single person, Israel sees it as a necessity.

The Talmud teaches us “whoever destroys a soul, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world.” I must say, as the television cameras rolled and we watched Gilad step off that helicopter onto Israeli soil, I don’t think there was one person around me who would turn to the Talmud and disagree.

For my first three months in Israel, I have been assigned to volunteer twice a week at Beit Sefer Irisim. An elementary school a few steps away from Karmi’el’s city center, Beit Sefer Irisim is a rambunctious educational facility filled with children ranging from gan to vav (kindergarten to 6^th grade), all of whom are equipped with incredibly vast learning aptitudes and extraordinarily various character dispositions. I have come to realize that much of their varying charismas are so apparent because schools in Israel are run so differently than those found throughout the American educational landscape.

Here, formality is thrown out the window. In fact, it never seemed to be an authentic or concrete option to begin with. Teachers are called by their first names. The English teacher I work with is named Roni. She is very nice and very easy to talk to, but she is stern with the students, and there is a reason for this. The school seems to be in a constant state of chaos; no matter what time of day or what period the school is in, there are a solid 20 kids, at minimum, running ramped. And they are screaming. There is no lunch break. Instead, there are 2, 20 minute hafsakot (breaks) where the children pour out of their classrooms and into the hallways, onto the picnic tables, and into the open lots of grass and pavement.

They run. They run their little legs off. And just when you think they cannot possibly run any longer, they run some more. Girls play with each other’s hair and hold hands and skip. Boys play soccer and put each other in chokeholds and pick on the girls. In this sense, it is just like anywhere in the world. Kids will be kids, no matter what language they speak, what color their skin is, or what country their passport claims them citizens of.

Roni sat me and the two other volunteers down the first day. She told us she wanted to play War, the card game, with them so that they could learn their numbers in English. Whoever got the numbers correct the fastest won the cards.

I say, “but we know the numbers like the back of our hand. We’re going to win every time. Won’t that hurt their feelings? Won’t that make them upset?”

Roni looked at me like I was the biggest pansy she had ever met. This is a stare I’ve gotten before from Israelis, one that says “You Americans and your ridiculous feelings. Grow a pair.”

I smiled and said, “What? They’re just kids.” She replied, “They’ll learn from their mistakes. They’ll get upset and they’ll learn from it. Their feelings will be just fine.” And then she laughed at me.

Downstairs is the entrance way to the English room where there is a heavy, thick metal door. It is hard to move constantly so it remains open. A smaller, thin wire door is locked unless there is a class going on inside. The room is decorated with English words and Hebrew translation and there is color plastered all over the walls of this otherwise seemingly bland and rather daunting room. There are 4 bathrooms down a hallway, a vestibule you wouldn’t even know existed upon first encounter with the room. Its entry way is covered by a vibrant sapphire sheet that hangs from the ceiling. At the end of the room, there are two openings in the upper part of the wall, windows with smaller versions of the heavy, thick metal door that one sees upon entering the room. It is odd to see windows without glass. It is odd to see windows without a view. It is odd to see windows with ladders underneath, plastered to the wall. These windows aren’t windows; they too are just as much entrance ways as the main door.

The English class is taught in the bomb shelter.

In Israel, the reality of a bombing at any time is legitimate. Throughout the country, bomb shelters are made to look “kid friendly”. They tend to be colorful, boasting murals and artwork. They have toys and TVs and stuffed animals. They are made to look like they are any other room that would be found in the building they are under. In a school, rooms are made up of desks and chairs and bulletin boards coated with student’s work. This room is the same. The only difference is that the windows are entry ways; if a siren goes off at break, children can run from the basketball court and slide through an opening, climb down the stairs and breathe because they know they are safe.

The first day, I found myself staring at the tiny, lifesaving windows constantly. None of this ever crosses my student’s minds, though. It is something they are taught when they are little and they don’t think about it unless a siren wails. As the weeks go on, I find myself thinking less and less about the high openings with the heavy, thick doors. If there is ever something to learn from Israelis, it is that you cannot live your life in fear of the “what ifs”. When I think about it, I must admit that I have lived most of my life this way, always worried about getting hurt, getting sick, becoming sad. Too much of my life has been spent worried about what others will think of me, how my health will be effected if I take a risk, why I was or wasn’t given what I wanted out of life. I find that, as the weeks go on, I am learning much more by being here than just the ways of Israeli society or the political turmoil of the Middle East; I am learning about something far more important.

I am learning about myself.

Growing up in the United States, it is impossible to be unaware of the issue of American obesity: you see it every direction you turn. While this may be true, I was never quite sure how or why it became such a condition heavily, no pun intended, based in only our dear country. After being in Israel for a few weeks now, I can tell you one of the primary, key reasons: cost of food. In the States, you can purchase an entire dinner for a family of 5 for about $15 at McDonald’s. If you wanted to make a healthy meal for your family, one with essential wholesome value including vegetables, fruits and whole grains, you’re looking at about $25-30 for that same family. In Israel, it is much cheaper to eat healthy than it is to eat unhealthy. The average meal at McDonald’s in Israel is somewhere between 35-45 shekel ($9.50-12.50). That’s per person. So, for a family of 5, you’re looking at around $55.

