Category: Living in Community

Living in Community, Middle East Conflict, Politics, Religion, Terrorism

Safehouse

Jen

It’s 9:30 am on the day of the supposed Rapture.

If you’re a good friend of mine IRL, you’ll know that since 9/11 I have been minorly obsessed with and concerned about things like cataclysm, apocolypse, and your basic run of the mill doomsday scenario. Truthfully, my obsession goes back even farther: I remember sitting in my parents bedroom in front of their color TV and watching The Day After with intent, alone. From that day on, from time to time, I imagined myself in disaster scenarios. How would I make it? Would I even want to make it? What’s the benefit to being one of the survivors in a new world that sucks? Where you have to eat rodents and pull your own teeth out when they rot?

When my book club read The Road, I had nightmares, but I also took mental notes.  I want to be prepared, truly I do. But it’s an expensive proposition to have a fully-stocked underground bunker. Since 9/11, however, I have had a medium-sized tupperware container stocked in my basement with a week or two supply of food and some basic disaster kit items like matches and flashlights. Truth is, though, what I really want is a stronghold out in the woods seriously stocked for survival, but when I asked my husband for this for my birthday, he got me a pretty purple scarf instead.

He’s practical.

Now that I live in Israel, you’d think that I would be even more frightened. You’d think that the Middle East is certainly the part of the world that will “end” first.

Maybe.

Or maybe it will be the place where most people survive and start anew.

I jokingly told this to my friend Jami before I left in December. She knows that I partially believe December 21, 2012 might indeed be TEOTWAWKI. I said to her, “If the shit hits the fan in 2012, Israel is either the first to go or the only place standing.” (Ha ha ha, I laughed. But I really meant it. I mean it still.)

So, now that my Facebook friends are jokingly posting REM videos on their status updates and news media outlets are trying to maintain serious tones while reporting on the beliefs of Family Radio, I sit and breathe deep, hoping that we can all laugh about this tomorrow.

What? you ask. Are you actually worried about this Rapture thing?

I can’t say that I’m actively worried, but The Rapture is just another impetus for me to start thinking about the things I have been anxious over since 9/11 and even moreso in recent years in which we’ve been witness to the world, at the very least, “having a really hard time.”

War, economic crises, tsunamis, tornadoes. I can see how the folks who take the Bible literally can get on board with Harold Camping’s prediction. It really does seem like end times in many ways, if you believe in that sorta thing.

But getting back to why I think Israel is the place to be if TSHTF. Most survivalists — the guys and gals who have cabins up in the mountains of West Virginia stocked full of food, electric generators, and guns — tell you that living off the beaten path is much better than living in the city. You’ll want to be near a natural water source (I have a reservoir less than 1/2 a mile away.) You’ll want land to grow your own food — we have orchards of olive and grapefruit trees here, not to mention a dairy farm.

In addition, because of years of war and conflict in Israel, we do have bunkers stocked with weapons right here on the kibbutz. Furthermore, as every Israeli citizen is required to serve 2-3 years in the army, I have friends and neighbors who know how to use said weapons. They’ve been paratroopers and medics. They know which herbs are safe to eat and which can be used to soothe burns.

I have gas masks stocked in my office. We have a national warning system. Not to mention ancient caves and waterways to hide in. And don’t forget about Masada.

Israel, if anywhere, is ready for shit to hit the fan.

Now, none of this will help me too much if the Earth opens up and swallows me as some Rapturists believe.  And it certainly won’t help me if an asteroid hits the Mediterranean and a huge tsunami sweeps us away into Syria.

But, I kinda think my odds of surviving cataclysm have increased just by making Aliyah.

Not an advantage you are necessarily going to advertise on the brochure. But useful nonetheless.

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.

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.

Kibbutz, Living in Community

That’s So Country

Jen

Nowhere in his song “Thank God I’m A Country Boy” does John Denver mention anything about lizards. Or snakes. Or centipedes.

I’ll take the laid back life on the farm that Denver croons about any day of the week, but the truth of the matter is: I’m a suburban girl. And worse yet, I’m a born and raised Jersey girl.

Sure, I went to overnight camp in the woods of Pennsylvania and Maine. Sure, I camped out a few times as a young adult — happy to be cozy in sleeping bags with boys I had crushes on. But, I’ve never been the rough and tumble kind of girl who has embraced nature.

