Category: Making Friends

Kibbutz, Living in Community, Making Friends, Parenting

Christmas in Israel

Jen

It takes more than a month for a container to ship from the United States to Israel. When we finally decided on a shipping company, we had a choice to make – Be without our “stuff” on the back end or the front end. Meaning, the sooner we could part with our toys, books, kitchenware, clothes, tools, and all the other items we deem necessary for day-to-day living, the sooner we’d have them once we arrived in Israel.

Our shippers came to pack up about three weeks before the day of our flight with the intention that we’d receive our container only 4-5 days after we landed in Israel. Since our plan was to live with Avi’s parents in Kfar Hittim for a few days while we handled bureaucratic issues, we knew we could hang on for a few more days before receiving our shipment to Hannaton.

Four to five days, however, turned into 19 days.

The day the boat carrying our container arrived in the port of Haifa, the port workers went on a five-day strike.

Followed by a nice long Shabbat weekend.

Followed by a few days while they caught up unloading the “more important” shipments.

Followed by a nice long Shabbat weekend.

Followed by a few days of missing paperwork and phone calls between our shipping company and Misrad HaPnim to “make sure we are new immigrants” and entitled to tax breaks at customs.

Followed by days of waiting until they could reserve a truck big enough to carry the container up North. Followed by days of worrying that all this was code for “we lost your shipment at sea.”

Finally, my otherwise kind and sensitive husband had enough. Remember what Bruce Banner used to say before he turned into the Incredible Hulk? “You won’t like to see me when I’m angry.” Avi switched from his new-American-immigrant-speaking-Hebrew accent to his down home rip-you-a-new-one like a native Israeli twang. It wasn’t long before he was in touch with Moti, the manager, who got things rolling a little bit faster. (By the way, all the Israelis we’ve told this to asked us why we didn’t ask to speak to a manager sooner – apparently, it’s the only way you get things going.)

We received a phone call at 4 o’clock in the afternoon a few days ago from Moti who said, “I have some good news, you’ll have your things in 2-3 hours. The truck is on its way.”

In the dark of night (okay, it was only 7 pm, but it was very dark), four guys loaded our boxes and furniture in through one of the bedroom windows. “This is Israel,” the one who could speak English said. Loading through the window was easier than navigating the ten stairs down to our front door.

They finished at 10 pm, too late for us to do anything but breathe a sigh of relief that we finally had our possessions in our possession.

Since then we’ve been chipping away at it bit by bit. And, as you can imagine, opening the boxes and unwrapping the packaging is like tearing into your gifts at Christmas.  But it’s Christmas for the grownups only; our kids don’t really seem to care.

Being without their Legos or their dolls when we were stuck inside in New Jersey was a bit challenging. But since we’ve arrived in Israel, and more specifically since they started school, they’ve been spending most of their spare daylight time playing with the outdoor cats, kicking the ball around with neighborhood kids, or swinging on the hammock swing. And when we finally opened up the boxes filled with their toys yesterday so their playthings would be waiting for them when they got home from school, they looked at the room, said an obligatory, “Wow,” and went in the backyard to play with the cardboard boxes all afternoon.

Their parents, on the other hand, are much more appreciative each time they open a new box. In the past when we moved, I’ve always packed our things and labeled our boxes meticulously so that when we arrived at our destination and we needed, let’s say a pot or a pan or a container of wipes, we could access it quickly.

Our shippers, on the other hand, didn’t do such a great job labeling the contents. For the most part, the cartons were labeled “kitchen,” “basement,” “clothes,” or “CDs.” (Yes, we brought our CD collection to Israel. Ask my I-phone owning husband, “why,” because I don’t know the answer.)

I didn’t pack our boxes because I was under the impression the shippers needed to take a careful inventory for customers. Although, to be fair, perhaps their strategy is “keep it simple” and customs will leave you alone.

Simple.

I’d be lying if I said we kept it simple when packing for this new phase of our life. After years of Israeli friends and family asking us to bring them or send them “special items” from the States – white albacore tuna, Old Navy clothes, M and Ms – we packed almost as if we were moving to a remote island in the Pacific.

There is great irony in this, I know, considering one of the main reasons we moved to a kibbutz in Israel was to embrace a lower key, less materialistic life.
And, yet, when we finally found the box with my toiletries: my stock of Whole Foods 365 brand shampoo and Tom’s baking soda toothpaste, I cheered. As did Avi when he found his wireless router, which we had almost checked off as left behind.

Christmas. Not presents, per say, but little care packages from home to help make the transition a teeny bit easier.

