Category: Kibbutz

Family, Kibbutz, Living in Community, Parenting

Our long, hot Israeli summer

Jen

Somewhere in the middle of the very long list of “Things they don’t tell you BEFORE you make Aliyah” – a list that would include tips like “Don’t sell all your stuff before coming; you’ll need more of that Target brand crap than you think;” or “Israeli Tupperware really stinks” or “Living on a kibbutz means feeding kids that aren’t your own at least two days a week” – is this doozy: There is nothing for your kids to do in August.

Now, as you know, I live on a small kibbutz in the North. So it could be that my kids have less to do in August than their city counterparts.  And we did have Gan for the little one until mid-August and some options for the bigger ones in early August. But compared to what abounds in New Jersey in terms of camps and summer programs, our options were extremely limited and extraordinarily pricey.

Not that day camp is cheap in New Jersey; but when you decide to suck it up and pay for camp you know you’re getting a full day of activities – so much so that when your kid finally gets off the bus in front of your house at 4:45 pm, he’s happy to sit in front of the television for two hours, and you don’t feel guilty about it one bit because you know he’s been learning to swim and dive and make campfires and knots, especially fancy ones that get turned into friendship bracelets. If your kid goes to Jewish camp, you know he’s even hearing a little bit of Hebrew or singing Zionist pioneering songs. You feel like he’s had a good solid day of stimulation and exercise.

Here in Israel, we had two options for August, one of which was a regional camp which was reasonably priced but got less than stellar recommendations from people we know whose kids went last year; and the second was a morning Nature Camp that sounded a little bit unbearable to me in the 100 + degree heat of summer, and I knew would be a disaster for my oldest who craves high energy activity, not quiet, contemplative exploration of nature in the boiling heat of Israel.

This August, our first since making Aliyah, has been the longest month of my entire life. And it’s been twice as long for my husband who has had the bulk of the childcare responsibility this summer.

I’ve been lucky on the one hand in that I have an excuse for an escape. My full time job right now is a large chunk of our family income; and since I don’t have any vacation days left after using my four days in June, I’m pretty much required to show up at work. But my poor husband, who is a consultant and a part-time work-at-home dad, has been at the center of a rude awakening this summer. A mistake he will never make again, which is children need something to do in the summer. As much as the 1950s era Leave it to Beaver idea of summer (wandering around the neighborhood looking for pet rocks or selling lemonade in front of the five & dime) might appeal to you, it’s just not the reality for our post-modern kids who have grown up over-stimulated and under-inspired. Sorry if that’s harsh, but it’s true; even for my kids who I try very hard to under-stimulate and over-inspire.

The fact is if you are not prepared to be the resident camp counselor for your kids, you better pay someone else to.

In May, I gently suggested to my husband that we try to round up the funds to send my oldest to the States for the summer. He could stay with my husband’s cousin who has a house in upstate New York and who we trust to parent our kid (who has nut allergies). My husband squashed that idea in an instant and assured me the summer would be filled with “Avi Camp” activities (Avi being my husband), such as drawing, hiking, and English and Hebrew lessons. Avi even suggested he and my oldest would work on making a movie with our Flip camera, part of a “turning off Phinneas and Ferb and learning Hebrew” project.

The film project lasted approximately three hours.

Instead, my 8-year-old has been in between our house and his grandparents’ house near Tiberias, similar to, as I’ve come to learn, most Israeli kids between the ages of 4 and 10.

It’s truly amazing, I have to say, how involved Israeli grandparents are in their grandchildren’s lives. It’s not true across the board, of course, but it’s noticeably truer here in Israeli society than it was for the families I knew on the East Coast of the U.S. This particular cultural difference between the two countries fits into the “family is a priority” category which could be broken down even smaller into the “we really take care of our children” category, which could be loosely interpreted as “we love to spoil our children because that’s what parents do.” Depends on who you ask.

The way this looks in day-to-day Israeli life is parents of little children nodding yes, yes, yes as their little ones scream for junk food (Why? Because it tastes good!); parents of teenagers stuffing their kids’ pockets with cash (Why? Because they’re only kids once!); or Israeli parents of adult children paying their kids’ rent or buying them groceries on a regular basis or putting a down payment on a new house (Why? Because they need a little help getting on their feet is all.)

I’m not criticizing this parenting style, mind you; that would be like biting off my nose to spite my face.  I’m just noticing it. And wondering if perhaps, the reason we don’t have more August summer programs for our kids is because working parents expect their parents to watch their children. And the grandparents are used to saying yes.

Or is the fact that there is no programming for our kids in August related to the long list of grievances coming from the folks protesting across the country in tents? The root of which would be, “We don’t get paid enough to afford rent and groceries; how could we possibly afford summer camp?”

No money to demand camp. No supply.

I’m not sure which is the reason for the lack of summer programming for kids. All I know is that if I were writing a book on “Things they don’t tell you before making Aliyah” (and I’m getting very close to that point), item #24 would be “Save money for a U.S. vacation in August.”

Trust me. If you follow tip #5 – “Save your garage sale for Israel; you’ll get a lot more money for your stuff” – you might be able to afford it.

Culture, Kibbutz, Learning Hebrew, Letting Go, Living in Community, Love, Making Friends, Parenting

Ties that bind

Jen

Last night, underneath a full moon, within the sacred space of our kibbutz mikveh, ten women gathered to acknowledge our friend who will be bringing a new life into our community in a few short weeks.

Debbie’s due at the end of August and it’s become somewhat of a tradition on Hannaton to create a “birth circle” for pregnant women. We sculpt the pregnant mother-to-be’s belly into a keepsake “mask;” we drink tea, and last night, we shared our birth stories.

It’s taken me some time to feel comfortable in a circle like the one I participated in last night. I blame it on the fact that I grew up without sisters.