I blame this on allergies.

Since I had severe environmental allergies as a kid, and was literally allergic to everything on the scratch test, I was pretty uncomfortable out in nature. From the expected stuffy nose and watery eyes, to the unexpected over-reaction to poison ivy and mosquito bites. (Ask my USY friends if they remember an epic case of oozing poison ivy I was quarantined for one Spring Convention.)

Nature was never as kind to me as I was to her. Despite a run-of-the-mill fear of spiders and other insects, I’ve never been the sort who killed a critter with pleasure. Whenever possible, if a rogue bug makes it indoors, I either scoop it up into a glass and let it go outside, or I ask my husband to “take care of it.” The exception to this is cockroaches (I had an infestation in one city apartment) and mice (another infestation in a different city apartment) — those guys I kill with pleasure. After all, it’s not as if my exterminating a few is going to make any significant impact on their population density. Mice and roaches will survive 2012, if anyone will.

Here in Israel, as I’ve mentioned before, I’ve had to get used to sharing my home with the outdoors. This includes the mud my kids track in on a daily basis, the dust that flies in through open windows, and the creatures that make their way through cracks or doors left open by mud-stained children. A Daddy Long Legs has been hanging out in the same spot on my bathroom ceiling for three months now. He hasn’t moved. For a while, I used to check above my head while I was showering or on the toilet to make sure he wasn’t creeping down closer to me. At some point, I realized he was either dead or very comfortable in his spot on the ceiling, and I started greeting him with a smile in the mornings instead of worrying about him.

Lest you think I have made the transition to country life with ease, let me burst that bubble for you. Earlier this week, I went into my bathroom and closed the door. I sat down on the toilet and looked up at the ceiling to greet my long-legged friend. He wasn’t there. He was gone. But someone took his place.

This guy (or a close relative):

A lizard. About 6 inches long. Hanging on the wall above the bathroom door.

I had seen this guy before. A few nights prior, we heard some crickets behind the refrigerator door. Determined to quiet the noise, we pulled the refrigerator out from the wall to take care of it once and for all. We didn’t find crickets. We found a lizard.

Compassion, karma, fear of retribution…call it what you will, but there was no way I was letting my husband kill a lizard in my house. Standing on a chair and screaming like an old lady the entire time, I made him chase the lizard down until he caught it inside a glass and released it outside.

This time we were not so lucky. I called for my husband who went after the lizard in the bathroom in the same fashion. But this time, the little guy got away. He scurried under the bathroom door and hid — In the laundry basket? Behind the wardrobe? Under the bed? Who knows.

I didn’t sleep so well that night. I woke up constantly; peeking above my head to the bedroom ceiling, waiting for the other lizard to drop. To my knowledge, he didn’t. And he’s stayed in hiding since.

My mother-in-law says I should leave the lizards alone. “They eat the bugs,” she says. She makes a good point.

Next up, I’ll be instructed to ignore the snakes.  After all, they eat lizards.

Food, Living in Community, Parenting

You’re a mean one

Jen

I could be wrong, but I have a feeling that Israelis missed out on the pop culture icon that is The Grinch, the anti-Christmas, anti-fun Dr. Seuss character who ruins the holiday season for the people of Whoville. Whether or not there is an Israeli equivalent of the mean, green furry monster is unbeknownst to me, but I often feel as if I could fit the bill.
 
It’s not Christmas that I despise, though. Or any holiday celebrated here in Israel. My life would be a little less grinchy if it was a holiday I was in opposition to.
 
No. The offender in question is not a holiday, but a treasured Israeli institution.
The Makolet.
 
Here on the kibbutz in which I live, at the top of the hill, in a little trailer adjacent to the ganim is the quintessential Israeli convenience store. Open from early morning to late evening, with a short mid-afternoon break, the Makolet is a mini-mart which carries a variety of staples (milk, bread, cheese, sugar, instant coffee), as well as fresh fruit and vegetables, beverages, and newspapers. For those of you who have spent any time in New York City, the Makolet is basically the Jewish bodega.
 
