Sometimes no words are necessary...Davidi goes to school in Jerusalem - I'm hoping somewhere in the midst of all those who are dancing and waving the flags today is my son, Davidi. All of Jerusalem is decked out in blue and white today, dancing through the streets on their way to the Old City and to the Western Wall.
Dancing in the Streets of Jerusalem
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Guest Post: Compass of the Diaspora Jew
Hope you'll enjoy this guest post by Avital Chizhik
Jerusalem: Compass of the Diaspora Jew
We’re
standing in a hall in downtown Manhattan, overlooking a dusky Liberty Harbor.
The
girl standing next to me points to the river view: “Doesn’t it almost look like
Jerusalem? That terrace over there and that tree? The way the sun is setting?”
I
gaze for a minute at the view. We stand overlooking a dark Hudson River, a boat
passing by, the Statue of Liberty in the distance.
No,
it doesn’t look like Jerusalem in the least. Not here. This is most certainly
New York. I muster a smile, trying to think of an agreeable response until I
finally sigh and admit, “No, it doesn’t look like Jerusalem. Not at all.”
She’s
not happy with my answer. She’s fresh off a spring break Birthright trip
and probably still seeking Jerusalem. But look, the tree, and the sunset?
Why, you don’t see it? Something about those shadows.
I’ve
learned to nod politely in these moments; I understand her. It’s like stepping
off a plane in JFK and still smelling Jerusalem, hearing a loudspeaker and
thinking for a second that it’s the call of the muezzin.
Somehow
we always know how to seek Jerusalem, wherever we are: whether it’s by
Babylon’s rivers or the Hudson. It’s some kind of inner compass which
directs us there – not just for times of prayer, but in everything, on our
living room walls and our silk paintings, in our wedding invitation
calligraphy, our whispered consolations to mourners.
Even
in the Soviet Union. My mother tells me about her childhood in the far north of
Russia, the wait for exit visas in the ’70s. She tells me of dark winter
nights, secret copies of Exodus, gatherings with fellow Traitors of the
State and political activists. Jerusalem: it was the magical formula whispered
between activists. “Soon, we’ll be sipping coffee together in a Jerusalem
café,” Mark Morozov, one of the activists, said upon farewell, as my mother’s
family gathered to emigrate. A Jerusalem café – what does a Moscow Jew
know about a café in the Middle East?
The
idea of Jerusalem is ingrained in the subconscious of the Diaspora Jew,
arguably a different image than the one preserved by the Israeli. A place, yes,
but also a reality, an ideal to constantly face and strive towards. It’s become
the perfect metaphor for all of Israel, and even for Jewish identity itself: a
complicated place of winding streets, hills and valleys, divided, beautiful and
tense. A fusion of east and west, ancient and modern, “always of two.” As
Yehuda Amichai notes in his poetry: it’s at once an object of fantasy and also
entirely mundane.
And
often, it’s the ordinary which penetrates the Diaspora Jew. It’s not just
praying by the Western Wall or wandering the Old City, but it’s also about that
bus ride you take and the kind old man who blesses you and hands you a bag of
fresh lychees. Is it naive, perhaps, that I melt a little, every time I walk by
children playing in the city’s streets? That I can spend months in that place,
and still shake my head in disbelief over the miracles that took place there?
Is it possible, to yearn for the place in which one already stands?
Some
Israelis laugh when they watch us grow misty-eyed: “You’re impassioned with
this place, aren’t you?” They tolerate it, wonder at our shameless romanticism,
smile at our naiveté.
But
I’ve come to be proud of my admitted naiveté. It’s that same idealism of
standing by the Hudson and seeing Jerusalem somewhere in the distance, the same
fervor of the early pioneers and their ruthless conviction, the same
bright-eyed conversation held somewhere by the Arctic Circle and planning café
outings.
Soon,
we’ll be sipping coffee together in a Jerusalem café. That activist, who had
promised to meet my family in Jerusalem, died in a Soviet prison seven years
afterwards; my mother’s family settled in Brooklyn. But the stories of those
wintry nights, of waiting for an exit visa, remain strong – we’re still
seeking, straining to see Jerusalem from afar.
This
Jerusalem Day (Yom Yerushalayim), I’m reaffirming my conviction to
return, if for no other reason than to sit in that Jerusalem café, for the sake
of those who couldn’t.
Avital Chizhik is a recent graduate of Stern College
for Women and the outgoing president of the Yeshiva
University Israel Club. She hopes to make the big move to Israel
before next Jerusalem Day.
My History in Their Words - Jerusalem
Today, Israel is celebrating with a heart so full. Today is the 45th anniversary of an historical correction. We didn't try to make that correction; it was truly forced upon us. But the results are so right that I sit here today in my office in Jerusalem, dressed in blue and white - for myself, because I have no meetings today; and for Jerusalem, because I love this city very much.
In 1967, Israel tried to avoid war - as it does today, as it has from the beginning. We accepted the Partition Plan of the United Nations, splitting the land among Jews and Arabs. They, the Arabs, rejected it, believing they could "push the Jews into the sea" - their words, my history. Within hours of the declaration of Israel's statehood, five Arab nations invaded. We were outnumbered, outgunned, out...well, out everything, and still we fought and won.
That was in 1948 - the Arabs tried again in 1956, and again they were defeated. They began making plans for another war in 1967. Their intent had not changed, but this time, Israel launched a preemptive strike against Syria and Egypt, while sending a message to Jordan.
