I've decided to do a master's degree in saving the world--graduate studies in making the world a better place. Do you think I'll graduate with honors? Do you think that my dissertation will get published? Or will it get thrown into the trash, or if I'm lucky and I've changed the world a bit by the time I finish my MA, the recycling bin?
From the time I was young, I knew I cared about people. December 25, 1989--this date marks my first act of social change. I volunteered with my father and members of our synagogue preparing Christmas dinner for homeless individuals and those who simply needed something to eat on a cold, winter day. I thought about the home I would return to after we finished carrying the big vats--or, for me, a small vat--of green beans and mashed potatoes to the large tent where they would eat. I thought that it was strange that even though I was Jewish, I was probably having a warmer Christmas than they were.
I was seven years old, and even then, I knew that some people in the world do not have enough to eat; some people do not have enough money to pay for heat; and most importantly, some people do not have anyone who cares enough to help them do something about it.
When I was six years old, I wanted to do something about it. Eighteen years later, I still have this desire. Now, however, my thoughts on social change are more extensive. I know what the “it” is; I can begin to imagine what “doing something” means.
So, I've applied for a master's program in Democracy and Citzenship--a program where the focus is how to change the world--knowing that education is not the only action needed but that it is a good place to start.
As my application is processed and I simply wait for my interview with the admissions committee, I think about the homeless individuals I've encountered the last couple weeks of my life. Beyond my daily encounters with truly homeless people in downtown Jerusalem--those who sleep on the sidewalks and beg for change from tourists, from Israelis, from anyone who is willing to give--I think of others.
Where did I spend my Passover seder? With women and children. Not so different that most seders, except that they were in a shelter for people who can't go home. Why? Because they don't have a home. Home for me, for most of us, is a place where one feels safe. If we define it that way, then they are homeless. They are in the shelter in an undisclosed location because they are escaping abusive husbands and fathers. What may have been--or may never have been--their homes were places where nobody felt safe, where violence and threats were the norm, where punches and yelling replaced embraces and kind words.
What's been in the news the last couple of weeks? The week of Passover, nine people were killed in a bombing in a falafel shop in Tel Aviv, more than fifty injured. What now for the spouses who lay in half-empty beds, staring at the dent in the mattress of their loved ones who will never return? Have they yet stopped making the extra cup of coffee in the morning, realizing that there's no need, that there isn't anyone to drink it? Is this a home? Or just a premature casket to live in for the next 50 years?
What else? A man murdered his wife--and then killed himself--leaving five children behind. What else? A man murdered his wife--and then killed himself--leaving two children behind. Yes, twice, in the span of a week. The children are taken from their homes, maybe to an aunt's house or maybe to a foster home. But is it home? Is home without your parents, without your loved ones, really a home?
I met a man last week who was arrested for trying to get into Jerusalem to get his medicine from a doctor and receive some money that had been donated to his family. He was arrested--released in the end--but still put in a holding cell because he didn't have the right paper work. He lives 10 miles away from me. How is it that his home is so different than mine? How is that the place he has called home his entire life is not considered his home by others?
And now, I think about myself--about my "home situation." I have a home where I grew up. And I have a home here. Does having more than one home mean you are lucky, or is it a curse of a different kind? Am I, too, homeless? But it's not acceptable for me to say this, for me to even think this way. The sacrifices so many before me have made to make my life easier, happier, more complete prevent me from even dwelling on the thought. I think of the soldiers who are fighting wars that will hopefully make the world a little safer. And when I think a little "closer to home," the numbers I heard this week arise in my thoughts. The almost 21,000 soldiers who have died defending Israel. The 83,000 who have been totally incapacitated as a result of the wounds they received during service. The millions more who have willingly put on khaki green and beige and navy blue to fight for their right to exist, to live in a place that is (even if not exclusively) the home of the Jews.
Tuesday was the Memorial day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror, and I attended a program where we discussed our different experiences of this powerful day in Israel. One of the phrases that came up numerous times was "how lucky we are to be able to be here," in essence to have a Jewish homeland.
Even if there are abusive parents and murder? Even if there are bombings and discrimination? Even if there people sleeping on the streets? Yes, even if there are all of these things and more, it's our home. And we'll quiet the noisy children. We'll fix the broken shingles. We'll make it so that one day, every one gets a seat at the dinner table.
And I hear the question already: "And if we don't succeed?" The answer is that in many ways, we already have and-- "And if don't succeed?" it interrupts my answer mid-sentence. The answer is that there is no choice, we will.
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