The numbers were not looking good. It was Friday at 11am and this year's Thanksgiving was in danger of being taken over by foreigners. No, I'm not talking about Pilgrims who were anxious to infect Native Americans with new germs. I'm talking about something slightly more serious here--non-Americans who have never sat and watched 14 straight hours of parade coverage-football marathons while stuffing their faces with turducken (a very sick prospect if you ask me, but click on the link anyhow http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turducken), pumpkin pie, sweet potatoes, and whatever else doesn't run away from them.
That's right--7 people were coming to dinner and the number of Americans was 2. 2/7 is not good odds if you are trying to have a real Thanksgiving dinner in a middle eastern country where finding cranberry sauce is only slightly easier than establishing a peace treaty. And then my friend Zach called. "I just wanted to wish you a happy Thanksgiving since I know it's your favorite holiday of all time."
He's right, and I was doing my best to bring Thanksgiving to my humble little apartment in Jerusalem and the natives of the land. Since we wouldn't be having a real turkey this year (or a turducken, for that matter), I had invested in a bit of multi-colored construction paper and made place cards for everyone in the shape of turkeys (or my hand, you know the deal--trace your hand, now cut it out and make the thumb the turkey head and so on . . . ). So, Zach was invited (a real "Mer-ken"), and the gap decreased by one.
The number of countries represented at Thanksgiving dinner on Friday was slightly lower than the number on the UN Security Council: United States (Florida, Michigan, and North Carolina), Israel, Norway, United Kingdom, The Netherlands, and Canada.
The cranberry sauce was found and brought by the Dutch ambassador, but unfortunately, the British emissary screwed it up. To be fair, she apologized after the American contingency explained to her that it is absolutely essential that the cranberry sauce maintain its molded can-shape, with the rings visible to the naked eye, and that mashing it for aesthetic appeal wasn't acceptable. The Norwegian (and her American liaison) brought banana nut bread and chocolate cake and a variety of Thanksgiving (and Southern) delights were provided by myself and my Israeli consul general.
Overall, it was a great night. But if you were paying attention, you may have noticed there's a problem with my story. Yep, that's right--we did it on Friday. But you know, maybe the Pilgrims did, too. I mean, when you're cooking a turducken on a spit, it takes a little bit longer . . .
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Driving Without a License
As I headed towards Mahane Yehuda (one of Jerusalem's famous open air fruit/vegetable/meat markets) this morning, I decided that today was the day to buy an agala. I won't give you the literal translation of the word because the one my roommate provided finds favor in my eyes.
"You bought a little-old-lady-cart?" she said, when I informed her of my purchase.
"I bought a cart."
"Where is it?" she asked.
"In the corner over there."
"It's plaid!"
Indeed, it is plaid. My plaid little-old-lady-cart.
But if you ask me, it's a necessity--not of being an old lady, but of being a true shopper of the shuk (market).
First, having a cart allows you to intimidate other shoppers. In the crowded alleyways of the shuk, this is essential. Not only do vegetables rolling off huge piles threaten to dampen your progress as your make your way towards your favorite tomato guy (you know the one, he sings about it being the tomato's birthday and that's why it's on sale), but little old ladies (note: ALL with their plaid carts) often attempt to trample you on their way to the cheapest whole-shiny-smoked fish (if you are imagining it being gross, you are correct).
Second, pulling your cart around relieves stress. I speak now not only of the back pain and finger pain (hold 27 plastic bags full of peppers and olives in your hands and you'll understand what I mean) which inevitably accompanies a shuk visit, but also of the stress my boyfriend likes to express in the following sentence, "Don't send me there--no, not on a Friday--no, anywhere but there." My exercise for relieving this stress is as follows:
1) Pull your cart without watching where you are going (this is a skill one learns very quickly once moving to Israel).
2) Run over as many people's toes as possible.
3) When you feel a bump (someone's left pinky-toe being taken off in one fell swoop), turn around with a shocked look on your face and say, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to."
4) Turn back around and smile devilishly.
5) Repeat steps 1-4 in every alleyway of the shuk.