This was the atmosphere before...they cannot say, in their words, that we wanted war and they wanted peace:
Another video on YouTube shows Jordan's position - his words, my history:
The Jordanians chose to "fight with their brothers" - and by all that is logical, Israel should have lost. Again, his words - my history.
And finally, this video - it took me quite a while to find it in English. It is the moment when our forces broke through - back to the Old City, back to the Western Wall. There is a tradition to write a prayer, a hope, on a piece of paper and place it in the crevices of the wall. Two times a year, these thousands and thousands of tiny scraps of paper are removed and buried in a holy place so that there would be room for many other prayers of those who come, around the year, around the clock, to pray.
Today is the 45th anniversary of the reunification of Jerusalem. For 19 years, while the Jordanians held the Old City, Jews were denied the right to pray at the Western Wall. Since that time, Israel has done all it can to ensure religious freedom - allowing Muslim, Christian, and Jew the chance to pray in their holy places.
The only time the Arabs are restricted or denied entry to their holy places is when they riot or threaten violence. And even then, it is but a matter of days, not weeks, months, years. For 19 years, we were denied - and since then - every day, without exception, Jews come.
May God bless the city of Jerusalem with peace and may we forever know her glory. Happy Reunification, Jerusalem - you get better and better every year!
In 1967, Israel tried to avoid war - as it does today, as it has from the beginning. We accepted the Partition Plan of the United Nations, splitting the land among Jews and Arabs. They, the Arabs, rejected it, believing they could "push the Jews into the sea" - their words, my history. Within hours of the declaration of Israel's statehood, five Arab nations invaded. We were outnumbered, outgunned, out...well, out everything, and still we fought and won.
That was in 1948 - the Arabs tried again in 1956, and again they were defeated. They began making plans for another war in 1967. Their intent had not changed, but this time, Israel launched a preemptive strike against Syria and Egypt, while sending a message to Jordan.
This was the atmosphere before...they cannot say, in their words, that we wanted war and they wanted peace:
Another video on YouTube shows Jordan's position - his words, my history:
The Jordanians chose to "fight with their brothers" - and by all that is logical, Israel should have lost. Again, his words - my history.
And finally, this video - it took me quite a while to find it in English. It is the moment when our forces broke through - back to the Old City, back to the Western Wall. There is a tradition to write a prayer, a hope, on a piece of paper and place it in the crevices of the wall. Two times a year, these thousands and thousands of tiny scraps of paper are removed and buried in a holy place so that there would be room for many other prayers of those who come, around the year, around the clock, to pray.
Today is the 45th anniversary of the reunification of Jerusalem. For 19 years, while the Jordanians held the Old City, Jews were denied the right to pray at the Western Wall. Since that time, Israel has done all it can to ensure religious freedom - allowing Muslim, Christian, and Jew the chance to pray in their holy places.
The only time the Arabs are restricted or denied entry to their holy places is when they riot or threaten violence. And even then, it is but a matter of days, not weeks, months, years. For 19 years, we were denied - and since then - every day, without exception, Jews come.
May God bless the city of Jerusalem with peace and may we forever know her glory. Happy Reunification, Jerusalem - you get better and better every year!
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Profound Truths
Sometimes when you blog, the title comes at you and then you stop. So much to say but haven't I said it already? Will anyone suddenly believe because they hear it this time? Will someone suddenly see?
After typing those two simple words, I was stuck. What profound truths do I want to share? What drives me day after day to return to this blog and open my home, my family, my life, my country to others? That is really what it all comes down to, I think...profound truths.
There are truths...and profound truths. Half truths, mis-truths (better known as lies). There are violations of the truth, profanities of truth, those who defend truth, those who uphold truth, and so much more. Today, today I want to write about profound truths and I'm at a loss because I'm not sure where to start.
There are profound truths in parenting. I've been a parent for 26 and a half years. Long, long ago, I realized that I am perfectly able to take care of yesterday - if only it would come again. It is today and tomorrow that confuse me, challenge me and sometimes defeat me. If I have to think of just one truth - the most profound of all, it would be this - children need love and, by extension, children know when they are loved.
I have done some amazing things as a parent - amazingly good and amazingly stupid. But of all the wrongs or rights, the most right, I think, is that my children know, without question, without hesitation, that I love them beyond words. Children need clothes, food, warmth...but love is what you give when a child calls to tell you they smashed the car (again). Love is what you give when a child tells you he failed a test because he didn't study. Love is what you give, always and without reservation so that some day, your child will come to you and tell you how much they love their child and deep inside you think - finally, she understands; finally, he knows.
There are profound truths in history. All along, I thought this post would be about politics. A few hours ago, I made Elie's favorite...or maybe not his favorite but something he likes - the tuna fritter. I sent some home with Amira and then I took four of them to the mall where Elie and Shmulik are both working.
I called Elie because he already knew that I was making them and so that left only Shmulik to surprise. Elie told me they were both upstairs guarding two different gates on the top floor. As I drove towards the mall, I saw two guards checking the cars. Each one looks at the person driving, the passengers. Sometimes they check the glove compartment, the rear seat. They ask you to pop the trunk and check that as well. This time, the guard was mine. Shmulik was there, and not upstairs as I thought. He smiled, took the tuna fritters and passed me through. I drove up the ramp to the top and took Elie his tuna fritters and we talked a while before I drove back home.