Last week, I went to Dahan, the local “warehouse” of fresh fruits, vegetables and baked goods in Karmi’el. Here, folks take their shopping seriously.  This stockpile of harvest is always full of people at almost any time of day, any day of the week. People of all kinds- Arabs and Jews, young and old, dark and light- scurry through the aisles. Children accompany the elders, sitting in strollers eating pears or cucumbers their moms and dads have thrown at them as they sort through thousands of pieces of produce, picking up each piece, examining it expeditiously, and throwing it into a bag as to move onto the next item quickly. I enjoy observing the fast paced nature of Dahan; it is some sort of beautiful race.  I feel silly when I go there. I only need for myself so I get very little at a time; everyone else around me looks as if they are buying for an army. Whenever I go, I think of my mom. I know that she too would buy for an army.

I got 6 cucumbers, 3 plums, 4 peaches, 10 pears, 3 orange peppers, 2 pomegranates and a loaf of fresh, whole grain bread, all for 27 shekel, or $7.50. This is why, despite mandatory army service, unpleasantly dangerous smoking habits, and constant threats of war, Israelis have a higher life expectancy and outlive Americans.

Don’t get me wrong: Israelis LOVE to eat. Mostly, they love when YOU eat. After all, they are Jews; some of the greatest pleasure they get in life is making an incredible meal, knowing its filling the bellies of those they love (or those they’ve just met!) They happen to be the some of the most hospitable people I have ever known in my 22 years of life. Every, single time I have met someone new, they have, without fail, given me their phone number and instructed me to call them if I ever needed anything at all. And by anything, they mean ANYTHING. The best part about this is that they actually mean it. People who I know for no more than 3 hours invite me over for dinner, tell me to call them if I ever need a ride, and drill into my mind that I should contact them if I ever feel lonely and need somewhere to rest and gain tranquility. Israelis have quickly become the most sincere, trustworthy people I have ever met in my life, and for good reason.

But no one has been as kind to me as my host family. They have recently forbid me from saying “thank you” in their household because they feel that I say it entirely too much; no child of theirs needs to thank them for a meal or a snooze on the couch or the use of their washer and dryer and, because they have taken me in, the same rules apply to me. Slowly but surely, I have started to feel like I’ve always been there. I no longer ask for a drink. I know where the glasses are and I know what beverages to expect in the fridge. I am not afraid to take my laptop in the living room and flip through the channels on the TV. I know how to play the Xbox Sport games and I know how to beat my siblings, sometimes (finally). I feel so at home. I feel so much at peace when I am there. I feel like I belong.

It is the best feeling I have experienced yet in Israel.

The past two weeks have been both incredibly fascinating and incredibly mind-numbing… all at the same time. While this is a seemingly hypocritical statement to the average person, it would make absolute sense if said to anyone in my group right now. We have gotten a taste of Jerusalem’s nightlife, the dry heat of the Negev, and now the mountainous, green terrain of the north in Karmi’el. We have gone out to bars and shopping malls, savored some of the freshest produce in the world, and learned (quite quickly) the importance of sunscreen. But despite these charming experiences, we have also had an absurd amount of down time and boredom. Many of our days, especially this past week, have been nothing but gaping holes of time filled with…nothing: no programing, no volunteer work, no traveling, no ulpan (intensive Hebrew class).

The beauty of this substantial down time, though, is that we got to know Karmi’el. We figured out where to get the best shwarma in the city, which bus to take to the best mall in town, and how to exchange dollars for shekels. We discovered the absolute beauty of our surroundings. Karmi’el, nestled in the Beit HaKerem Valley, is enclosed by the vast mountains of the Galilee. A city that boasts residents from over 70 nations around the world, Karmi’el is the poster child for diversity. Arabs and Jews live at peace with one another, shopping at the same grocery stores, working at the same stores and bonding over a cup of coffee. Here, it is not perfect, but it is a step in the right direction.

We live in the Mercaz Clita, an immigrant absorption center where both students and families can come to live when volunteering or first making aliyah. On our floor, it is our OTZMA group and a group of young Brazilian Jews who have come to dedicate a year of their lives to serve the needs of Israeli communities just as we have. Soon, 120 teenage Russians will join us. They, though, will not return home after a year of volunteer work. Instead, they will stay in Israel forever, because they have chosen to make aliyah without their families. It is an extraordinarily moving and courageous action, but one that is unfortunately somewhat necessary as well; by making aliyah, they will undoubtedly secure a better future for themselves as young Jews living in a world that is becoming increasingly anti-Semitic year after year.

