Category: Religion

Middle East Conflict, Politics, Religion

Opinion

Jen

I have a big personality flaw.

I do not like the heat, but I can’t stay out of the kitchen.

Meaning, I have a strong opinion. And I like to share that opinion with others. But then I get all bent out of shape when I have to defend my self-publicized opinion. My brand of bent out of shape usually looks like me whining to my husband (“That’s it! I am done with blogging!”) or, if involved in an in-person debate,  looks like me blubbering.

I’m one those people who cannot argue without crying.

It’s genetic.

Since moving to Israel, I’ve intentionally steered clear of political conversations. Especially since I’m such a cry-baby and, come on, I’m trying to make friends, here!

The very few heated conversations I’ve accidentally found myself a part of have reminded me that I’m a little unpracticed in debate. Moreso, I’m not as schooled as I used to be in “the situation” here. I’m trying to recall data I learned in 1995 and quoting OpEd columnists now dead or retired.

Once upon a time, I was a recent college graduate with a degree in International Politics, and a concentration in Judaic Studies and the Middle East Conflict. I sported impressive internships and jobs on my resume. I read and wrote articles all the time related to American Jewry, as well as Israeli politics. Back in those days — before I had to worry about things like education, vaccination, and summer vacation  — I  could easily hold my own in a conversation about the region.

But I took a ten year hiatus from Israel…until I moved here. And now, I find myself gravitating back towards the articles I stopped reading when I traded politics for parenting.

Except, now I don’t read those articles as an academic or as a reporter or even as a student of the situation. I am full aware that I am reading these articles as an Israeli. As an American Jew living abroad. I know full well my response to these articles now is at least 75% subjective and is more emotionally-driven than intellectually.

Not to pat myself on the back or anything, but I think I am among a small group of writers on the topic of Israel who will actually admit that.

I mean, REALLY, how much of what is written about Israel is truly based on “fact?” On “truth?” On “history?”

Is it true because it’s in The Atlantic? Or written by a Village Voice editor? Is it truth when it’s in The New York Times International section? Or Newsweek? What about The Jerusalem Post? Al-Jazeera?

Is it the truth when it’s been photographed? Or featured in a documentary?

What about when it comes out of the mouth of a Jewish professor? Or an anti-semitic one?

Is it true because you think so? Or your parents told you so? Or you learned it in school or in camp?

There has been much conversation in the blogosphere over the past fews days stemming from Allison Benedikt’s first person essay, in which recalls the Zionist indoctrination of her youth and compares it to what she considers her enlightenment on the topic of Israel today.

Possibly surprising, I strongly related to Benedikt’s article, and could totally related to her experiences as a Jewish girl growing up in the suburbs, going to camp and Hebrew school, and participating in a Jewish youth group. And, where some were offended and put off by her tone, I was not. In fact, it reminded me a lot of my very first post on this blog, “Too Jewish.” Many of her critics are calling Benedikt naive; many think it took her too long to realize that the “situation” in the Middle East is a multi-faceted, complex one. But I think Benedikt knew a lot more than she claims to in her piece. I think she has to be brighter than she gives herself credit for.

In fact, I think Benedikt may be a lot like me, like a lot of American Jews. Her opinions on Israel are “in flux.” Influenced by the world around her. By the books and newspapers she reads. By how much taxes are taken out of her paycheck. By how old she is. By who she has to care for at home. By the tragedies she’s witnessed…or hasn’t. By the people she loves and spends her time with.

When she was a girl, in a Zionist home and at Zionist camp, these were people who wholeheartedly and unabashedly loved and supported Israel and her policies. Perhaps blindly, and perhaps not.

Now, not so much so.

But were her parents and Zionist camp counselors really more or less blind than her anti-Israel husband?

Are her  and her husband’s opinions about Israel now really based more on fact than her opinions were as an active Jewish youth?

Or were they all…always…based mostly on emotion and experience (or lack thereof)?

I have an opinion about Israel. I think it would be impossible to live here and not have an opinion about Israel.  But I am well aware that my opinion is not based on truth.

It’s not based on fantasy either.

It’s based on some education, some experience, some past dialogue and debate. It’s based on living for a time as a lone Jew in a non-Jewish community and  Jew among Jews in a very Jewish community. It’s based on Hebrew school and Jewish day camp. It’s based on Thomas Friedman and Amos Oz and USY and two Congregation Beth Els and The Arizona Jewish Post and JCC Maccabi Xperience Summer 2000 and marrying an American Israeli/Israeli American and a host of other reading materials, dialogues, professional and personal experiences.

But, undeniably my opinions on Israel are 1) emotional and 2) ever-changing.

I think this fact is the main reason I don’t share them very often.