When I got back to my house, I went out on the balcony, looking towards the Judean Desert and the hills of Jordan far beyond. It was one of those rare occasions when I had the house to myself. I heard a young boy call to his mother; I heard her answer back. I heard a basketball hitting the hoop and in the distance what sounded like a motorcycle.
It was quiet. It was peaceful. And there is your profound truth. People find peace even in places that are, on some level, at war every day.
Today in Israel, the head of the police ordered all police cars to run with flashing blue lights all the time - at least until September. It is intended to make them more visible and make people feel more secure. I think one of the profound truths I want to share is that Israel is a nation at peace because, by and large, we are at peace with ourselves. I walk through my neighborhood and meet friends who tell me they have seen my sons at the mall.
"The one who got married last year," she says. Ah, Shmulik.
"The older one, I think," he says. Ah, Elie.
I can go out on my balcony now - at night and in the dark, or walk up the block and feel no fear. I do not live in fear. And at this moment, I have one child asleep at home. In a few hours, three of my children will be in their homes - until tomorrow night and Saturday lunch, when they will again come to my home. My table will be full this weekend - as full as I ever imagined it to be and I now have the hope, the prayer, the faith to know it will yet be more full.
My parents are coming. One couple is coming to join us Friday night; the other two couples will join us for lunch. Tomorrow will be a mad day of cooking and cleaning (I already started today) and then more peace will come to my country as we welcome the Sabbath.
I can tell you that in 1948, 850,000 Jews left or were forced out of Arab lands and came to live in the newly re-declared State of Israel, and I can tell you that about the same number of Arabs fled and yes, in some cases (very few) were forced out. I can tell you that those Arabs who chose to stay were given citizenship and full rights; more than the Arabs who fled would receive in the countries they went to.
I can tell you that if the Arabs would stop firing rockets and attempting to launch terrorist attacks against us; if tomorrow they accepted our right to live here in peace - there would be peace. I can tell you that they target our civilians in their attacks while we do our best to avoid harming theirs.
All of these are the profound truths I thought of when those two words popped into my head as the title for this post. But truthfully, the most profound truth of all is that I am so blessed to live here in my land, with my family, my children. And I live in peace - the kind that fills the heart with joy.
My grandson learns new tricks each time I see him (several times a week). As I drove away from their home after dropping Amira and the baby off, I looked in the rear view mirror and saw her wonderful husband approach them, arms outstretched in joy as he took his son into his arms and greeted his wife after a day in the army.
Aliza baked cupcakes and brought home some to give us - a special pink one for me. Her father's cupcake is sitting near his computer waiting for him to get home. Elie has married a wonderful young lady who was and is a part of our family. Chaim called me because his older sister said she was going to call me and he thought he better call me first. Yaakov wrote me a note telling me he was my favorite son (and I agreed so long as he promised not to tell the others).
Shmulik married a young woman who is so sweet, so gentle, so beautiful. We speak in Hebrew but last week, she asked me to help her with her English homework and she made me tea. Davidi is coming home later tonight; he's gotten so tall and just called to tell me that he couldn't find any pants to buy in the mall but heard about a place that takes almost 2 hours to get to by bus. I'm going to give him profound love as much as I can because he really should work harder in school and buy pants 15 minutes from his school where Elie told him to buy them.
I could go on and on, so I'll end with the most profound truth of all - God put us on this world and gave us life. What we make of it - love or hate - is up to us.
After typing those two simple words, I was stuck. What profound truths do I want to share? What drives me day after day to return to this blog and open my home, my family, my life, my country to others? That is really what it all comes down to, I think...profound truths.
There are truths...and profound truths. Half truths, mis-truths (better known as lies). There are violations of the truth, profanities of truth, those who defend truth, those who uphold truth, and so much more. Today, today I want to write about profound truths and I'm at a loss because I'm not sure where to start.
There are profound truths in parenting. I've been a parent for 26 and a half years. Long, long ago, I realized that I am perfectly able to take care of yesterday - if only it would come again. It is today and tomorrow that confuse me, challenge me and sometimes defeat me. If I have to think of just one truth - the most profound of all, it would be this - children need love and, by extension, children know when they are loved.
I have done some amazing things as a parent - amazingly good and amazingly stupid. But of all the wrongs or rights, the most right, I think, is that my children know, without question, without hesitation, that I love them beyond words. Children need clothes, food, warmth...but love is what you give when a child calls to tell you they smashed the car (again). Love is what you give when a child tells you he failed a test because he didn't study. Love is what you give, always and without reservation so that some day, your child will come to you and tell you how much they love their child and deep inside you think - finally, she understands; finally, he knows.
There are profound truths in history. All along, I thought this post would be about politics. A few hours ago, I made Elie's favorite...or maybe not his favorite but something he likes - the tuna fritter. I sent some home with Amira and then I took four of them to the mall where Elie and Shmulik are both working.
I called Elie because he already knew that I was making them and so that left only Shmulik to surprise. Elie told me they were both upstairs guarding two different gates on the top floor. As I drove towards the mall, I saw two guards checking the cars. Each one looks at the person driving, the passengers. Sometimes they check the glove compartment, the rear seat. They ask you to pop the trunk and check that as well. This time, the guard was mine. Shmulik was there, and not upstairs as I thought. He smiled, took the tuna fritters and passed me through. I drove up the ramp to the top and took Elie his tuna fritters and we talked a while before I drove back home.