I am confident that as we dig ourselves out of move mode, we’ll find little gifts in the most unexpected places. We already have. A helping hand from a neighbor; a Shabbat invitation; a new friend. Gifts that cost very little, but make a huge difference in our lives. And can only be found here in Israel.

Living in Community, Making Friends, Parenting

Child’s Play

Jen

When speaking with any Israeli in advance of our move here, a common thread wove itself into the conversation. “If nothing else, Israel is a great place to raise children,” each would say.

I know this must be surprising for Americans to hear — How can a country whose land has been ravaged by war, terrorism, and political strife be a great place to raise a family? However, as most foreign visitors of Israel will tell you, Israel on the ground is a much different place from Israel in the news.

In the five times I visited Israel before I made Aliyah, I never once saw a scared Israeli. Only one time, when I was a participant on a teen tour and staying for the weekend on an army base, did I ever witness any evidence in person of the unrest here. (Something had tripped a security wire on the perimeter of the base and the soliders had to get into formation… it turned out to be an animal.)

That said, there still seems to be an underlying, and perhaps in-born attitude in Israel that life is short…so you must enjoy it while you can. This manifests as heavy partying among Israel’s young adults; as a national smoking habit; and as freedom, in every way and form, for Israel’s children. The freedom to play outside at all hours of the day and night; the freedom to walk into town or to each other’s houses alone; the freedom to eat whatever and whenever they want; or the freedom to watch TV shows that are a bit too mature for them (like the currently popular telenovellas from Mexico).

Children rule in Israel…or so it seems to this new immigrant mother. It wouldn’t be fair for me to judge just yet. Although it’s hard not to judge because I feel myself being judged…and so I also feel defensive.

In a group of mothers at an impromptu playdate recently, I was the only American…and the only mom saying no. No, that my children had already eaten enough chocolate chips from the bag. No, don’t hug the baby that hard. No, you’re a big girl, you can do it by yourself. You don’t need my help.

By Israeli standards, I’m a tough mom.

I’m the only mother on the street who suggests that my child might wear a helmet while trying out the scooter. The suggestion that this activity might present a danger to my eight-year-old is the butt of a joke. As is the idea that 7:00 pm is a reasonable bedtime for my two-year-old.

In the States, I was probably a more anxious mother than some of my friends, but I was never a complete anomaly. In the States, you have the type of mother that is constantly worried that something bad will happen to her child. And then you have the type of mother who is never worried…until something bad happens to her child. It’s with a very deep sense of worry or calm that American mothers go about parenting their children, all dependant on the psychological make up of the mom.

What motivates the casual nature you see in mothers in Israel? Does the “innocence” of childhood carry more weight here because of the conflict? Is childhood treasured more? Preserved at all costs?  

Are Israeli mothers less fearful of common dangers we American moms incessantly worry about — choking, getting run over by a car, child molesters — because Israelis understand the very real danger of being completely wiped out in a matter of seconds by a very real enemy?

I don’t know. But I lend myself to an experiment — that of being an anxious American mother among much more seemingly easy-going, and sometimes indulgent, moms. How will I fare? How will my children?

Already my son had one accident that may have been prevented had I let my anxiety rule and not my desire to fit in. But, he’s okay. No broken bones. No worse the wear for having fallen face down into the street off the scooter.

And, perhaps I too will be okay in the face of allowing my children to be children. To trip. To fall. To succeed. To fail. To choose. To indulge.

To be children.

Letting Go, Love, Making Friends, Work

Follower

Jen

One of the best decisions I made before making Aliyah was the decision to let my husband lead the way.

This was not easy for me. I’m a born supervisor and taskmaster.

I met Avi a little more than ten years ago when I was a “madricha” (counselor) on a JCC association youth program to Israel. Avi was technically my boss; he coordinated the programs and was in charge of hiring the counselors. I think he’d agree that the summer of 2000, when we were both on this program, was the last time he told me what to do.

Since then, I’ve typically been the leader in our little family unit. This is not to say I’m bossy necessarily, though I do have a tendency to nudge. But thanks to an inherited and proprietary blend of obsessiveness, impatience, and a touch of arrogance, I tend to be the person who researches and makes decisions for our family. My husband agrees (I swear he does! Ask him!) that a lot of my proverbial, but not literal pushing and shoving has generally benefitted both him and our kids over the last ten years.

But I wasn’t 100 percent on board with the idea of making Aliyah. Excited about this prospect, yes. But terrified at the potential implications — for me both personally, and professionally. So, I contemplated letting go of the decision entirely. Not because I wasn’t strong enough to make a definitive yes or no decision for myself and the kids. But because I was tired of being the decision maker. I had no practice in “just going along” with a plan of someone else’s design. All of my spiritual gurus and trusted friends advised me that “letting go” was something I might actually embrace, if and when I got better at doing it.