Others, like me, who grew up with only brothers, or those with no siblings at all can back me up: What might be seamless and normal for women who grew up alongside sisters often takes a lot longer for us.  When you grow up with sisters, you have years to learn the ins and outs of interacting with other women, of being comfortable in the girl group dynamic. Even if you aren’t close with your sister, you’ve likely figured out the subtleties and intricacies of female conversation.  You know how to fight fair and eventually make up. You’ve shared beds and clothes; you’ve taken your bras off in front of each other.

The rest of us arrive at summer camp or at college completely clueless – and it takes us most of our adult lives to figure it out.

Fortunately, as I’ve discovered, giving birth speeds up the sense of sisterhood. There’s nothing like the aches of pregnancy and pains of childbirth to bond you with other women. And, in all seriousness, there’s nothing that creates kinship like sharing birth stories…even when, like me, you consider your birth experiences to have been less than ideal.

Last night, I smiled when we were invited to share our birth stories with each other.  Having already experienced the intimacy that comes with sharing birth stories in a circle of women, I was really excited to be part of this exercise with this group of women…my friends in the making.  I saw this as the perfect opportunity to learn more about each other, to open up, to move past the everyday niceties, to connect.  

Until it hit me…again.

It would all be in Hebrew. I felt my smile fade and my stomach turn.

You would think that by now it would take less time to compute – the Hebrew element. But it doesn’t. There is still a time lapse during which it occurs to me that my understanding of how an experience might be is not how it will be in actuality. Meaning: Hebrew makes it harder.  Tiresome. And eventually, mind-numbing. When it’s in Hebrew, I find it hard to engage; frustrating to participate; challenging to connect.

So I disengage. And the moments that might have moved me instead become tests…not just of language comprehension, but of pure will.

I did my best to keep up. But then, as it often does in these situations, my mind started to wander. First to that insecure place that masquerades as boredom…checking my watch and checking out; wishing I could leave and go home to watch reruns of The Office (in English).

And then the transition to the outsider’s feeling of sadness and longing…The inner thoughts of “I bet I would have laughed too if I had understood the joke” or the inner shame of “I wonder if they know I’m just nodding along.”

And then to the place where fear and desperation lives: Fear that I will never learn Hebrew well enough to blend in; to feel a “part” of anything meaningful here. That my relationships will always be surface-based; that my interactions in Hebrew will always be met with challenges and confusions; that I will never be able to fully participate. That no one will really know me and I won’t really know them.

Which might not be a big deal for you, but is for me. Because meaningful connections are what moves me. And without them, my life suffers.

Despite my discomfort, I didn’t leave the birth circle. Instead, I stayed and shifted my focus. I ate watermelon. I observed instead of listened. And at some point, I realized I could follow the stories without understanding the words. I could hear the subtle differences in the stories coming from the veteran moms of three versus the new mothers. I could catch the different expressions on my friends’ faces…of wonder…of embarrassment…of confidence…and of pride.  And each was moving and telling.

At some point, I realized too that just being a part of this circle, no matter how little I comprehended or contributed to the conversation, indeed connected me to the women sitting there. I realized that these women weren’t strangers to me anymore. That at least half in the room were women I had already confided in on some level and the other half were women I would want to.

While not quickly enough for my taste, I am moving from outsider to insider. And it’s simply because I’ve chosen to show up, and be as “me” as I can be in spite of the language barrier, in spite of my insecurities, and in spite of my fears.

Much like giving birth. Much like becoming a mother. There’s only so much you can know and absorb from sharing information…the rest comes with time and experience…and the courage to simply show up.

(This post originally appeared as “Israeli in Progress” on The Jerusalem Post blog.)

Kibbutz, Letting Go, Love

Metamorphosis

Jen

I’m sick with yet another cold in a series of countless colds since I moved here. I am not exaggerating when I say that I’ve been ill more times these last eight months than I have in total in the past five years.

Countless people have told me that this is not unusual for new immigrants to Israel; that many get hit with stomach viruses or other infections thanks to new microbes and less sterile conditions. It could also be that I’m back to working in an office environment, in contact with more people on a day-to-day basis. It may have something to do with a change in diet or the stress that accompanies a big transition like a move across the world.

It could be any one of those things.

But as I sit here, with my bedroom door open, enjoying the breeze from the West, as well as the bugs that may fly in through the screenless opening, I acknowledge the great changes in me since I moved to a small kibbutz in Israel. In particular, the mass giving up of control that I held on to so dearly for most of my life; the letting go of fears that caused me to be angry and bitter; the welcoming in of blows to my ego; and the letting down of the strong guard I placed around me to deal with the pain I associated with being wrong and being hurt.

This all happened here in Israel? In eight months?

No. Not really. But the quiet that I have embraced here allows me to hear and see it.

Do I feel this sense of peace and calm all the time?

No way. But I am very clear that it exists for me now more than ever before.

Have I turned into a weird, hemp-wearing, sprout-eating, New Agey hippie? Some would argue I have been that hippie for years, and now I only blend in better with my environment.

A great transformation has and continues to take place for me here. It certainly didn’t start with my Aliyah in December, but has become more and more noticeable. I do not equate it with religion, per say, but it deeply moves my spirit. It’s overwhelming and confusing, at times, and, since I’m certainly not fully evolved, it can also be curious and anxiety-producing.

But just when that anxiety seems to be overtaking the curiosity and ease, I happen upon something or someone that is able to bring me back down to ground level. Sometimes it’s a wise friend or a colleague. Sometimes it’s a timely post on Facebook. Sometimes it’s a dream or a memory. Sometimes it’s an innocent suggestion out of the mouth of one of my children, or an angry accusation or a loving reminder from my husband.

Today, it was the butterfly.

I’ll tell you a little secret about me: Once upon a time, during a turbulent, yet exciting chapter of my life, I did something very bold and out of character for me.

I got a tattoo.

Okay, big deal, you think. Half the population between the ages of 18 and 40 have a tattoo, and of that 50%, a sure 10% have a tattoo with symbolism similar to mine.

It’s a butterfly.

But it was a big deal for me. My butterfly was a statement. It was a symbol that appeared time and time again before I was awake enough to recognize it. My butterfly, once a part of me, gave me strength to make extremely difficult choices. And she continues to remind me of who I am, but more important, who I strive to be.