When I got back to my house, I went out on the balcony, looking towards the Judean Desert and the hills of Jordan far beyond. It was one of those rare occasions when I had the house to myself. I heard a young boy call to his mother; I heard her answer back. I heard a basketball hitting the hoop and in the distance what sounded like a motorcycle.
It was quiet. It was peaceful. And there is your profound truth. People find peace even in places that are, on some level, at war every day.
Today in Israel, the head of the police ordered all police cars to run with flashing blue lights all the time - at least until September. It is intended to make them more visible and make people feel more secure. I think one of the profound truths I want to share is that Israel is a nation at peace because, by and large, we are at peace with ourselves. I walk through my neighborhood and meet friends who tell me they have seen my sons at the mall.
"The one who got married last year," she says. Ah, Shmulik.
"The older one, I think," he says. Ah, Elie.
I can go out on my balcony now - at night and in the dark, or walk up the block and feel no fear. I do not live in fear. And at this moment, I have one child asleep at home. In a few hours, three of my children will be in their homes - until tomorrow night and Saturday lunch, when they will again come to my home. My table will be full this weekend - as full as I ever imagined it to be and I now have the hope, the prayer, the faith to know it will yet be more full.
My parents are coming. One couple is coming to join us Friday night; the other two couples will join us for lunch. Tomorrow will be a mad day of cooking and cleaning (I already started today) and then more peace will come to my country as we welcome the Sabbath.
I can tell you that in 1948, 850,000 Jews left or were forced out of Arab lands and came to live in the newly re-declared State of Israel, and I can tell you that about the same number of Arabs fled and yes, in some cases (very few) were forced out. I can tell you that those Arabs who chose to stay were given citizenship and full rights; more than the Arabs who fled would receive in the countries they went to.
I can tell you that if the Arabs would stop firing rockets and attempting to launch terrorist attacks against us; if tomorrow they accepted our right to live here in peace - there would be peace. I can tell you that they target our civilians in their attacks while we do our best to avoid harming theirs.
All of these are the profound truths I thought of when those two words popped into my head as the title for this post. But truthfully, the most profound truth of all is that I am so blessed to live here in my land, with my family, my children. And I live in peace - the kind that fills the heart with joy.
My grandson learns new tricks each time I see him (several times a week). As I drove away from their home after dropping Amira and the baby off, I looked in the rear view mirror and saw her wonderful husband approach them, arms outstretched in joy as he took his son into his arms and greeted his wife after a day in the army.
Aliza baked cupcakes and brought home some to give us - a special pink one for me. Her father's cupcake is sitting near his computer waiting for him to get home. Elie has married a wonderful young lady who was and is a part of our family. Chaim called me because his older sister said she was going to call me and he thought he better call me first. Yaakov wrote me a note telling me he was my favorite son (and I agreed so long as he promised not to tell the others).
Shmulik married a young woman who is so sweet, so gentle, so beautiful. We speak in Hebrew but last week, she asked me to help her with her English homework and she made me tea. Davidi is coming home later tonight; he's gotten so tall and just called to tell me that he couldn't find any pants to buy in the mall but heard about a place that takes almost 2 hours to get to by bus. I'm going to give him profound love as much as I can because he really should work harder in school and buy pants 15 minutes from his school where Elie told him to buy them.
I could go on and on, so I'll end with the most profound truth of all - God put us on this world and gave us life. What we make of it - love or hate - is up to us.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Brother in Front of Brother
You know how sometimes images get to you? How you can see it and feel that there is a symbolism so much greater than the moment...or maybe not. I don't know.
I got a call from Lauren late this afternoon. She was on her way home and was checking to see what my plans were. I didn't really have any. Most of my important work was done. I could go home or do more. It was one of those rare times when I have things to do but nothing pressing. She said she'd spoken to Elie and he had warned her that the Arabs were rioting at the entrance to our city.
Most of the buses go through the "old" entrance that was the main entrance until a few weeks ago when they quietly opened up a new one. Both are now heavily trafficked, saving motorists on both roads. I called Elie to see if he knew any more and he also warned me against the main entrance, directing me to the new one. He told me even the main one was clear, but they were expecting more trouble. I arranged to meet Lauren, so she wouldn't be on a bus. It was really just as easy to work from home.
I called Shmulik to see if he knew any more details as I packed my computer and shut down for the day. He told me the Arabs had approached the city from Azzaria, the Arab neighborhood to the left as you exit the city. They approached the guards and started pelting them, cars, and anything they could with rocks. Police were there, ambulances and emergency vehicles. "Take the new road, Ima," he also told me.
He explained, in more detail, what happened inside the city and as he spoke, the image began to form. The guards with guns were shuffled around to the main areas to protect the mall where my sons are security guards. Elie was stationed at Aroma, where Shmulik had been. Yoel, another friend, was moved to the main gate. Shmulik was positioned in front of Elie, further towards the front of the city.
That picture - of the two of them there stabs me in the heart. Silly, really. The threat was outside the city - about three blocks away from the mall - light years when it comes to getting past the armed guards at the front of the city.