6) Join the witness protection program because the little old ladies with their carts will probably recognize you next week and come after you brandishing cheap-whole-shiny-smoked fish.
The third, and certainly not final, benefit of having a little-old-lady-cart is that it allows me to use my driving skills for something. Since I received my driver's license (a disheartening story which can be told at another time or . . . NEVER), I have not driven in Israel. Wait, I once moved someone's car to another parking space--it was thrilling. If you don't use it, you lose it. And just to prove how close driving a car is to driving an agala, the man who sold me the little-old-lady-cart (despite my being under the legal age limit) asked if I had a license to drive it.
As I headed out the store, with my new cart in tow, he called after me, "Have a good trip!" And I did--except you know, I have to say, prices just aren't what they used to be when I was a kid.
"You bought a little-old-lady-cart?" she said, when I informed her of my purchase.
"I bought a cart."
"Where is it?" she asked.
"In the corner over there."
"It's plaid!"
Indeed, it is plaid. My plaid little-old-lady-cart.
But if you ask me, it's a necessity--not of being an old lady, but of being a true shopper of the shuk (market).
First, having a cart allows you to intimidate other shoppers. In the crowded alleyways of the shuk, this is essential. Not only do vegetables rolling off huge piles threaten to dampen your progress as your make your way towards your favorite tomato guy (you know the one, he sings about it being the tomato's birthday and that's why it's on sale), but little old ladies (note: ALL with their plaid carts) often attempt to trample you on their way to the cheapest whole-shiny-smoked fish (if you are imagining it being gross, you are correct).
Second, pulling your cart around relieves stress. I speak now not only of the back pain and finger pain (hold 27 plastic bags full of peppers and olives in your hands and you'll understand what I mean) which inevitably accompanies a shuk visit, but also of the stress my boyfriend likes to express in the following sentence, "Don't send me there--no, not on a Friday--no, anywhere but there." My exercise for relieving this stress is as follows:
1) Pull your cart without watching where you are going (this is a skill one learns very quickly once moving to Israel).
2) Run over as many people's toes as possible.
3) When you feel a bump (someone's left pinky-toe being taken off in one fell swoop), turn around with a shocked look on your face and say, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to."
4) Turn back around and smile devilishly.
5) Repeat steps 1-4 in every alleyway of the shuk.
6) Join the witness protection program because the little old ladies with their carts will probably recognize you next week and come after you brandishing cheap-whole-shiny-smoked fish.
The third, and certainly not final, benefit of having a little-old-lady-cart is that it allows me to use my driving skills for something. Since I received my driver's license (a disheartening story which can be told at another time or . . . NEVER), I have not driven in Israel. Wait, I once moved someone's car to another parking space--it was thrilling. If you don't use it, you lose it. And just to prove how close driving a car is to driving an agala, the man who sold me the little-old-lady-cart (despite my being under the legal age limit) asked if I had a license to drive it.
As I headed out the store, with my new cart in tow, he called after me, "Have a good trip!" And I did--except you know, I have to say, prices just aren't what they used to be when I was a kid.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
93 Seconds . . . Longer than a Lifetime
I did it. I finally did it. Yep, I spoke in class. And not just to say, "Here," when my name was called on the roll. No, I said . . . something, something intelligent even.
"What's the big deal?" you ask. "You, of all people, are not afraid to talk." In fact, it could even be said, that I'm . . . talkative. Well, what happened to me was aliyah. Moving to a new country can significantly affect how you talk, when you talk, and with whom you feel comfortable sharing your old wisdom in your new language.
The first time I noticed my lack of willingness to participate in conversation was when I was in a group of Israelis who assumed my Hebrew was good enough for them to continue speaking in Hebrew instead of translating everything for me or conducting the conversation in English for me. I, like many olim (immigrants), assumed that I knew what was happening in the conversation. I've heard so many times over the years--in fact, said it myself: "Oh, I understand everything that people say to me; it's just hard for me to form sentences of my own." Let me clear things up. You, I, think we understand everything that is being said, but the more Hebrew you learn, the clearer and simultaneously more confusing things become. Because the more you learn, the more you realize you don't know. The words that before were lost in a sea of quickly spoken Hebrew words now stick out--and you realize you have no clue what they mean and how much of the conversation you are really missing.