And, of the great unknown that accompanies great change.

I read today something I never knew about the transformation a caterpillar makes into a butterfly.  A Greek poet and naturalist named Theodore Stephanides wrote,

“How great a mystery of Nature is the transformation of a caterpillar into a butterfly! This is not, as one might imagine at first, a gradual process of transition and modification. The body of the caterpillar is not just reduced or enlarged, it is not pushed in here or pulled out there there, it is not moulded as it were into the body of a butterfly. Nor is this the case with any of the caterpillar’s organs.

No, a far more astounding sequence of events takes place. Inside the horny envelope of the pupa, the whole caterpillar melts and deliquesces into an amorphous semi-liquid pulp until nothing of its original form remains. Viewed as a sentient entity, that caterpillar has “died”. It has no organs with which to contact the outside world, no nervous system to afford it awareness, however dim, of its own existence.

But after death comes resurrection. Somewhere in that pultaceous mass a mysterious controlling force is concealed. Science is baffled and even the imagination is confounded. It cannot be and yet it is! Some wholly inexplicable directing influence now exerts its power and slowly cell by cell, organ by organ, a new being takes shape. A new organism is gradually built up that bears no resemblance to the lowly caterpillar either in function or in shape, and a glorious butterfly spreads its wings to the welcoming sun.”

I am not so grim as to suggest that my multiple illnesses over these past few months foretell my death or my “deliquesce into a semi-amorphous pulp.” But I can wrap my mind around the idea that my body is adjusting to the change my soul is making, and is naturally going to fight it. And perhaps all the illness is simply a sign of growth and of the beautiful shape my being is yet to take.

Kibbutz, Learning Hebrew, Letting Go

Out of hibernation

Jen

I’ve woken up from my slumber.

You know how I know?

I’m starting to get pissed about things that matter to me again.

The stuff I used to bitch about, cry about, stress about, blog about, and try to fix back before I moved to Israel, but actively and intentionally pretended not to notice while I got acquainted with my new neighbors and surroundings.

 But now, seven months later I’m back!

Not in a bad way, mind you. And not unlike a mother who has given birth and finally feels ready to try out her pre-pregnancy jeans and leave the baby for a few hours, I feel as if I’m settled enough in my new life to start acting like me again.

The fog — that of getting settled, adjusting, figuring out who, what, where, and how– has lifted.

This is not to say I’m reinstating my New Jersey, east coast edge…I like the country girl I’ve become. But the Type A Jersey is itching to come out a little. I see this in the fact that I’ve started paying attention again to food (what I eat and what I feed my kids); I’ve started looking into holistic healers in Israel; and I’ve started to get loud about things that upset me in the community in which I live and at my work.

I’ve also started toying with the concept of making a difference here in Israel. Of being someone who influences and inspires.

My close friends, particularly those who’ve worked closely with me or coached me in leadership positions, won’t be surprised to hear this. They knew it was only so long that I could maintain this “under the radar” presence.

But Israel might be in for a little bit of an awakening.

I’m not yet sure how this will manifest itself: An Israel holistic health and wellness fair? a bigger presence at my children’s schools? in my yishuv? a book project? a professional collaboration? A new blog? A new endeavor?

Only one thing is for sure: It will not be a new baby.

That said, I still feel the little tugs of the hibernating me asking me if I really need to do this?

“Do you really need to do this?!?” She screams as she tugs.

“Wasn’t it nice to be ‘laid back’ for a little while?” She asks. “Wasn’t it easier to just let things slide? To let the world figure things out without your help? To be inwardly focused and not so concerned about whether or not people truly understand the impacts of toxins in foods or climate change or indoor air pollution???”

“I am what I am” says both the Buddhist and the Popeye in me.

Wish me both the peace of a Buddhist monk, and the courage of Popeye as I seek out and explore new endeavors that will satisfy the Leo and the leader in me.

 

Education, Kibbutz, Learning Hebrew, Letting Go, Living in Community, Making Friends

The Blooper Reel

Jen

In the movie that is my life, this period in time will be filled with perfect material for the end of film outtakes. The bloopers and practical jokes that roll after the credits; that end up on disc 2 of the DVD set.

Hopefully, by the time such a movie is made I, too, will be able to laugh at the time when I was a  consistent perpatrator of the Hebrew version of “Who’s on First?”

Let me explain by example.

Here is a loose transcript of the cellphone conversation I just had with an Israeli parent of a friend of my son’s:

Me (“my” Hebrew translated into English for your convenience): Hello [parent’s name]. Speaking is Jen. The mom of Oliver.

Other Mom ( in 100 mph garbled cellphone Hebrew): Yes?

Me: You call me?

Other Mom: Yes.

Me: Yes?

Other Mom: No, I was talking to Tal blah blah blah my laundry.

Me: Um. Ok. Did you call me?

Other Mom: blah blah sent a message blah blah blah

Me: You sent me what?

Other Mom: No. I didn’t send.

Me: What you no send?

Other Mom: No, you sent me a message.

Me: Yes, yes, I send SMS with new cellphone number.

Other Mom: Oh, ok. I wanted to talk to you.

Me: Ok. About what?

Other Mom: No, no. I don’t want to speak to you. I was speaking to my son.

Me: Oh, excuse me. I am so sorry.

Other Mom: (laughs and says in English). No, we will speak soon. Goodbye.

[END OF CALL. BEGIN SELF-DEPRECATION.]

Every single day of my life in Israel is an exercise in embarassment and humility.

It sounds a lot worse than it is. Daily humiliation by no means leads to unhappiness.  I think, in fact, my willingness to speak Hebrew at all to these people is indicative of the fact that I am starting to let down my guard. However, as I continue to become more confident in speaking Hebrew to my friends, colleagues, and neighbors, I also continue to make lots and lots of mistakes. Something, generally speaking, I work hard at not doing.

Veteran immigrants to Israel, the folks who learned Hebrew 20 years ago in an ulpan, as opposed to “Jen Style” (ie. figuratively flat on her face with a dictionary in her hand) all recommend “making mistakes.”