Truly and without question, they were never in danger and yet I'll imagine that moment, of Elie guarding the restaurant entrance, of him having his back to the mall entrance, of Shmulik being further away from the mall, taking a position in front of Elie. I'll see that in my sleep, I think - of brother guarding brother; each covering the other and countless shoppers in the mall who likely knew nothing of the drama taking place in the front of the city - or of the two brothers standing guard.
No threat. Not really. Why doesn't that lessen the image in my mind?
I got a call from Lauren late this afternoon. She was on her way home and was checking to see what my plans were. I didn't really have any. Most of my important work was done. I could go home or do more. It was one of those rare times when I have things to do but nothing pressing. She said she'd spoken to Elie and he had warned her that the Arabs were rioting at the entrance to our city.
Most of the buses go through the "old" entrance that was the main entrance until a few weeks ago when they quietly opened up a new one. Both are now heavily trafficked, saving motorists on both roads. I called Elie to see if he knew any more and he also warned me against the main entrance, directing me to the new one. He told me even the main one was clear, but they were expecting more trouble. I arranged to meet Lauren, so she wouldn't be on a bus. It was really just as easy to work from home.
I called Shmulik to see if he knew any more details as I packed my computer and shut down for the day. He told me the Arabs had approached the city from Azzaria, the Arab neighborhood to the left as you exit the city. They approached the guards and started pelting them, cars, and anything they could with rocks. Police were there, ambulances and emergency vehicles. "Take the new road, Ima," he also told me.
He explained, in more detail, what happened inside the city and as he spoke, the image began to form. The guards with guns were shuffled around to the main areas to protect the mall where my sons are security guards. Elie was stationed at Aroma, where Shmulik had been. Yoel, another friend, was moved to the main gate. Shmulik was positioned in front of Elie, further towards the front of the city.
That picture - of the two of them there stabs me in the heart. Silly, really. The threat was outside the city - about three blocks away from the mall - light years when it comes to getting past the armed guards at the front of the city.
Truly and without question, they were never in danger and yet I'll imagine that moment, of Elie guarding the restaurant entrance, of him having his back to the mall entrance, of Shmulik being further away from the mall, taking a position in front of Elie. I'll see that in my sleep, I think - of brother guarding brother; each covering the other and countless shoppers in the mall who likely knew nothing of the drama taking place in the front of the city - or of the two brothers standing guard.
No threat. Not really. Why doesn't that lessen the image in my mind?
Bowling, Winning and Men
If you've been following this blog for any period of time, you'll know that I have three sons. They are each precious to me. And each, so different from the other. Of the three, Elie is the most sure of himself; Shmulik the most stubborn; and, I think, Davidi the most insecure. Or perhaps the word is unsure. He is at that awkward age of 16, teetering between the boy and tomorrow. He is luckier than Elie, in that he has a role model (two even) to follow; and he is less lucky because the path he follows has other footprints on it and it is harder for him to make his own way.
He is the fourth of my children to begin volunteering for the local ambulance squad. There, he is likely to be referred to as Elie's younger brother, as Elie has remained a part of the team while Amira and Shmulik stopped after several years.
Last night, Davidi went bowling on an organized evening of volunteers - some drivers and paramedics went, but mostly, it was the young volunteers that help the drivers on calls. They are, for the most part, below 18. There are strict rules that require them to end their shift at 10:30 p.m. (which is why Elie and now Lauren start their shifts around that time). If they are on a call, on their way to the hospital with injured people - the 10:30 p.m. is automatically extended, but if the call comes in at 10:31 p.m. - these young people cannot go out (they aren't even legally insured) and no chances are taken.
In the event that one of them is on an ambulance and a call comes through that there has been a terrorist attack, the driver must stop the ambulance and get the young person out. Drop them at a bus stop, get them a cab - anything but not take them to the attack. It gives us parents a measure of peace...at least until they turn 18.
So Davidi went bowling and somehow - he got sorted into a group of girls his age in the bowling lanes - and he lost ignobly. He was comforted by the fact that he threw the ball faster (and likely harder) than any of the girls (the automated scoring machine reports not just the results but the speed of the ball as it flies down the lane).
"The goal is to hit the pins, not throw the ball fast," I reminded him and loved the laugh I got and the smile that came easily with it. Sixteen is such a hard age. He's already talking about driving lessons.
If you've been following this blog, you'll also know that I have two daughters. It seems so much easier to raise daughters than sons. Daughters are more open to sharing their thoughts and concerns. Aliza at 12 is an endless source of information. Her life, her concerns, her friends (which change almost daily). It's just so easy to know what she is thinking about, what her concerns are, what brings her joy and what frightens her. Yes, I am blessed with the relationship I have with her, but still, it is one that seems almost without work.
Amira awes me, amazes me, impresses me beyond words. She is a young mother, a wonderful wife. She is building a relationship with her husband based on communication and sharing. She studies in university and balances so much and while I doubt she tells me everything, we have a wonderful relationship which is, like Aliza's, one that seems almost without work.
Davidi is work - I have to pull things from him. Not affection - that still comes freely. He will come in and say he loves me. He'll give me a kiss sometimes without my asking (and he'll suffer my kisses back even more often). There is a depth to him, as there was in Elie. Like Elie, there is much going on below the surface that is his life and thoughts.
He joked about being beaten by girls and yet, he didn't really seem to mind it that much and definitely thought of the night as fun. I was talking to someone the other day about this blog. I explained that I'm in a strange place with the army. Other than a few days here or there, the army and I don't have a daily relationship. I didn't really begin thinking about the army until about 2 months before Elie went in. With Shmulik, I was already thinking about it and so it was more of a continuation than an a fresh start.