This is what university in Israel for olim is all about. Realizing that, "Wow, there are a lot of things I still don't know." That and, to be fair, how much you do know compared to the people around you. A few weeks ago, I sat in a political philosophy class listening to Israeli students speak about "American culture," a central topic in the reading for the week. I must say, Israelis, in many ways, are able to capture the essence of American culture in a way I never thought they were capable of doing. They are outsiders looking in and this gives them a certain objectivity. However, there was something missing--"Oh, right, they've never seen 'Saved by the Bell' or gone trick-or-treating and they make fun of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches." That's why they don't truly understand. It hit me. Who am I? I'm American sometimes. I'm Israeli sometimes. Oh, yeah, I'm an immigrant.
About speaking in class, though, some of you would argue, "But your Hebrew is great (i.e. your American accent barely comes out when you speak--It's always there, waiting to pounce at the most embarrassing opportunity!)" I'll say it once: It doesn't matter. Speaking to a taxi driver, speaking to a friend, speaking to a doctor--these are not the same as speaking in front of 50 people in a class. However, this week, my opportunity (read: moment of greatest fear) finally arrived--I had to present Plato's "Cave Allegory" since my slacker group members had not read it.
I boldly (read: with a shaking voice and looking at my notes--written in Hebrew--every few seconds) explained the allegory. And after one repetition in the middle--where I got a little nervous after not knowing how to say what I wanted--and a faked smile, I finished. I survived. 93 seconds of pure hell.
But the teacher said, "Very good description." So, I figure, maybe . . . sometime during the next two years of my master's degree, I'll do it again.
Oh, right, I have to give a ten-minute presentation next week.
"What's the big deal?" you ask. "You, of all people, are not afraid to talk." In fact, it could even be said, that I'm . . . talkative. Well, what happened to me was aliyah. Moving to a new country can significantly affect how you talk, when you talk, and with whom you feel comfortable sharing your old wisdom in your new language.
The first time I noticed my lack of willingness to participate in conversation was when I was in a group of Israelis who assumed my Hebrew was good enough for them to continue speaking in Hebrew instead of translating everything for me or conducting the conversation in English for me. I, like many olim (immigrants), assumed that I knew what was happening in the conversation. I've heard so many times over the years--in fact, said it myself: "Oh, I understand everything that people say to me; it's just hard for me to form sentences of my own." Let me clear things up. You, I, think we understand everything that is being said, but the more Hebrew you learn, the clearer and simultaneously more confusing things become. Because the more you learn, the more you realize you don't know. The words that before were lost in a sea of quickly spoken Hebrew words now stick out--and you realize you have no clue what they mean and how much of the conversation you are really missing.
This is what university in Israel for olim is all about. Realizing that, "Wow, there are a lot of things I still don't know." That and, to be fair, how much you do know compared to the people around you. A few weeks ago, I sat in a political philosophy class listening to Israeli students speak about "American culture," a central topic in the reading for the week. I must say, Israelis, in many ways, are able to capture the essence of American culture in a way I never thought they were capable of doing. They are outsiders looking in and this gives them a certain objectivity. However, there was something missing--"Oh, right, they've never seen 'Saved by the Bell' or gone trick-or-treating and they make fun of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches." That's why they don't truly understand. It hit me. Who am I? I'm American sometimes. I'm Israeli sometimes. Oh, yeah, I'm an immigrant.
About speaking in class, though, some of you would argue, "But your Hebrew is great (i.e. your American accent barely comes out when you speak--It's always there, waiting to pounce at the most embarrassing opportunity!)" I'll say it once: It doesn't matter. Speaking to a taxi driver, speaking to a friend, speaking to a doctor--these are not the same as speaking in front of 50 people in a class. However, this week, my opportunity (read: moment of greatest fear) finally arrived--I had to present Plato's "Cave Allegory" since my slacker group members had not read it.