If I was 21, the Makolet would be my second home, I’m sure. However, as a parent who is trying to raise healthy and health-conscious children, I find the Makolet to not only be an inconvenience, but an outright nuisance. My kids don’t see the Makolet as the place to pick up an avocado when we’re fresh out, or a tub of chummus. No, they see the Makolet as an all-day, every-day Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory!
 
Candy, “choco” (chocolate milk IN A BAG), gum, cake, cookies, lollipops: Half the products in the store are marketed to children; or worse yet, their parents who feed them this kind of junk every day after school. I want to assume the best: That my fellow parents here are not really aware of the kind of junk they are putting in their kids’ mouths. The sugar, of course, but worse the artificial sweeteners, additives, and preservatives. All chemicals that have been linked to not just cavities, but behavioral disturbances, sleep issues, and ADHD. They must understand, at least, the connection between feeding their kids this junk and childhood obesity? Right? How do they justify the daily indulgences? Is it yet another difference between American parenting and Israeli? Or is it ignorance?
 
It took us only a few weeks of living here before we created “Makolet Day;” one day during the week when each of my three kids is allowed to choose something to buy from the Makolet. We encourage cheap little toys like Gogosim over candy, but ultimately the decision is theirs. This works well for my four-year-old and two-year-old, who aren’t running around the kibbutz with other children who have their own accounts at the Makolet and the apparent freedom to buy whatever they want whenever they want. But not so for my eight-year-old who, in between Makolet days, mooches off his friends, his de facto dealers.
 
I’m not as bad as you might think. I’m not one of these moms who deprives her children of sweet treats. I, too, have a sweet tooth and a sugar addiction that I need to feed.  But the sweet treats in my house have always typically been home-baked chocolate chip cookies or cakes; not preservative-laden boxed cookies on a shelf.
 
I’m no Martha Stewart. I’m just a mom trying to raise healthy kids.
 
This was not an easy task in the States either. My eight-year-old son went to school with children who packed Coca-Cola and Cheetos for their mid-morning snack. But conscious eating is proving to be much more challenging here in Israel.
 
In the States, as long as I kept my kids away from the counter at CVS or Target, I hardly ever had to deal with the whining and begging that’s inevitable when a child meets the candy counter. Here in Israel, we pass by the open Makolet every day, where my kids’ friends are treated regularly to the junk of their choice.
 
In the States, there was a rule that restricted teachers from using any food for which the first listed ingredients were sugar. Here in Israel, on a recent tiyul, one of the items listed to bring was candy.
 
In the States, my kids would eye their friends’ snacks on the playground and I would begrudgingly let them mooch an apple or a pretzel if their friend’s mom offered. Here in Israel, my kids are swapping their organic raisins for their friends’ gummy worms.
 
All those years of educating my kids on healthy eating are getting flushed down the proverbial drain faster than you can say Kinder Egg.
 
Inside I am seething, but I remain silent. After all, I want to fit in, and nobody wants to be friends with The Grinch. Furthermore, I know the Makolet isn’t going anywhere any time soon. So, just as I’ve had to make my peace with the unleashed dogs, the mud-tracked floors, and the smell of cow poop in the afternoon, I will have to figure out a way to live in harmony with the Makolet.
 
Until I start a wellness revolution in Israel. Which, may end up being sooner rather than later.
 

(This was originally published at the Jerusalem Post Blog Central.)

Kibbutz, Living in Community, Love, Making Friends

Jew like me

Jen

I find myself in an odd predicament now that I live in Israel.
 
To touch or not to touch.
 
I like to think I’m a fairly affectionate person; though some would argue I’m a cold, aloof, you-know-what that starts with a B and ends in an itch. Nevertheless, I enjoy the freedom of being able to give someone an enthusiastic “nice-to-meet-you” handshake; a compassionate stroke on the back should a friend feel sad; or a warm hug to express my excitement over his recent achievement.
 
I’m an equal opportunity touchy feeler. Meaning: In the communities in which I’ve lived up until now, doling out such loving kindness to both men and women has always been socially acceptable and appropriate.
 
Certainly, I knew there were cultures in which touching a married man in any way would have been inappropriate, but I hardly came into contact with anyone in such a culture, including observant Jewish men.

In New Jersey, where I spent most of my adult life, the Jews I frequently interacted with were a range of Conservative to Reform to non-practicing. Certainly, I might see or even talk to a Modern Orthodox Jew, for instance, but the closest I came to social interaction with a man who considered himself observant enough to avoid contact with a woman other than his wife happened to be a client of mine.
 