“Don’t be afraid to speak Hebrew,” they tell me. “This is the way you will learn.”

The only problem with this advice is that most Israelis don’t have the patience for my learning curve.

When they speak to me in Hebrew (usually very fast), and I respond by saying, “What did you say?” they usually will do one of two things:

1. Tell me again, but this time in English

2. Repeat what they said the first time, just as quickly, if not more quickly, but louder

What I really need them to do is repeat it in Hebrew, but at the pace of a person who has just regained her use of speech after being in a coma for nine months.

Very…

Very…

Slowly.

On the other hand, when I try to speak Hebrew (and I deserve an A for effort these days), I find myself five words into my attempt and either:

a. I don’t know the word for…let’s say…”repulsive” in Hebrew and then I have to go about trying to describe what “repulsive” means using the limited Hebrew I do have. By the time I am finished with that task, I forget what was so repulsive to begin with. Or,

b. The person I am talking to looks absolutely and completely bewildered, though still hanging on to my every word hoping that by the end of my discombobulated, grammatically incorrect sentence she will be able to piece together something comprehensible from what just exited my mouth.

At the very least, thanks to a good job at a company in the hi-tech industry, I think I’ve managed to establish myself as a reasonably intelligent person…despite the fact that I walk around in fool’s clothing most days.

And considering that it must require a lot of patience for non-English speakers to interact with me, I suppose I should take it as a good sign, then, that some people continue to do so.

Hopefully, within time, we’ll understand each other, too.

Kibbutz, Learning Hebrew, Letting Go, Living in Community, Parenting

Yin yang

Jen

It’s almost 6 months since we moved to Israel…and I’ll soon compose a contemplative look back at our transition to life here. But in the meantime, I’m doing eight loads of laundry in a crappy stackable washer/dryer set that’s shoved in too tight into our bathroom and it got me wondering…how is my life easier and harder compared to my life in the NJ suburbs?

I recently discovered this blog post at BrainPickings.org in which they feature a film of people discussing their “perfect city.” I loved watching what people had to say about their ideal community, and then thinking about my own answer, particularly since I have been so immersed in and focused on intentional community since we moved here.

The answer for me, if I’m offering the simple one, is “my ideal community would make my life feel easy.” Why? Because I find that the “easier” my life feels, the easier it is for me to give and receive. To love and be loved. To enjoy life. To live in the present. To smile. To breathe.

Why “feel” easy? Because, as you must know, there is no easy and hard. There’s only what you feel is easy and what you interpret as hard.

Now, of course, living in (or participating in)  intentional community isn’t always easy. Like life, living in a small, intentional community is give and take; sweet and sour; hot and cold; easy and hard. It’s our job to be mindful of the balance, no? 

Much of what makes my life feel easier here has to do with living in intentional community. I’m very present to that fact, and thankful for it, because it really counterbalances most of what makes my life seem harder here:

  • Bugs
  • Parasitic bugs that like to live in your hair
  • Critters
  • Poisonous critters
  • Critters that hang out on your ceiling while you’re sleeping
  • Critters that hang out on your porch waiting to bite you
  • Dirt
  • Dirt that somehow ends up in your dryer, despite going through a wash cycle
  • Dirt that won’t come out of your laundry…ever
  • Dust
  • Dust on your window screen, on your floors, car windows
  • Cleaning dust on a tri-weekly basis
  • Being far away from family and friends
  • Being far away from family and friends, and trying to find a good time to Skype with a 7-hour time difference
  • Food
  • Food-centric society
  • Food-centric society that loves the foods my kids are allergic to
  • Food-centric society that isn’t necessarily mindful about how said food leads to rotten teeth, poor behavior, and childhood obesity
  • Crappy appliances
  • Foreign germs
  • Language barriers
  • Bureacracy
  • Crazy drivers
  • And, in a nutshell, a society that cares little for clear order, rules, organization, structure, or advance notice

When I get aggravated about, annoyed with, or frustrated by the things that seem to make my life harder here, I try to remind myself of what makes my life feel easier:

  • Intentional community: Neighbors that want to get to know me, and do
  • Family-friendly community (and by community, I mean both specifically the “yishuv” of Hannaton, and Israeli society)
  • The sharing, caring, and intimacy that comes with living in small community
  • Open space
  • Open space filled with children my children’s ages
  • Mild weather
  • The beach
  • Less time in the car (walking the kids to preschool, the bus stop, etc.)
  • Family nearby
  • Shabbat
  • Shabbat dinners at my house (where your kids to entertain mine)
  • Shabbat dinners at your house (where my kids eat your food and you clean up after them)
  • English-speaking co-workers
  • English-speaking neighbors
  • Hebrew-speaking neighbors that are tolerant of my “Heeblish”
  • Minimalistic lifestyle

  • Yoga on my neighbbor’s rooftop

  • Letting go…

The list is much longer than this, I am sure. And could get a lot more detailed and specific. And perhaps it will…

I’d love to hear your thoughts on your “ideal community.” What about where you live makes your life easy or hard? If you could live anywhere, would you live where you do? And if not, where would you live?

Food, Kibbutz, Living in Community, Religion

I’ve got that Shabbat feeling…

Jen

For the first time in my life, I’ve got that Shabbat feeling.

Well, to be more precise, I’m basking in the afterglow of that Shabbat feeling. This past Friday, my in-laws invited my three children to their home (which is on a moshav about 30 minutes drive from us) to spend the afternoon, and sleep over. Since we arrived in Israel, my in-laws have been enormously generous and helpful. They’ve had one or both of my boys to sleep over; they’ve helped us out with childcare; they’ve hosted us for Shabbat dinner; they’ve helped us ease into this new culture and lifestyle with love and support.

But this weekend they granted us the wish my husband and I have been salivating over since we made Aliyah: They took all three kids off our hands for Shabbat.

And by Shabbat, I mean the weekend.