Davidi is almost 16 and a half. The army is, at least, 2 years away. It's too early to imagine, to worry, to think. We went to friends last week; people who had once been our next door neighbors. We saw their children - so big and grown. One wasn't there. He's a year and a half older than Davidi and he's already in the army. The little boy who was so big, even then, is over 2 meters tall now; his hair still blond...and he's in the army. It brought home to me the fact that 2 years really isn't such a long period of time. Too soon, I think, too soon to think of it and yet too soon it will come.
Another son, another soldier. No...today, I'll think about him sitting in the other room studying for a test. I'll think of him bowling with a bunch of girls, blushing more than a 16 year old boy wants to blush, and laughing because though he can throw the bowling ball very hard and very fast, he just kept missing the pins.
That's how I'll cope, from now until perhaps two months before he goes in, when I'll once again be overwhelmed with the reality that tomorrow is coming way too fast.
He is the fourth of my children to begin volunteering for the local ambulance squad. There, he is likely to be referred to as Elie's younger brother, as Elie has remained a part of the team while Amira and Shmulik stopped after several years.
Last night, Davidi went bowling on an organized evening of volunteers - some drivers and paramedics went, but mostly, it was the young volunteers that help the drivers on calls. They are, for the most part, below 18. There are strict rules that require them to end their shift at 10:30 p.m. (which is why Elie and now Lauren start their shifts around that time). If they are on a call, on their way to the hospital with injured people - the 10:30 p.m. is automatically extended, but if the call comes in at 10:31 p.m. - these young people cannot go out (they aren't even legally insured) and no chances are taken.
In the event that one of them is on an ambulance and a call comes through that there has been a terrorist attack, the driver must stop the ambulance and get the young person out. Drop them at a bus stop, get them a cab - anything but not take them to the attack. It gives us parents a measure of peace...at least until they turn 18.
So Davidi went bowling and somehow - he got sorted into a group of girls his age in the bowling lanes - and he lost ignobly. He was comforted by the fact that he threw the ball faster (and likely harder) than any of the girls (the automated scoring machine reports not just the results but the speed of the ball as it flies down the lane).
"The goal is to hit the pins, not throw the ball fast," I reminded him and loved the laugh I got and the smile that came easily with it. Sixteen is such a hard age. He's already talking about driving lessons.
If you've been following this blog, you'll also know that I have two daughters. It seems so much easier to raise daughters than sons. Daughters are more open to sharing their thoughts and concerns. Aliza at 12 is an endless source of information. Her life, her concerns, her friends (which change almost daily). It's just so easy to know what she is thinking about, what her concerns are, what brings her joy and what frightens her. Yes, I am blessed with the relationship I have with her, but still, it is one that seems almost without work.
Amira awes me, amazes me, impresses me beyond words. She is a young mother, a wonderful wife. She is building a relationship with her husband based on communication and sharing. She studies in university and balances so much and while I doubt she tells me everything, we have a wonderful relationship which is, like Aliza's, one that seems almost without work.
Davidi is work - I have to pull things from him. Not affection - that still comes freely. He will come in and say he loves me. He'll give me a kiss sometimes without my asking (and he'll suffer my kisses back even more often). There is a depth to him, as there was in Elie. Like Elie, there is much going on below the surface that is his life and thoughts.
He joked about being beaten by girls and yet, he didn't really seem to mind it that much and definitely thought of the night as fun. I was talking to someone the other day about this blog. I explained that I'm in a strange place with the army. Other than a few days here or there, the army and I don't have a daily relationship. I didn't really begin thinking about the army until about 2 months before Elie went in. With Shmulik, I was already thinking about it and so it was more of a continuation than an a fresh start.
Davidi is almost 16 and a half. The army is, at least, 2 years away. It's too early to imagine, to worry, to think. We went to friends last week; people who had once been our next door neighbors. We saw their children - so big and grown. One wasn't there. He's a year and a half older than Davidi and he's already in the army. The little boy who was so big, even then, is over 2 meters tall now; his hair still blond...and he's in the army. It brought home to me the fact that 2 years really isn't such a long period of time. Too soon, I think, too soon to think of it and yet too soon it will come.
Another son, another soldier. No...today, I'll think about him sitting in the other room studying for a test. I'll think of him bowling with a bunch of girls, blushing more than a 16 year old boy wants to blush, and laughing because though he can throw the bowling ball very hard and very fast, he just kept missing the pins.
That's how I'll cope, from now until perhaps two months before he goes in, when I'll once again be overwhelmed with the reality that tomorrow is coming way too fast.
Friday, May 11, 2012
An Israeli Drunk
My parents enjoyed a glass of wine now and then. I know that had some alcohol in the house, but they were never the martini type and as kids, I don't really remember there being much wine in the house - except maybe before Passover. My husband doesn't love to drink...and neither do I and so each week we make kiddush, the blessing over wine that begins the Sabbath meals, over grape juice.
Our kids aren't drinkers - most don't even like the taste of wine and none of them like beer. The except seems to be with our other kids - the ones we took in. Yaakov and Chaim are, by our standards, wine connaisseurs. I once called Chaim on the phone to ask his advice on which wine to buy and he was a bit taken back to hear that my liquor store was the local supermarket.