Avi took on the application process through Nefesh B’Nefesh. He was the one who sent requests for all of our needed paperwork to local and national government offices– copies of our birth certificates, our social security cards.  He was the one who organized the “Aliyah” file, keeping careful track of which documents had been completed and mailed, and which ones still needed to be aquired. He looked into communities in the North that might be a good fit for our family.

I remained a little bit aloof and even moreso in denial that this Israel thing was really happening.

When it was time to actually make a real decision, the kind that leads to a plane ticket and a contract with a shipping company, I couldn’t quite bring myself to say yes or no. Yes, would mean leaving my parents, my good friends, my community, and even parts of my business. All relationships I had spent time and energy cultivating over the past few years. No, would mean landing in a new country, learning a new language, and adjusting to new cultural norms and expectations.

It was all too big.  Suddenly, the born leader understood why some people choose to follow.

And it’s not to take the easy way out. It’s to allow someone who loves you to lead.  To fall under the spell of your leader’s vision. To be able to see what he sees for you through his eyes.

During my time of indecision, it was difficult for me to see anything but fear and anxiety. But Avi could see hope. He could see freedom. He could see dreams coming true.

Who wouldn’t want to follow that?

And so yadda yadda yadda….we made Aliyah.

Learning Hebrew, Love, Making Friends, Parenting, Religion

Too Jewish

Jen

Almost from birth, the American Jewish mother does everything she can to ensure that her American Jewish daughter meets a nice Jewish boy.

What seems like minutes after her daughter’s baby naming, the American Jewish mother registers her daughter for Hebrew school at the local synagogue (or temple, if you happen to be a Reform American Jewish mother). And for a few years, the mother sails by on her daughter’s love of tefillot – not the actual meaning of the prayers, mind you, but the sing songiness of the chants. After all, who can resist a good Adon Olam? It comes in, what? 36 catchy varieties?

But soon after, the American Jewish daughter starts to whine that she doesn’t want to keep going three days a week to Hebrew school – her friends are busy with tennis and ballet and she wants to be busy with tennis and ballet, too. She doesn’t want to be wasting time on the Alef Bet since who speaks Hebrew in America anyway?

So her parents start telling her fabulous fairy tales of a land called “Bat Mitzvah” where you get rewarded for studying Torah troupe. The payment comes in the form of jewelry, and jewelry boxes to keep the jewelry in, and in a few envelopes with money for your college savings account (which will in reality be your camp account because these days camp costs almost as much as college.)

Then, some time in between Sunday School and Bat Mitzvah, the American Jewish parents  send their daughters off to Camp Ramah in the Poconos or Camp Harlam…where it’s sink or swim. Swimming after cute Jewish boys for the next five or six years, hoping to score at the weekly campfire or in a quiet corner at a USY convention, where she learns how to French kiss, but certainly nothing more.

And, says the American Jewish mother, God willing, during one of those years at overnight camp or in Jewish youth group or at a state school with a few good Jewish fraternities or sororities, the American Jewish daughter will fall madly in love with a nice Jewish boy whose parents are from Rye or Westchester, but not Brooklyn or Long Island. Even better, his family would be from The Main Line or Denver or Scottsdale, because this would mean his parents are Jewish, but not New York Jews, which as we know, are not the same as other Jews.

And, so God willing, by taking all the right steps and supporting all the formal and non-formal indoctrination, the American Jewish mother has put her American Jewish daughter on the path to a nice “shidduch.” Yes, God willing.

But, God forbid, that nice Jewish boy is Israeli.

Oy vey. God forbid.

God forbid, your American Jewish daughter falls for a nice Israeli Jewish boy. Then, all your hard work has been for nothing.

Because one day, the American Jewish daughter will marry that nice Israeli Jewish boy. And filled with all the yiddishkeit from Hebrew school and Zionist summer camp and Jewish youth group and a summer trip to the Holy Land…

One day…yadda yadda yadda…The American Jewish daughter will make Aliyah.

If you’re an American Jewish mother, I bet you’ve never imagined the scene where you kiss your American Jewish daughter goodbye as she steps on a plane to Israel with her husband and three children.

But it might happen.

So, be mindful, American Jewish parents. Instilling a love of Judaism in your American child is a careful practice. Much like a tennis serve: You want to make sure you hit it strong enough to get over the net, but not too hard it’s sent flying out of bounds.

Because, one day, yadda yadda yadda …you might find yourself kissing a computer screen giving your Israeli grandchildren “nishikot” via Skype.

Like my American Jewish mother.