One day, the client came to an event I organized and I was so pleasantly surprised to see him there that I gave him a big appreciative hug. Mid-hug, I realized my error and was so mortified I frantically looked around for a hole to crawl into. No such luck. It was too late to take the hug back and there was nowhere to hide. I smiled what I hope was an apologetic smile, and ran away.
 
There is no place to run here in Israel, where you encounter Jews of every shape, size, color, and denomination. At the bank, the post office, the grocery store. Of course, there is little reason for me to embrace my local postal worker (except for when he’s delivering a care package from the United States), but there are certain occasions in which I’ve been forced to consider how I might greet the man in front of me.
 
For instance, last week I was called in for a job interview. In advance of my meeting, I was asked by a Nefesh B’Nefesh coordinator if I wanted some quick tips about interviewing in Israel. At first, I felt a bit insulted. After all, I am a consummate professional with more than 15 years in the workforce. I’ve been on numerous successful interviews. What do I really need to know about interviewing in Israel?
 
Well…turns out I was wrong. “What are you going to do about shaking hands?” the coordinator asked me. “Um, shake with confidence, but not painfully hard?” I responded. “No,” she said. “If the person in front of you is a woman, go ahead and shake. However, if the person you are meeting with is a man, check to see if he’s wearing a kippah. If he is, let him extend his hand first to see if he is comfortable shaking yours.”
 
What? Since I was a young woman heading out for internship interviews in Washington, D.C., I was taught by my father that a woman should have a firm, confident handshake, especially when meeting a gentleman. What accompanies “it’s a pleasure to meet you” if not a handshake? (In the end, the individual who interviewed me was a woman.)
 
Back at home, on pluralistic Hannaton, I also need to tread carefully. Earlier this week, our neighbor gave birth. Her husband, who wears a kippah and whom I know to be from an observant background, came by to pick up his son who we were watching while his mother was in the hospital.

“So,” I asked him. “Is everything is ok?”
 
“Yes,” he responded. “We have a new baby girl.”
 
“Hooray! Mazal tov,” I shouted as I jumped up and down, leaning towards him for the hug. Mere seconds before touching him, I caught myself and asked. “Is it okay if I hug you?”
 
“Of course!” he responded, as if to say, “You silly American olah chadasha.” I was proud of myself for thinking quickly enough to ask permission before the embrace, instead of regretting it and obsessing about it with remorse and humiliation afterwards.
 
Pluralism is a hot button topic in Israel, I’m finding – The idea that religious and secular Jews can and should live in harmony together. It’s a dialogue we hardly ever have in the States. We’re too busy sticking together against the anti-Semites to worry much about embracing or rejecting our own intrafaith diversity.
 
The conversations on pluralism and acceptance are ones in which I’m interested in partaking. First, however, I need to figure out an authentic, yet appropriate way for a friendly Jewish girl to say, “Hello.”
 

(Originally posted by Jen Maidenberg on March 11, 2011 at  THE JERUSALEM POST BLOG CENTRAL)

Letting Go, Living in Community, Making Friends

This is Israel

Jen

This was originally posted on my blog “Israeli in Progress” on The Jerusalem Post Blog Central.

By Jen Maidenberg

“This is Israel.”
 
It started off as a joke between me and my husband’s first cousin, Jami (who is also a close friend of mine). Jami and I were lovingly making fun of my mother-in-law (also Jami’s aunt) whom, since retiring to Israel two years ago, would often say the phrase during a Skype session with one of us.
 
For instance, my mother-in-law would reach over to her kitchen counter, grab a grapefruit, and say, “See this grapefruit? It’s from my tree. Just outside in the yard. I picked it myself.” Sometimes she would peel a piece, too, just for effect and say, “This is Israel!” READ MORE…

Education, Food, Kibbutz, Learning Hebrew, Letting Go, Living in Community, Love, Making Friends, Middle East Conflict, Parenting, Politics, Religion, Work

Moving

Jen

Don’t worry.

We’re not moving anywhere.

But this blog is.

I’m happy to announce that The Jerusalem Post invited me over to blog about my Aliyah experience on The Jerusalem Post Blog Central. You can find my new blog there, “Israeli in Progress,” on the Blog home page in the Aliyah category.