Once, when Elie was in the pre-military academy before entering the army, he stayed over there to celebrate the holiday of Purim with the other students and rabbis. It is a custom on Purim to drink - even to drink too much. Elie wasn't drinking and one of his teachers asked him why. He explained that he didn't really like the taste of alcohol and so the teacher handed Elie his M16 and said - okay, so you be the guard. Elie thought that was way more cool than drinking.
Last night, after having dinner with visiting cousins from the States, I drove one car to where Shmulik was on duty as a security guard for an events hall. My husband had gone back to the office to get his computer and would meet me there. The idea was to give Shmulik the car and drive home together, leaving Shmulik a way to get home when his shift ended.
For whatever reason, there was a rather long delay and so I stood talking to Shmulik while I waited. The owner/manager of the place came over and Shmulik introduced us. He insisted that Shmulik give me some soup and a drink while we waited and told me what a wonderful young man he is. A while later, a couple walked out, leaving the party a bit earlier than most.
"Whose guarding here?" he asked Shmulik, "you or your mother?"
His wife answered with a smile, "he's guarding the place and she's guarding him."
"God should bless you," he told Shmulik, and watch over you."
After they'd walked away, Shmulik turned to me and said, "you know he was drunk, right?"
Yes, I knew he was drunk - and yet, think what amazing things came out of his mouth - not loud, not angry, not silly but rather a blessing for a young man to be safe. I love this country so much - even the drunks among us!
Shabbat shalom - may it come in peace and may Got watch over all of us.
Our kids aren't drinkers - most don't even like the taste of wine and none of them like beer. The except seems to be with our other kids - the ones we took in. Yaakov and Chaim are, by our standards, wine connaisseurs. I once called Chaim on the phone to ask his advice on which wine to buy and he was a bit taken back to hear that my liquor store was the local supermarket.
Once, when Elie was in the pre-military academy before entering the army, he stayed over there to celebrate the holiday of Purim with the other students and rabbis. It is a custom on Purim to drink - even to drink too much. Elie wasn't drinking and one of his teachers asked him why. He explained that he didn't really like the taste of alcohol and so the teacher handed Elie his M16 and said - okay, so you be the guard. Elie thought that was way more cool than drinking.
Last night, after having dinner with visiting cousins from the States, I drove one car to where Shmulik was on duty as a security guard for an events hall. My husband had gone back to the office to get his computer and would meet me there. The idea was to give Shmulik the car and drive home together, leaving Shmulik a way to get home when his shift ended.
For whatever reason, there was a rather long delay and so I stood talking to Shmulik while I waited. The owner/manager of the place came over and Shmulik introduced us. He insisted that Shmulik give me some soup and a drink while we waited and told me what a wonderful young man he is. A while later, a couple walked out, leaving the party a bit earlier than most.
"Whose guarding here?" he asked Shmulik, "you or your mother?"
His wife answered with a smile, "he's guarding the place and she's guarding him."
"God should bless you," he told Shmulik, and watch over you."
After they'd walked away, Shmulik turned to me and said, "you know he was drunk, right?"
Yes, I knew he was drunk - and yet, think what amazing things came out of his mouth - not loud, not angry, not silly but rather a blessing for a young man to be safe. I love this country so much - even the drunks among us!
Shabbat shalom - may it come in peace and may Got watch over all of us.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
The Politics and Lies of Choosing Death
Currently, 1,580 Palestinian prisoners have decided to go on a hunger strike because they want...well, honestly, I don't care what they want and I won't give them this blog as a platform. What I will tell you is that of this large amount, only 6 have yet to be charged with crimes.
Of the remaining 1,574 - all were tried and convicted of crimes. One of the hunger strikers is Abdullah Barghouti. It is his fact that appears in the media as one of the poor starving prisoners. I know his name. I know his history and I know he deserves no compassion, no regret. If Israel had a death penalty, his name would be listed high among those deserving death for what he has done.
Years ago, I was working on a project and was asked to edit a long list of his crimes. It was a project to document what various convicted criminals/terrorists had done. Each article made me angry; each victim named made me sad. Abdullah Barghouti's article made me sick. By the end of the article, my stomach was in knots and I had to stop for a while. I remember going into Aliza's room and picking her up and holding her while she slept. I needed her purity after touching the filth that is Abdullah Barghouti's life.
He was convicted and sentenced to 67 life terms for his crimes. He is the one who made the bomb that was hidden in a guitar and taken by a young Arab couple to a lovely pizzeria in Jerusalem on a sunny day in August, 2001. Fifteen people died that day - eight of them children.
Izz al-Din Shuheil al-Masri, the "man" who carried the bomb, died in the explosion. When you hear of this attack, the number of dead varies. Some say 15; some say 16. The difference is the terrorist bomber who chose death. I will say 15 people died that day because whatever he was, that man that chose to murder and maim, he was not a person.
A woman who was his cover. Ahlam Tamimi escorted al-Masri to the pizzeria as a distraction to the soldiers and others. It worked. Her "boyfriend" got the chance to murder while she calmly walked away. She was eventually captured and tried, convicted of murder, sentenced, and recently released as one of the prisoners in the Gilad Shalit deal. She was asked about the children she murdered - watch her smile and see the definition of evil.