The greatest part about Karmi’el and my overall experience in Israel thus far is, undeniably, my host family. Out of the goodness of their heart, procuring no benefit besides the pleasure of my company, my family has taken me in as if I was of their own blood. They welcomed me with open arms, told me that their beautiful, warm home was now mine, and I immediately felt comfortable and safe. My host mother, Ronit, is a kind woman and is a great cook. Eli, my host father, is a genuine soul who makes the most amazing lattes I’ve ever tasted. I have 4 host siblings, 3 of which I’ve met and one who is in the army and I have yet to meet. My 3 siblings who I have met, I love. They are wonderful and kind and have accepted me into their home with open arms. Shir is 12. She and I have trouble conversing because my Hebrew is bad and her English is bad, but she was able to tell me that she loves hip-hop dancing and has an obsession with Justin Bieber that I can’t begin to explain with words. Tamir is 14. He is quiet and more reserved, maybe because he is shy around me or maybe because his English isn’t strong, but he is kind and has a good heart. Aviv is 19 and we get along very well. He is an awesome guy and introduced me to his friends the first night he met me, making sure I was taken care of while exposing me to Israeli nightlife and culture. I always said that I felt like I was the only Jew in the world who didn’t have family in Israel. Thanks to my host family, I can no longer say that and for this, I will be forever grateful.

It has taken me a while to complete this post. Throughout my writing, I have been distracted by the screaming outside of my window. The police have assembled, no more than 30 feet from my apartment building, to keep peace amongst the thousands of people who have gathered in the streets with signs, flags, and loudspeakers. Thousands of people stand outside my building screaming not because of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, the issue of wide spread anti-Semitism across the world, or wars with neighboring Arab countries but because for the first time in Israeli history, people are beginning to focus on inner concerns rather than the outer quandaries that consistently plague the citizens of this tiny land. Now, all across Israel, hundreds of thousands of demonstrators flood the streets of every city, from the large city of Tel Aviv to the quaint town of Bet She’an, protesting the cost of living. Resentment of housing prices, affordability of child care, and money spent at the pump are heard through their loud chants and seen through their newly erected tent cities. This is a defining moment for Israel. This begins a change that will be felt for generations to come. This is my queue to get out of my bed, shut off my computer, and take part in history.

It is impossible to put into words the feeling one gets upon landing in Tel Aviv. For some people, there is a rush of excitement with the knowledge that an adventure is about to begin. For others, a bit of anxiety, a churning from within at the thought of being in a country under constant scrutiny, watch, and attack. The rest, though, acquire an inexplicable and impermeable sense of calm; these are the people who have arrived at Tel Aviv Ben Gurion International Airport because they have been gone for quite some time and are now finally home. I was one of those people.

As the plane flew into Tel Aviv, there was no sign of disruption or turmoil or terror as one sees far too often on American news; quite the contrary, there were only signs of life. From the sky, you are able to see houses with green grass, the beautiful city’s waves embracing the beach’s sand, and cars clinging to each other in traffic on Israel’s bustling highway system. It is a shame that these occurrences are not reported on in the States. While they are not exciting and seem bland in flavor, they are more so Israel’s every day reality than the reports of Middle Eastern bloodshed and conflict that hold a firm spot in the minds of most Americans.

Sam and I found our way to customs and had our foreign passports checked and stamped and continued on to baggage claim. After finding out stuff, we headed over to grab a taxi to Jerusalem. The taxi ride was one of the most hectic, wild car rides I have ever taken part in, and that says a lot coming from someone who lives in South Florida. The cab driver was quite a character, a middle aged Israeli man who spoke no English and seemed to have never gotten any formal education in driver’s etiquette. We swerved in and our of lanes, no turn signal in sight, and took full advantage of our seat-belts. Seat-belt became the first word I learned in Hebrew and after that experience, it is a word I will never forget. Hagurah = Seat-Belt

The driver dropped us off on Sam’s new street, Derech Hebron, and it took him a solid 30 minutes to find his apartment. He left me with all of our bags on the side of the road to find his new place, and I sat with 2 older women who were smoking, eating and gossiping. They offered me some homemade cinnamon cookies and we spoke to each other, as much as we could, using their broken English and my incredibly broken Hebrew. I told them I was here to volunteer for one year and that I would not be staying in Jerusalem for now.

You are raised in the States to never speak to strangers, to trust no one, and keep an eye on your neighbors. At the age of 22, my mom still warned me of this as I boarded the plane in Ft. Lauderdale. But as I sat on my duffel bag on the side of a road I didn’t know, in a city I was unfamiliar with, eating a cinnamon cookie from a woman I had known no more than 15 minutes, I felt more safe than I had in a long time. When Sam finally found the apartment and we had to go, the two women hugged me. One of them smiled, looked me straight in the eyes, and said “Behatzlecha veh todah. At isha tova.” In English, this means “Good luck and thank you. You are a good woman.” Upon leaving, I found myself a bit melancholy. Although not much had been said verbally, a full conversation had been had through our silence.

Sam and I ate dinner at a really great Asian restaurant a few blocks away from his apartment. After dinner, we hung out for a little, figured out how to set up a broken fan (no air conditioning- yikes) and since the traveling had exhausted us, we fell asleep very quickly.

The next day, we went to a coffee shop where Sam attempted to order in Hebrew. The guy at the counter said back to him, in perfect English, “Your Hebrew is so lame. Just stick to English.” I then bought a hairbrush at a store nearby. When we got back to his apartment, I packed up all my stuff and headed over to the Agron Youth Hostel where I would meet the people I would spending the next year with: OTZMA 26.