I boldly (read: with a shaking voice and looking at my notes--written in Hebrew--every few seconds) explained the allegory. And after one repetition in the middle--where I got a little nervous after not knowing how to say what I wanted--and a faked smile, I finished. I survived. 93 seconds of pure hell.
But the teacher said, "Very good description." So, I figure, maybe . . . sometime during the next two years of my master's degree, I'll do it again.
Oh, right, I have to give a ten-minute presentation next week.
Friday, November 17, 2006
I'm an aunt (and a hunted species)
I'm an aunt, I'm an aunt, I'm an aunt (come on, sing with me, to the tune of "Yellow Submarine", right, if you didn't try, then you don't know that it doesn't go with that tune--I was actually humming "Stars and Stripes").
Yes, little seven-pound nineteen-inch cute as a button Stephen Michael was born yesterday morning. My brother's sister (Those of you who are paying attention will notice that this person is me. In fact, it is my brother's wife who gave birth on Tuesday. For some reason, I kept saying it wrong to everyone I told.) gave birth at 8:09 am in Pensacola, Florida. According to all sources present, he has 20 toes and fingers (inclusively) and is:
1) very cute*
2) very small
and 3) reminiscent of his father (except he has more hair!)
*See pictures above for proof of his cuteness.
Now is the time I feel it--that is, exactly how far away I am. I sit here in the university library behind a pile of books in a language not exactly my own and wonder if Little Stephen would find the book "Reexamining Democracy: Essays in Honor of Seymour Martin Lipset" interesting at all. I wonder if I'll get to spend time with him and if he'll know who I am. Will he study political science like me? Or will he choose a more "profitable" educational field like zoo-keeping or astronaut-ing? I wonder if his first word will be "Mama." Perhaps it will be "Democrat."
So many questions and so much time for him to explore the world. It's inspiring, I think--Little Stephen's new venture into the oxygen-breathing sector of the universe.
(And now a bit of irony)
On another note, in our weekly telephone conversation, my mother reminded me that every time one of her co-workers finds out where I live, he/she gasps and says, "Are you scared? Isn't she scared?" The answer is usually "No." But as I walked through one of Jerusalem's nicer neighborhoods last night on my way to meet friends for a drink, I encountered a chilling reminder of how much hate exists in the world. The graffiti I saw scrawled on the stone wall surrounding a beautiful house reminded me of the graffiti so common on random walls in Jerusalem--"wise" pronouncements of "Death to Arabs", "Death to Gays (or insert "Animals", which is a fond nickname of some sectors of society for non-heterosexuals), "Death to Rabbits" (a play on words and the slogan "Death to Arabs" in Hebrew)--graffiti that more often than not stays up longer than the current parliament coalition. Except this time, I was the target. No, it didn't say, "Death to Kind, American-ish, Liberal-ish, Idealist, Humorous, Likes Spaghetti Girls in their 20s". What was written was far more explicit (and you ask yourself, "Gee, how can it be more explicit than that?")--"Death to Vegetarians."
So, as I walked home last night, I looked over my shoulder . . .
Not for rabbit/gay person/Arab hunters, but for the guy who could see my low-iron content and knew . . .
Yes, little seven-pound nineteen-inch cute as a button Stephen Michael was born yesterday morning. My brother's sister (Those of you who are paying attention will notice that this person is me. In fact, it is my brother's wife who gave birth on Tuesday. For some reason, I kept saying it wrong to everyone I told.) gave birth at 8:09 am in Pensacola, Florida. According to all sources present, he has 20 toes and fingers (inclusively) and is:
1) very cute*
2) very small
and 3) reminiscent of his father (except he has more hair!)
*See pictures above for proof of his cuteness.
Now is the time I feel it--that is, exactly how far away I am. I sit here in the university library behind a pile of books in a language not exactly my own and wonder if Little Stephen would find the book "Reexamining Democracy: Essays in Honor of Seymour Martin Lipset" interesting at all. I wonder if I'll get to spend time with him and if he'll know who I am. Will he study political science like me? Or will he choose a more "profitable" educational field like zoo-keeping or astronaut-ing? I wonder if his first word will be "Mama." Perhaps it will be "Democrat."