Hope to see you join the conversation over there. And if you like what you read, please share with your friends on Facebook, Twitter, or via email.

Kibbutz, Living in Community, Making Friends, Parenting

Playground Etiquette

Jen

One of the most hair-raising experiences of my thirties has been trying to figure out how to parent kids while simultaneously attempting to make and keep friends.

It took me eight years of careful sociological study and experimentation to figure out how to do this with as much tact, and as little arrogant condemnation of  other people as I could muster. 

How to reprimand my children in public, for instance, while seeming neither a bully, nor a wimp. How to reprimand other people’s brats children so it seemed as if I cared about their behavior more than just how it impacted the present playdate.  How to locate that fine line between co-parenting with good friends… and complete and utter neglect.

The hard time I put in making mom friends in New Jersey was well worth the effort: After five years of dancing around playdates and preschool drop off trying to figure out who I liked and who liked me back, I had enough mom friends where I no longer needed to troll message boards or moms’ groups. Even better, I had a good solid book club and a small contact list of people I could call on short notice should I desperately need a shared drink or cup of tea the minute my husband walked in the front door.

Alas, due to the seven-hour time difference and technophobia, my Stateside mom friends have practically abandoned me.  I can’t blame them. I’m good for nothing at this point; not a drop off playdate, not even a drop off birthday party.

I am not friendless here, though. I have two friends (not counting my husband, which would be both cheesy and stupid, since one of the best parts of having a girlfriend is griping about your husband). Both of my girlfriends I knew before moving here. Yafit was actually one of my first mom friends. Each of us gave birth to our first child in Tucson, and since moved away. Two more kids later, she and her husband now live in Netanya, a suburb of Tel Aviv. With Yafit: There’s no friendly flirtations to partake in; no questioning of our commitment and loyalty to each other. We’re friends. It’s a done deal.

The other is my friend from high school, Shira, who I’m very grateful to have as my neighbor. It’s through Shira that we even knew about Hannaton and she’s been my de facto advisor since we decided to make Aliyah. She’s given us the heads up on potential bureacratic nightmares. She’s let me know where I can buy organic produce or local spices. But, most important, I don’t have to be “on” when I am around her. I can be me…or at least the me that’s still trying to figure out who I am here.

This is not to say that other folks here haven’t gone out of their way to get to know us or be friendly. They certainly have. What I am saying is that I am having a hard time figuring out the rules of engagement.

It’s a whole new ball game for me here in Israel — not just because I’m the new girl on the block or because of the cultural differences (read laissez faire approach to parenting) or even due to the language barrier, but moreso because I have to start from scratch. I need to figure out both who I am as a parent, and who I am as a person, here in this new country and this small, intentional community.

Even harder, I need to figure out how I can share that version of me with people who don’t necessarily speak or want to speak my native language. And, let me tell you, my brand of charm and wit doesn’t translate so easily into broken, present-tense Hebrew.  I almost wish I was pregnant. (God forbid, ptoo, ptoo, ptoo.) At least if I was pregnant, there would be an easy source of conversation; an obvious topic to study in my Hebrew language dictionary.  At least, I could come to gatherings prepared.

Instead, after pick up at the Gan or alongside other adults at the playground, I find myself facing discomforts I thought I left behind long ago. I wonder how appropriate it is for me to linger near, about or around the group of chatting grownups; how much of the conversation in Hebrew I should try to keep up with before resorting to a rhythmic bob of my head in feigned understanding; or how long I should wait to notify the parent of the child who is smacking my two-year-old across the head with a bag of Bisli.

The truth is…I’m getting there. Slower than I like, but I am getting there. I have enough of a playful repor with a few of my new “almost-friends” that I feel comfortable mentioning my interactions with them here. And they’re interested enough in me to take the time to read this blog.

Unless, of course, they’re not interested in me at all; they’re just narcissists. Which wouldn’t be so bad, really, as it would make for good conversation over that beer I’ve yet to be invited to (subtle hint, hint).

I suppose I could be a little more proactive than I’ve been, too. Give up the coy, shy persona that I will no way be able to pull off once someone spends one-on-one time with me for more than twenty minutes.  Or, perhaps I’ll use the oldest trick in the book: My kid as bait. I could encourage my two-year-old to smack their kid across the head with a stick or instruct her to “accidentally” pee on their front yard.