Here in Israel, Shabbat is the weekend and the weekend is Shabbat. In the States, Shabbat was something other Jewish people observed. The ones who wore kippot all the time and went to the grown up services, not just the occasional Tot Shabbat. Shabbat was for rabbis or rabbinical students or “real Jews.” More Jewishy Jews. People who kept kosher in the house and knew the entire Birkat HaMazon. People who weren’t us.

We were Jews with one foot in and one foot out the door. To be fair, I always liked the “idea” of Shabbat, but never could fully commit. And my husband, a Solomon Schechter graduate and therefore a much more learned Jew than I, would accompany me to the occasional Family Friday Shabbat Dinner at our synagogue kicking and screaming. As for Saturday, there was always too much to do. Birthday parties, laundry, errands, and soccer games. Saturday required too much attention. 

Not so here: I learned very quickly that keeping Shabbat is much less a challenge in Israel. For the simple reason that there is nothing to do on Saturday.

There’s nothing to do on Friday night either. Sure, there are a few bars open here or there, a few Arab restaurants or markets. But, pretty much from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday, the entire country is observing Shabbat by default.  Most stores and restaurants are closed. No birthday parties are scheduled. Weddings and other big events take place on Thursday nights.  By Friday afternoon, the country shuts down.

Which means that while not every Israeli is at home lighting candlesticks or eating roasted chicken on Friday nights, they’re certainly not at Target either. The observant Jews are doing what observant Jews do in America: They’re praying, eating dinner with family or friends, and resting.

The secular Jews, though, don’t have much choice but to honor Shabbat, as well. They just do it a little differently. Some have Friday night dinner as a family, either minus the prayers or with a token kiddush. Others spend Saturdays hiking or playing together as a family. A lot of the secular folks I know use Saturday to go on walks, picnics, jeep trips or bike rides. They travel to see family and friends in other cities. Or go to the beach. No one I know is spending Saturday divvying up errands or soccer games. 

At first it felt really strange for me. Saturday felt empty. Almost boring. Sometimes I got a little agitated, even. But soon enough I started to get into the routine. And I started to enjoy it.

On Friday mornings, we bring the little ones to Gan and often spend the morning tidying the house or doing some last minute food shopping. In the afternoons, we relax, the kids nap or play quietly until the early evening when we clean up and put on our “handsome clothes.” As the sun starts to set, we leave the house together as a family and walk the path up to the Beit Knesset, the small synagoague on Hannaton. My kids look and smell of summer camp. We all do — the kibbutz dirt wiped clean off our bodies; our fragrant wet hair parted to the side. The sun slowly falls over the lake behind our home and we hear the crickets chirp.

It’s Shabbat.

It’s an essence I only read about it books before I moved to Israel.

We sit down for Kabbalat Shabbat services. For a few minutes, our littlest ones even join in the sing-songy prayer. Before long, they’ll be joining their friends outside to run around like maniacs, but for a few minutes they’re little angels.

Our big kids sit on their hands waiting for the end of Lechah Dodi, when they will be allowed to exit and meet up on the playground. At the end of services, we exchange “Shabbat Shaloms” with the friends we’ve seen all week running in and out of drop off. Many Friday nights we share a meal with those same friends. Or with extended family. Each Friday night, though, we’re together, the five of us, at a table sharing a meal.

Which is a funny, yet lovely surprise for this “Jew in Progress.”

Me: The American Jewish girl who went to Hebrew school, but still feels awkward at services because she can’t recite the Amidah by heart with her eyes closed. Me: The girl who grew up in a Jewish suburb, among Jewish kids, but only went to Shabbat services when it was someone’s bar mitzvah. Me: The girl who didn’t eat ham sandwiches, but certainly ate bacon at home. Me: The girl who swore she would marry for love, not for religion. Me: The girl who still isn’t sure she believes in God, and if she does, she’s not sure he’s a Jewish kinda God.

I never in a million years thought Shabbat would be something I would be able to commit to on any level, let alone enjoy. And yet, I do. I am. I am not only at peace with the idea of keeping Shabbat, but I am finding peace because I keep Shabbat.

So much so that when my in-laws took our kids off our hands for a night, my husband and I didn’t take in a movie. We took in Shabbat.

And it was perfect. We sat through the hour-long service without interruption. We walked down from the Beit Knesset hand-in-hand. We made a late dinner, which we enjoyed over candlelight and wine. We slept in. We had a lazy morning at home. We drove to a nearby national forest and went for a scenic drive and hike.

By the time we picked up our kids, I felt relaxed, rejuvenated, and ready to take on the week ahead of me.

If that’s not the Shabbat feeling, I don’t know what is.

Sure, it’s not going to be that awesome every weekend.  (I think my in-laws will need a few weeks/months before they’re rejuvenated enough to take on my little monsters again.) But, keeping Shabbat, at least on some level, is a shift that’s been healthy for me. I can sense it. I crave it now. I look forward to it.

It’s got a good beat and you can dance to it.

Education, Kibbutz, Learning Hebrew, Living in Community, Middle East Conflict, Politics

Independence

Jen

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve written a new blog post, and not because i’ve been empty of ideas or lacking in inspiration.  In fact, in the past two weeks I’ve been flooded with potential subject matter — from parenting sick kids to navigating workplace politics to acclimating to the onslaught of Israel’s national holidays–but I’ve had no time to breathe, let alone open my laptop.

It’s a funny switch for me. I used to live by my laptop, and when my laptop wasn’t in front of me, my Blackberry was. I wasn’t one of these high-powered career women whose fingertips seemed biologically bound to her smartphone, but I definitely felt the need to constantly information gather and share.

Perhaps, my head is so full from absorbing and processing both the cultural changes, and the foreign language, that I have no time or energy left to scour message boards for pertinent information related to the health and wellness of our children, or hop onto Facebook to spread the word to my minions. Getting used to life in a new country is a full time job, and on top of that, I now have an actual, real-life full time job.

Since we moved here my children have been tasting freedom — and it’s a taste they like, along with chocolate spread and mitz-petel. Since I started a full time job in April, they’re depending even less on me and in fact, are often belligerent about doing things by themselves: from dressing to preparing food to walking to school on their own.