So many questions and so much time for him to explore the world. It's inspiring, I think--Little Stephen's new venture into the oxygen-breathing sector of the universe.
(And now a bit of irony)
On another note, in our weekly telephone conversation, my mother reminded me that every time one of her co-workers finds out where I live, he/she gasps and says, "Are you scared? Isn't she scared?" The answer is usually "No." But as I walked through one of Jerusalem's nicer neighborhoods last night on my way to meet friends for a drink, I encountered a chilling reminder of how much hate exists in the world. The graffiti I saw scrawled on the stone wall surrounding a beautiful house reminded me of the graffiti so common on random walls in Jerusalem--"wise" pronouncements of "Death to Arabs", "Death to Gays (or insert "Animals", which is a fond nickname of some sectors of society for non-heterosexuals), "Death to Rabbits" (a play on words and the slogan "Death to Arabs" in Hebrew)--graffiti that more often than not stays up longer than the current parliament coalition. Except this time, I was the target. No, it didn't say, "Death to Kind, American-ish, Liberal-ish, Idealist, Humorous, Likes Spaghetti Girls in their 20s". What was written was far more explicit (and you ask yourself, "Gee, how can it be more explicit than that?")--"Death to Vegetarians."
So, as I walked home last night, I looked over my shoulder . . .
Not for rabbit/gay person/Arab hunters, but for the guy who could see my low-iron content and knew . . .
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Hate, abuse, and suffering--Served up hot and fresh
"For if you think that by killing men you can avoid the accuser censuring your lives, you are mistaken; that is not the way of escape which is either possible or honorable; the easiest and noblest way is not crushing others, but to be improving yourselves" --Plato, "Apology" (Socrates' Defense)
This week has been a bloody, fiery week. It's been a week of buses being re-routed, parades being re-routed, and lives of human beings--yes, human beings--being re-routed. So you won't have to guess what the above statements hint at, I'll tell you.
Yesterday, my bus was re-routed, from its usual course through one of Jerusalem's ultra-Orthodox neighborhoods, on the way home from the university due to the violent and non-violent protests of ultra-Orthodox Jews (in their own neighborhoods, thankfully) against the gay pride parade set to take place this Friday. Last year's parade was marred by the stabbings of three marchers. This year, it is not uncommon to see posters in certain neighborhoods advertising a reward of 20,000 shekels for anyone who kills a marcher. I wonder, "Is it possible that I live in a city like this?" I wonder, "Did the people in Selma, Alabama have this thought, too?"
The parade--or the "parade," since as I write this, the Israeli Supreme Court is in session to determine whether a "safe" parade can indeed take place in our city--was given a new route yesterday. The original route by-passed the aforementioned neighborhoods. The second route by-passes them even more.
Oh, but don't worry. The number of people within Israel who hate each other has not yet exceeded the number who hate each other across the formal and informal borders of the country. The numbers of those killed in Gaza by a misfired Israeli artillery shell this morning continue to go up as well (http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/785380.html). As do the number of Palestinian women who are sexually, physically, and emotionally abused according to a recent report by the Human Rights Watch (http://jurist.law.pitt.edu/paperchase/2006/11/palestinian-authority-ignores-violence.php).
I think about the US mid-term elections, whose results have just about come in by now. I think about the issues on the ballot and in the news. And I think to myself, "If only we could think about 'stem-cell research' here. If only the minimum wage was the biggest thing on our minds here." But I realize that America's continued presence in Iraq (and Afghanistan, has everyone forgotten Afghanistan) is life-and-death just like the things facing us here. But it's on the other side of the world compared to America--oh, right, it's in our neighborhood--it seems less real.
I was always told--and sometimes I still believe it--that the world is not any more violent now than it was throughout world history. "We just have news now--up-to-date, live feed, instantaneous broadcast news--that brings hunger, poverty, massacres, and terrorism to our doorsteps faster than the pizza delivery man can bring us a sardine-and-onion thin-crust pie." But proximity to the violence makes me think otherwise.