If nothing else, a peeing two-year-old is a great conversation piece — in both Hebrew and in English.

Education, Living in Community, Parenting, Religion

Finding My Religion

Jen

On the one hand, it’s easy to forget you’re a Jew when you live in Israel.

Your name no longer stands out in a roll call. All the dads at drop off, not just your husband, are either bald, Jew-froed, or wear trendy glasses. And Jewish Geography is so common place it’s no longer a game, but part of proper dinner party etiquette.

In the States, whether or not you keep Shabbat is a label. It outs you as an “observant” Jew. Not so here, where by default, most Israelis observe Shabbat on some level, as most stores and restaurants are closed and nothing official can be executed between 1 pm on Friday and Sunday morning. 

On the other hand, living in Israel requires you to contemplate and even commit to what kind of Jew you are. Moreso than in the States where you simply have to decide Orthodox, Conservative or Reform. Or figure out who’s hosting the Passover seder or whether or not to buy High Holiday tickets.

In Israel, where living as a Jew among Jews should be easy (and often is), figuring out who you are as a Jew is a prerequisite for almost everything — from where you will live to who you will be friends with to where you will send your children to school.

For instance, when we were researching where we would live in Northern Israel, in addition to taking into consideration how large or small the community was, how close or far it was from a major city, or how many English speakers lived there, we were also advised to consider how observant the community was. Typically, yishuvim* are either secular or religious…not “undecided.”

While this is slowly changing (and Kibbutz Hannaton, where we live, is at the forefront of this movement), figuring out how comfortable you are with folks driving on Shabbat is a strong indicator of whether or not you will fit in as part of a particular community.

The same goes for school. In Israel, you have a choice as to where you send your child to public school.  You may choose the local secular school or the Orthodox school. The secular schools, from what I understand, have no Jewish studies within their curriculum whatsoever. So, your kids live in the “Jewish State,” but save for history lessons, religion is left out of the classroom.

Whereas in Orthodox schools, students are not only learning about Jewish religion, they are expected to keep Orthodox Jewish practices. Which, if you are Conservative, Reform or Undecided, makes for an unusual dichotomy between school and home.

There are only a handful of public elementary schools in the country that “support the development, promotion, and enrichment of Jewish studies within the general Israeli educational system.” (These are called Tali schools, and the local municipal-run school where we send our oldest child is one.)

So, where do we fit in? What box did we check on the form before we moved here?

I’m just kidding. There’s no form. But moving to Israel certainly forces you to consider where the practice of Judaism fits into your life.

Despite the chuppah at my wedding; despite raising my children in a Jewish home; despite sending them to Jewish preschool and religious school; despite being members of a Conservative synagogue in New Jersey; despite the two brit milah; and despite the glowing recommendation from our Rabbi on our Nefesh B’Nefesh application…it’s been a long time since I’ve considered who I am as a Jew.

And living here is certainly bringing it to the surface.

By here I mean Israel, but mostly I mean Hannaton, where the community is pluralistic — a word I never really considered much before living here. So far, I’ve met three rabbis who live here (one is Conservative and two are Reform). There are community members who drive on Shabbat, but keep Kosher. And there are community members who don’t drive on Shabbat, but don’t wear kippot. There are community members here who send their kids to the Tali school and there are others who send them to the Orthodox one; while still others schlep them far away to private schools practicing democratic or anthroposophic or other alternative educational philosophies.

We’re a mixed breed here at Hannaton. Furthermore, how we practice Judaism as a community is a conversation that seems to be taking place on a regular basis.

Which is just perfect for me. Because, frankly, if I had to choose a religious yishuv or a secular one, I wouldn’t feel 100 % comfortable on either. If I had to know in advance how observant I was going to be once I moved to Israel, I would have shrugged my shoulders with a big, accompanying, “I dunno.”

What I do know today is that there is a place for me in Israel, and a place for me on Kibbutz Hannaton. Which is quite a relief.

As I’m still very much a Jew in progress.

GLOSSARY
Yishuvim = Literally “settlements,” but moreso large communities or neighborhoods outside of a major city
Brit milah = Hebrew and plural of “bris”