Which makes the anecdote I’m about to share even more interesting.

Over the past few weeks, we in Israel have moved through a series of three national holidays: Yom HaZikaron laShoah ve-laG’vurah (known colloquially as Yom HaShoah), “Holocaust Rememberance Day;” Yom HaZikaron, “Memorial Day;” and Yom HaAtzmaut, “Israel Independence Day.”  These holidays, for Israelis, are serious business. 

In addition to sirens sounding for moments of silence causing cars to stop in the middle of the highway; in addition to ceremonies in your communities and schools; and in addition to the endless television programming memorializing the fallen and honoring the heroes, our schoolchildren are really taught the real deal.

There’s no sugar-coating. There’s no vanilla version of what happened to the Jews in the Holocaust or what Israeli soldiers faced during Israel’s various wars. It seems as if Israeli children are indoctrinated (and I mean that in a good way) from a very early age with an understanding of what has been required to safeguard this country we live in.

The day before the Yom HaZikaron/YomHaatzmaut school and work holiday, my oldest son, who is eight and a half and in Second Grade in a public school came home with an interesting report of his day. He shared with me the news as if it was ordinary, but to me, it was a story you’d only hear in Israel. Or, at the very least, it was a story that would only be acceptable in Israel.

A game my son often plays with his friends is called “Ganav V’Shoter,” which is pretty much “Cops and Robbers.” That day at school, however, they came up with a twist on the original. They called it “Yehudim v’Nazim.”

Jews and Nazis.

Half the kids were the Jews and the other half were the Nazis, he told me. (The Nazis were the “bad guys.”) My kid and his classmates were creative. Some of the Jews got to be “partisans” and had more freedom to wander to various areas of the playground and were also granted the ability to free the Jews who were captured: They weren’t in jail, though, those captured Jews. They were locked  in the Ghetto.

Yes, a timely twist on an age-old game. But not unexpected considering the history lessons they were receiving that week in school and at home.

Can you imagine a game of “Jews vs. Nazi” in the States? Only in Oklahoma or Arkansas, or some other white supremicist stronghold. Some place where the school psychologist wouldn’t be called in immediately or the ADL had any influence. I can’t be 100% sure it wouldn’t happen, but I think Holocaust education is only briefly glossed over in the States, if at all, and then only in older grades. It’s deemed inappropriate subject matter for young children. Right or wrong, I don’t know. But this is how it is. Not in Israel, though. Kids here, even during more peaceful times, need to understand the price and the impact of war.

My oldest son is fascinated with history and a rough and tumble kind of kid. The stories he heard at school or saw on the roll out movie screens behind the presenters at the various ceremonies didn’t haunt his dreams or leave a trail of fear. But, I do think he understands a little better the difference between living here in Israel and living in New Jersey; what it means for him as a boy, and as a Jew.

It haunted me, though, as the mother of three children who one day may be required to fight battles that take place far away from the playground.

Yes, this month has so far been a busy month for us, from dealing with various viral infections to a new job to a change in season to the normal balagan of being new immigrants.  But it was also a practice in being Israeli citizens. In contributing to the economy. In remembering our fallen. In honoring our heroes. In crying over the losses of others. In celebrating the strength and beauty of a nation in which we now live.

And for my family, it was a practice in being independent in ways we’ve never been before.

Food, Kibbutz, Learning Hebrew

Let’s Make a Deal

Jen

Today, for the first time in the four months that I have lived in Israel, I went grocery shopping all by myself.

Aren’t I a big girl?

It sounds silly…I’m a grown up after all, but going to the grocery store when you live in the middle of nowhere in a country whose language you’re not even close to mastering is no easy task.

Up until now, I’ve been going with my husband or sending him off on his own. Not just because I’m scared of the cashier (which I am), but also because he is the only one of us truly able to read the ingredients list, which is crucial for a family with food allergies.  The good news (which is really bad news) is that our local supermarket has practically nothing in the way of organic or preservative free foods so the packaged goods we buy here are few. The bad news (which is really bad news) is that in order to buy the foods we need to maintain our nut, sesame, dairy, gluten, chemical free existence, we need to shop at 3-4 locations spread out through Northern Israel.

Today, I needed to go to Karmiel, a mid-size city about 30 minutes from my kibbutz. Karmiel is home to a large Mega Bol, which carries a few gluten free products you can’t get at the nearby Shufersal (which any new olah mistakenly calls Supersal for the first few months).

I decided it was time to break my proverbial cherry (food pun intended).  I had already been to the location numerous times as a tag-a-long with my husband. I knew exactly how to get there, where to park, and which aisles carried the items I needed.

Getting there was no problem. Finding a parking space was a piece of cake. The store was empty so I quickly grabbed what I needed. “Chik chak” as they say here. As I approached the checkout aisles, my heart began to race. Why? Because I knew what was coming.

In the States, you can probably get away without ever talking to the cashier at the grocery store. In particular at grittier stores like ShopRite or Pathmark, you don’t even have to smile or say hello. If the cashier asks, “paper or plastic,” you can get away with a grunt and point towards the bag of your choice. 

Not so in Israel.

I placed my contents on the checkout counter. I smiled at the cashier who did not smile back, but asked me in Hebrew, “Do you have a Mega Bol card?”

I was prepared. I knew what she was going to say before she said it. The big mistake I made, however, was in my answer.

“No,” I told her. “No, I don’t have one.” If I had added, “And no, I don’t want one,”  I would have been out of there. Chik Chak.

But, she asked me. “Why not?” Again, my mistake was in answering honestly. I should have just told her, “Because I don’t.” Zeh hu zeh. (And that’s that!)

Instead, I said, “My husband has a Mega Bol card and I don’t have his here today. I am fine. We’ll use it another time.”

Well, no Israeli is going to let you get away with that.