So, what do we do? No, no really, what do we do--to improve the chance (if not the reality) of peace, to guarantee (if not living to an old age) at the least the chance to graduate from high school, to value life in such a way that forces us to change our trajectory course that we claim was set so long ago but that in reality we choose anew every day?
This week has been a bloody, fiery week. It's been a week of buses being re-routed, parades being re-routed, and lives of human beings--yes, human beings--being re-routed. So you won't have to guess what the above statements hint at, I'll tell you.
Yesterday, my bus was re-routed, from its usual course through one of Jerusalem's ultra-Orthodox neighborhoods, on the way home from the university due to the violent and non-violent protests of ultra-Orthodox Jews (in their own neighborhoods, thankfully) against the gay pride parade set to take place this Friday. Last year's parade was marred by the stabbings of three marchers. This year, it is not uncommon to see posters in certain neighborhoods advertising a reward of 20,000 shekels for anyone who kills a marcher. I wonder, "Is it possible that I live in a city like this?" I wonder, "Did the people in Selma, Alabama have this thought, too?"
The parade--or the "parade," since as I write this, the Israeli Supreme Court is in session to determine whether a "safe" parade can indeed take place in our city--was given a new route yesterday. The original route by-passed the aforementioned neighborhoods. The second route by-passes them even more.
Oh, but don't worry. The number of people within Israel who hate each other has not yet exceeded the number who hate each other across the formal and informal borders of the country. The numbers of those killed in Gaza by a misfired Israeli artillery shell this morning continue to go up as well (http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/785380.html). As do the number of Palestinian women who are sexually, physically, and emotionally abused according to a recent report by the Human Rights Watch (http://jurist.law.pitt.edu/paperchase/2006/11/palestinian-authority-ignores-violence.php).
I think about the US mid-term elections, whose results have just about come in by now. I think about the issues on the ballot and in the news. And I think to myself, "If only we could think about 'stem-cell research' here. If only the minimum wage was the biggest thing on our minds here." But I realize that America's continued presence in Iraq (and Afghanistan, has everyone forgotten Afghanistan) is life-and-death just like the things facing us here. But it's on the other side of the world compared to America--oh, right, it's in our neighborhood--it seems less real.
I was always told--and sometimes I still believe it--that the world is not any more violent now than it was throughout world history. "We just have news now--up-to-date, live feed, instantaneous broadcast news--that brings hunger, poverty, massacres, and terrorism to our doorsteps faster than the pizza delivery man can bring us a sardine-and-onion thin-crust pie." But proximity to the violence makes me think otherwise.
So, what do we do? No, no really, what do we do--to improve the chance (if not the reality) of peace, to guarantee (if not living to an old age) at the least the chance to graduate from high school, to value life in such a way that forces us to change our trajectory course that we claim was set so long ago but that in reality we choose anew every day?
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Do I believe in peace?
I recently received an email from an acquaintance who told me: "I've been talking with a lot of people who are ready for eternal peace." It was nice to hear it, because around here, it's a bit harder to find those people.
The first person who comes to mind is the man who murdered Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin eleven years ago today. He wasn't thinking about peace, eternal or not.
I think next of Hamas, who has upped its ransom demands to 1,200 Palestinian prisoners in Israeli hands in exchange for the Israeli soldier they kidnapped over 3 months ago.
I think now of the Moroccan man who is $12,000 richer after winning a Holocaust cartoon contest sponsored by the government of Iran.
These people they don't believe in peace. They don't even hope for it.
Now I think of myself. I hope for a perfect, eternal peace, but do I believe in it or at least the possibility of it?
No. I don't.
I am an optimist. I believe in the goodness of humanity. I am in personal ways working towards the goal of coexistence. I think we can arrive to a situation better than the one we are in right now. But I don't believe in a complete peace.
Why? Because of the people above.
Why? Because I've been here a little too long to continue closing my eyes to the reality in front of my face.
Why? Because for every prayer of peace that rises towards the sky, a bullet flies into an innocent human being.
So, why am I here-that is, if I think the situation is hopeless? The answer to that question lies in the meaning of today--the 11th anniversary of the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin.