The man who made the bomb that Tamimi and her murdering f is still in jail. He was convicted and sentenced to 67 life terms for his crimes. Do you really care if he starves himself to death?
Obama and the UN have expressed concern for the health of the hunger strikers. If I were to tell you that Charles Manson was on a hunger strike - would you insist he be released? Would you care? If I told you Timothy Mcveigh, who murdered 168 people in the Oklahoma City bombing was on a hunger strike would you expect the UN to step in?
Before you jump on the wagon of sympathy - please know the facts. There are only six out of more than 1,580 prisoners who have not been charged. Each of these six cases is being or has been evaluated by legal authorities. Two of them - the ones who started this whole nonsense, are leaders of the Palestinian Islamic Jihad (PIJ) and the court has rejected their demands because they present a clear danger to Israel and Israelis. They are not innocent people leading innocent lives. If they had the chance, more Izz al-Din Shuheil al-Masris and Ahlam Tamimis would walk into more Sbarros and murder more Malki Roths. This is their life's mission and one they are willing to die for.
Each of these 1,580 prisoners has a choice to eat and live or starve himself to death. That choice, to live or die, is more than they gave their victims.
-----
See The Ongoing War to learn more about one of the victims of these prisoners - and an article by her parents about the hunger strikers. Their beautiful 15-year-old daughter was never given a choice. She would have chosen life. See http://www.kerenmalki.org/ to see how loving parents turn tragedy into a true memorial.
Of the remaining 1,574 - all were tried and convicted of crimes. One of the hunger strikers is Abdullah Barghouti. It is his fact that appears in the media as one of the poor starving prisoners. I know his name. I know his history and I know he deserves no compassion, no regret. If Israel had a death penalty, his name would be listed high among those deserving death for what he has done.
Years ago, I was working on a project and was asked to edit a long list of his crimes. It was a project to document what various convicted criminals/terrorists had done. Each article made me angry; each victim named made me sad. Abdullah Barghouti's article made me sick. By the end of the article, my stomach was in knots and I had to stop for a while. I remember going into Aliza's room and picking her up and holding her while she slept. I needed her purity after touching the filth that is Abdullah Barghouti's life.
He was convicted and sentenced to 67 life terms for his crimes. He is the one who made the bomb that was hidden in a guitar and taken by a young Arab couple to a lovely pizzeria in Jerusalem on a sunny day in August, 2001. Fifteen people died that day - eight of them children.
Izz al-Din Shuheil al-Masri, the "man" who carried the bomb, died in the explosion. When you hear of this attack, the number of dead varies. Some say 15; some say 16. The difference is the terrorist bomber who chose death. I will say 15 people died that day because whatever he was, that man that chose to murder and maim, he was not a person.
A woman who was his cover. Ahlam Tamimi escorted al-Masri to the pizzeria as a distraction to the soldiers and others. It worked. Her "boyfriend" got the chance to murder while she calmly walked away. She was eventually captured and tried, convicted of murder, sentenced, and recently released as one of the prisoners in the Gilad Shalit deal. She was asked about the children she murdered - watch her smile and see the definition of evil.
The man who made the bomb that Tamimi and her murdering f is still in jail. He was convicted and sentenced to 67 life terms for his crimes. Do you really care if he starves himself to death?
Obama and the UN have expressed concern for the health of the hunger strikers. If I were to tell you that Charles Manson was on a hunger strike - would you insist he be released? Would you care? If I told you Timothy Mcveigh, who murdered 168 people in the Oklahoma City bombing was on a hunger strike would you expect the UN to step in?
Before you jump on the wagon of sympathy - please know the facts. There are only six out of more than 1,580 prisoners who have not been charged. Each of these six cases is being or has been evaluated by legal authorities. Two of them - the ones who started this whole nonsense, are leaders of the Palestinian Islamic Jihad (PIJ) and the court has rejected their demands because they present a clear danger to Israel and Israelis. They are not innocent people leading innocent lives. If they had the chance, more Izz al-Din Shuheil al-Masris and Ahlam Tamimis would walk into more Sbarros and murder more Malki Roths. This is their life's mission and one they are willing to die for.
Each of these 1,580 prisoners has a choice to eat and live or starve himself to death. That choice, to live or die, is more than they gave their victims.
-----
See The Ongoing War to learn more about one of the victims of these prisoners - and an article by her parents about the hunger strikers. Their beautiful 15-year-old daughter was never given a choice. She would have chosen life. See http://www.kerenmalki.org/ to see how loving parents turn tragedy into a true memorial.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Brutalizing a Brother
This man was shot 6 times - by Hamas, his brothers. He is a Palestinian - saved by Israeli soldiers he expected to kill him...the translation isn't great...at least from Hebrew to English. According to the Hebrew, the man says, "the Israelis saved me" and according to the English, he says, "the Jews saved me."
Jew or Israeli - it clearly wasn't the Palestinians - his brothers. They are the ones who shot him six times, wanting to kill him.
Jew or Israeli - it clearly wasn't the Palestinians - his brothers. They are the ones who shot him six times, wanting to kill him.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Why does Israel have checkpoints?
This morning, alert soldiers stopped an Arab attempting to go through the checkpoint and found this gun. Yeah, it doesn't look in great condition, but I assume if the Arab cared enough to try to smuggle it through, he was convinced he could do something with it in the end, and I doubt what he wanted to do would have pleased many of us in Israel.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Copyright Statement