What? You don’t want a deal? You don’t want to save .o3% on your purchase today? You don’t want the free coupons you get in the mail when you sign up for your own Mega Bol card? But you get a discount on the card if your husband already has one! How can you call yourself Israeli if you’re not going to accept the deal?!? Accept the deal!! And while you’re at it, don’t you want this lipstick that’s on sale? Or the choclate-flavored dog bisquits? What about this imported liver pate? It’s only 50 shekels! 50 shekels! This liver pate normally costs 85 shekels. Why not buy this liver pate when it’s on sale? Who cares that you hate liver pate? It’s a deal! What about the ladies razors? They’re “1 + 1!” Such a deal!

The cashier (and subsequently her manager) came over to the cash register, both insisting that I sign up for the card. Insisting that I should reconsider. But I could not understand the particulars…no matter how slowly she repeated them to me. Not even when she repeated it for a third and fourth time.

Finally, I said to them in my baby Hebrew, “Please. I am a new immigrant. It’s hard enough for me to even gather up the courage to go shopping, let alone have a conversation or argument with you about why or why not I will accept your super bargain that is a Mega Bol card. I just want to pay for my things and leave with a scrap of dignity.”

I didn’t say it exactly like that. In fact, without the vocabulary to say it like that, I instead shrugged my shoulders and smiled; which led me to leave the very last shred of dignity I had at the checkout counter.

But at least I had my gluten free chocolate chip muffin mix.  And my two packs of razors.

Kibbutz, Learning Hebrew, Letting Go, Making Friends, Parenting, Work

Kadima!

Jen

Spring is often used as a metaphor for rebirth. Combine this with the Jewish tradition of cleaning house before Passover and you’ve got yourself a good season for change here in Israel.

And so it is for our family.  Changes abound that are already impacting our immigrant experience…and more so mine than anyone else’s.

I blogged recently (in my regular Patch.com column, “That Mindful Mama”) about our family’s “team trade.” More specifically, how I recently accepted a full-time position as a marcom specialist for a hi-tech incubator here in Israel, and will be leaving my position of the last five years: part-time primary caretaker and work-at-home freelancer. In addition, my husband will consult part-time (he’s a grant-writer and fundraiser, work that may be done from home), but will take over responsibility of caring for our kids and maintaining our home needs. 

This is a huge shift for us as a family, and for me as a new olah.

First of all, it means I need to leave my bubble. My safe little kibbutz cocoon. It means I need to get in my new car, figure out the different mechanisms (like how to work the windshield wipers), and brave Israel’s roads. Worse than navigating the hilly, foggy roads in the morning is navigating psychotic Israeli drivers who are either constantly riding up my rear or trying to run me off the road as they pass me.

Most of all, getting a job means I need to interact with a lot more people who might want to speak Hebrew with me. However, I have a feeling, that just like an enema, this decision might make me momentarily uncomfortable, but is likely exactly what I need to get things moving in the right direction.

My new job is at a mainly English-speaking company with many Anglos on staff. It’s also primarily an English-speaking position.  While a high level of Hebrew is not required for the position, the office is not a Hebrew-free zone. Mostly everyone except for me speaks a fluent Hebrew and when an Israeli is in the conversation, the language quickly converts over to Hebrew. Therefore, I’m required to listen and understand or, at the very least, nod as if I do.

Most of my new colleagues have been told that my Hebrew is still “a work in progress,” but that hasn’t kept all of them from trying. Which they should and which I reluctantly encourage. Reluctantly because it usually leads to some level of humiliation and discomfort for me.

At least twice during my first week here, I thought someone was speaking to me — they were looking straight at me, after all– but it turned out they weren’t.  I’ve also been spoken to without realizing it was me who was being spoken to. In those cases, I learned, a smile and nod only get you so far. If the statement ends in a period, there’s a 50-50 chance I can get away with a simple smile. If the statement ends with a question mark, however, I might be in trouble. “Ken” or “lo” only get you so far in the workplace.

Thankfully, I haven’t yet been made fun of or chided for my lack of Hebrew. So far, most people here seem to think my broken Hebrew is cute and endearing. However, I am fully aware the “olah hadasha” tag will only work its magic for so long.

The big question is: How long?

When are you no longer considered an new immigrant? When do you make the transition over to just plain old immigrant? Or “olah vatika?” (“Seasoned oleh”) How is my status measured? In “daylight, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee?” Is it when the sal klita ends? When my kids are fluent in Hebrew? When I make five Israeli friends?

I certainly hope getting a full-time job doesn’t prevent me from milking this status for as long as I can.

I need all the help…and breaks…I can get.

(This was previously published as part of my blog, “Israeli in Progress,” on The Jerusalem Post.)

Kibbutz, Living in Community, Making Friends

Were my kids always like this?

Jen

I have to admit to a secret notion I have been silently harboring since we moved here.

Israeli kids are a bad influence on mine.

I mean, how else do you explain the fact that my kids have become complete nut jobs since we moved here? How else can you explain the fact that my house has become a militarized zone; the weapons being my two-year-old’s stubby fingers and my four-year-old’s shrill voice?

I suppose you could blame it on the timing.

Perhaps each one of my kids were ripe for a “phase” and it’s just my rotten luck that all of their phases were timed perfectly together to take place three months into our move overseas.

Perhaps if we had stayed in the States, my sweet, non-violent four year old — who was loved and adored so much by both his preschool teachers and the kids in his class that they cried real tears when he left– would have still turned into a psychotic, schizophrenic drama queen.

Or maybe, my eight year old — who was voted “Student of the Month” at his elementary school right before we left and was considered one of the most mature kids in his class — would have tricked his American assistant principal instead of his new Israeli one into giving him a roll with chocolate spread for breakfast because he didn’t like the healthy sandwich his dad packed him.

And, maybe, just maybe, my sweet, gentle two-and-a-half year old little girl — who never hurt a fly — would have transformed into a pinching, pushing, screaming brute even if we hadn’t moved.

Maybe. But, I don’t know. It’s my inclination to blame Israel. (After all, she’s used to taking the blame.)