This story does not start eleven years ago, but rather three. I was in Arad, Israel and was taking part in a group discussion, "Where were you when you heard about Rabin's assassination?" Like asking an American where he was when he heard of Kennedy's assassination, everyone had a story--everyone but me. I couldn't remember. I was thirteen years old, and yet, I didn't know. I imagine to myself now that I first heard of it in Sunday school, as it happened Saturday night Israel time, and that would have been the first opportunity for me to hear of it. But I don't know, because at that point, Israel--a place that is so important to me today--was not even on my radar screen. That night, though, three years ago, something inside of me clicked, and I knew--knew--that this would be the last time that something happened in Israel of such great import that I didn't know about. That was the day that I decided to make aliyah, to make Israel my home.
Knowing myself, knowing my dedication to positive interactions of human beings in the world, knowing the steps Rabin took to achieve peace in Israel--it seems fateful that this should be the day my decision was made.
And so, I sat this morning on my balcony, looking out into the cloudy morning, wondering where we are headed? I looked down to the nursery school playground next to my apartment building and listened to the children shrieking and laughing and . . . living. They had no idea what day it was, and thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be great if they never had to learn of the hate that causes something like this day? Wouldn't it be wonderful if by the time they grow up this chapter of violent history is over?" Yes, it would. But something tells me it won't be.
And it's not ok. But . . . there is still beauty in the world. There is still happiness and love. There is still, well, a little spark of hope that makes me think, "It won't be perfect, but it will get better . . . someday."
The first person who comes to mind is the man who murdered Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin eleven years ago today. He wasn't thinking about peace, eternal or not.
I think next of Hamas, who has upped its ransom demands to 1,200 Palestinian prisoners in Israeli hands in exchange for the Israeli soldier they kidnapped over 3 months ago.
I think now of the Moroccan man who is $12,000 richer after winning a Holocaust cartoon contest sponsored by the government of Iran.
These people they don't believe in peace. They don't even hope for it.
Now I think of myself. I hope for a perfect, eternal peace, but do I believe in it or at least the possibility of it?
No. I don't.
I am an optimist. I believe in the goodness of humanity. I am in personal ways working towards the goal of coexistence. I think we can arrive to a situation better than the one we are in right now. But I don't believe in a complete peace.
Why? Because of the people above.
Why? Because I've been here a little too long to continue closing my eyes to the reality in front of my face.
Why? Because for every prayer of peace that rises towards the sky, a bullet flies into an innocent human being.
So, why am I here-that is, if I think the situation is hopeless? The answer to that question lies in the meaning of today--the 11th anniversary of the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin.
This story does not start eleven years ago, but rather three. I was in Arad, Israel and was taking part in a group discussion, "Where were you when you heard about Rabin's assassination?" Like asking an American where he was when he heard of Kennedy's assassination, everyone had a story--everyone but me. I couldn't remember. I was thirteen years old, and yet, I didn't know. I imagine to myself now that I first heard of it in Sunday school, as it happened Saturday night Israel time, and that would have been the first opportunity for me to hear of it. But I don't know, because at that point, Israel--a place that is so important to me today--was not even on my radar screen. That night, though, three years ago, something inside of me clicked, and I knew--knew--that this would be the last time that something happened in Israel of such great import that I didn't know about. That was the day that I decided to make aliyah, to make Israel my home.
Knowing myself, knowing my dedication to positive interactions of human beings in the world, knowing the steps Rabin took to achieve peace in Israel--it seems fateful that this should be the day my decision was made.
And so, I sat this morning on my balcony, looking out into the cloudy morning, wondering where we are headed? I looked down to the nursery school playground next to my apartment building and listened to the children shrieking and laughing and . . . living. They had no idea what day it was, and thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be great if they never had to learn of the hate that causes something like this day? Wouldn't it be wonderful if by the time they grow up this chapter of violent history is over?" Yes, it would. But something tells me it won't be.
And it's not ok. But . . . there is still beauty in the world. There is still happiness and love. There is still, well, a little spark of hope that makes me think, "It won't be perfect, but it will get better . . . someday."
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