If you’re a Hannaton-nik and reading this, don’t ask me if it’s your kid in particular who I think is the bad influence. I’ll never tell you. Even if I think he is, I still want you to be my friend. And, let’s be honest here, you don’t really want to know.

Likewise, I don’t want to know if you think my kid is a bad influence on yours. So all around, it’s better if we all pretend nothing’s happening until someone loses an eye. (Or until my daughter hits your son with a garden mallet. Which she might. ‘Cause she already did. Today.)

Fortunately, no one seems to be too concerned about the dramatic behavioral changes in my children save for me and my husband. Everyone else thinks their “shtuyot” (nonsense) are normal — part of the “klita” (absorption.)  

Folks here on our kibbutz seem to really love and adore our kids. (At least, that’s what they say to our faces.) In fact, our oldest son is the local hero this week for his superb soccer performance against a neighbhoring community team.

Even still, I’m starting to get a little worried.

All the things I prided myself on as a mother are slowly slipping away: Fairly well-behaved, fairly polite children. Children who may occasionally hit or bite yours, but only on the level considered developmentally appropriate  by Brazelton, Spock, or Sears. Never enough to require major intervention or long-term action plans. Children who occasionally shout at me or each other, but never scream so loud their heads spin.

Now, my kids are so emotionally and physically unpredictable I have to wear protective gear. I’m refereeing living room throw-downs.

The two year old not only pinches her brothers, but puts them into choke holds. I kid you not, I’m starting to think they’re training her for the Golani Brigade in the Gan.

The four year old got so angry with me today (because I refused him a cookie) that he pulled down a picture he drew for me that was hanging on the fridge, took out the scissors, and cut the picture into a million pieces,  screaming maniacally, “A ha ha ha ha! A ha ha ha ha! Take THAT eema! I will never be sorry! NEVER!!! NEVER!!!”

I know the teachers are probably right. That the shift in my kids’ behavior patterns and personalities is normal; or at least directly related to the transition, the new language, the new rules (or lack therof) and expectations.  That like me, my kids are trying on new ways of being in this new way of living.

I hope so. Because I like it here too much to move away simply because my kids are picking up bad habits.

I’m crossing my fingers it’s a phase.

Kibbutz, Living in Community, Making Friends

What’s a little gossip?

Jen

You know when you’re having lunch with your friend in the local diner and even though you know you shouldn’t, you start gossiping about someone you both know? And all of a sudden you realize you’re in the local diner and the room just got really quiet, so you casually turn your head back to the left, then back to the right, and then back to face your friend? And then you continue the conversation, but this time in a hushed whisper, particularly hushed when mentioning names, and even more particularly hushed when you’re mentioning last names?

Yeah, you do. Don’t pretend like you don’t. Even though the bible prohibits it, the fact of the matter is, you likely engage in gossip on occasion.  Studies show that a little bit of gossip (done “correctly,” whatever that means) is healthy and the reason it’s so addictive is not necessarily because you like to speak ill of others, but because gossiping apparently “helps build and cement connections with others.”

This study makes sense to me. I consider myself a fairly good person and I never (okay, hardly ever) gossip about anyone with the purpose of “causing the subject physical or monetary damage, or anguish or fear” as “Lashon Hara” is briefly defined at torah.org. If I were to analyze why I gossip, intentionally or unintentionally, it’s usually to learn more about the person I’m gossiping with or about. It’s more interrogative than vindictive or malicious.

When you live in a small community, gossip is inevitable. It may be outwardly or subtly discouraged. It may be frowned upon. It may be  practiced by some, and shunned by others. But, regardless, there’s a reason you get more than 5 1/2 million results when you google the words “small town gossip.”

On a kibbutz, take the diner example above, and multiply it by 100.

I kid you not, but on the (ahem) rare occasion when my husband, Avi, and I talk about one of our new neighbors, we make sure to turn our heads from left to right and back again, and carefully whisper — even when we are inside our own home. It doesn’t matter if we are saying something nice, or something not so nice. We don’t want to be known as those “gossipy new olim down the street.”

We look around. Are the windows open? Did someone just peek their head through the unlocked door? Are there any children in our home that don’t belong to us?

Today, my husband and I were returning home and drove down the main road of the kibbutz. The car windows were down a smidgen so I whispered to him when I asked, “Does Shlomo (names changed to protect the innocent) have a job?” Avi stared at me as he placed his pointer finger to his lips. “Shhh…”

In the States, I might have continued in broken Hebrew, but unfortunately, in Israel there’s no talking smack about people right in front of their faces unless I manage to teach my husband Gibberish.

As we approached Shlomo, he stared at me, as if he knew I had been asking about him seconds earlier. I’m sure I was just being paranoid. But maybe not.

What’s the big deal?, you might ask. Is it so wrong that I wondered, innocently enough, if Shlomo had a job? Perhaps not, but in a small town, or a kibbutz in this case, asking a question like this out loud is as dicey as playing “Whisper Down the Lane.” 

Your question, and your willingness to ask it, implies something about you. It implies whether you’re willing to let someone in or to be let in by someone else. It may be the make or break of a friendship. It may be the start of a rivalry or a resentment. As torah.org tells us, “Some statements are not outright Lashon Hara, but can imply Lashon Hara or cause others to speak it.” Meaning, much depends on who asks the question, in what context the question is asked, and who it’s asked of.

Therefore, wondering aloud if your new neighbor has a full-time job can be construed as gossip. Someone might think I’m implying Shlomo is a good-for-nothing, lazy bum because he doesn’t have a full time job. Someone might think I’m implying his wife thinks less of him or wears the pants in that family. Someone might think I’m sizing him up or down, and take it personally, even. Wondering, How do I measure up in her eyes?

It seems to me that the rules of Lashon Hara were created expressly for people living on a kibbutz. And if I want to play it safe as a newbie to this community, at least for a little while, I’d follow the Lashon Hara guidlines. (I’ve not yet read A.J. Jacobs, The Year of Living Biblically, but maybe it’s high time I should.)

Or at the very least, gossip like I do “It:”

Only with my husband and behind closed doors.