I don’t want to come off as one of the many people who I read and hear spouting off opinion as if its fact. Something members of both camps — pro and anti Israel — seem to be really good at these days.

Middle East Conflict, Politics, Religion

Looks Jewish

Jen

The fact of the matter is there are a few things that when said out of the mouth of a non-Jew sound racist but are perfectly reasonable exiting the mouth of a fellow Tribe member.

This maybe be unfair. Un-PC. Un-liberal. Whatever. It’s fact.

A perfect example of such a remark is the statement: “She looks Jewish.”

Looking Jewish is, of course, a stereotype. It’s one that’s been used for hundreds of years by people who wanted to, at the very least, make fun of Jews, and at worst, completely annihilate them. But, as a Jew, I have found myself looking around the room from time to time, moreso when I was young and single, and asking myself or my Jewish companion: “Do you think he’s Jewish?” We’d then go about hazarding a guess based on the way he looked and how he dressed. As we got older, we might also take note of his hair, or lack therof.

Another twist on the same question is wondering out loud how a blonde-haired, fair-skinned girl is possibly Jewish. “She doesn’t look Jewish.” For many years, back when I used to be blonder than I am now, I often got strange looks from people when I told them I was Jewish.

I’m not the kinda Jewish girl who uses words like shiksa or goy; they don’t feel right coming out of my mouth. They never have. But I have said to a girl friend once, “That boy looks so ham sandwich. There’s no way he’s a Jew.” My friend, a Jew, knew exactly what I meant.

Since living in Israel, I have been amazed — yes, truly amazed– at how varied Jews actually can get. In the States, if you went to the AMC Marlton 8 movie theater in NJ when I was a kid, and there was a group of 5 guys standing smoking cigarettes in a corner, and those guys were all wearing black parachute pants, black v-neck t-shirts, and earrings, you knew those guys were not Jews. If you were a good Jewish girl, you knew not to date them; and if you were a naughty Jewish girl, you headed straight over. Those boys were Italian or Hispanic, or some version of Catholic.

Not so in Israel. That pack of Z-Cavaricci wearing boys either grew up, converted, and moved to Israel; or were born and raises in Tiberias. And YES, Mom, they’re Jewish! Here in Israel, the good boys and the bad boys — all Jews! The ones who open the door for you and the ones that would date rape you — all Jews! “Nice Jewish Boy” takes on a whole new meaning here in Israel. (Something I am fortunate not to have to worry about for another decade or so ’til my daughter starts looking at boys that way.)

Last week, I attended a hi-tech conference in Jerusalem. It was attended mostly by men, some of whom were non-Jews, I’m sure. (There was no formal poll, but it was a highly-attended international conference geared towards start ups and really rich people who want to invest in start ups.)

All the conference attendees were wearing name tags. If you are a Jew, you know (but likely won’t say out loud to a non-Jew) that it’s even easier to hit a bullseye when guessing if a man is Jewish by his name tag than it is by his looks. That said, without the name tags, if you had put these same guys in a hi-tech conference in San Francisco, I would never have been able to guess the Jews from the non-Jews.

I played a game with myself during breaks between workshops. I’d see a guy, and try to guess if he was a local (Israeli…Jew) or a foreigner. The fine-looking, finely dressed guys I thought were surely from Paris or Madrid or some other European cultural center were all named Yigal, Alon, and Amir! They were all Israeli. Jews!

This happens where ever I go here in Israel and it never ceases to amaze me. Whether I am buying my groceries or walking down the beach, there are Jews everywhere and they all look different. It astounds me that the most beautiful, model-like, bikini-wearing blonde leggy girl is sitting next to an obese, tattoo-covered guy smoking from a hookah in one hand and drinking a beer in the other; and they are both Jews!

(And if you’re wondering how you tell the Jews from the Arab Israelis, you can often hear a slight difference in the accent of their Hebrew.)

To the anti-Semites out there; or to the Jewish women (that I know personally) who sadly will not date Jewish men because they look “too Jewish;” I suggest the following antidote.

Visit Israel.

You will surely see once and for all that there is no way to color a Jew. We are hot; we are ugly; we are skinny; fat; dark; light; hairy; hairless; big breasted; flat-chested. We’ve got noses that look beaks and noses that look like buttons. We smell like aftershave; and we’ve got B.O. Some of us dress like hippies and some of us look like we just left our job at the strip club.

Why it took me moving to Israel to figure that out, I do not know.

But it’s clear to me that we Jews are a nation not only of many colors, but of hair textures, clothing preferences and chest size.

Now, if we could only teach the world to sing in perfect harmony.

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, 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.

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”

Middle East Conflict, Politics, Religion, Work

Bubble

Jen

I work from home. And since my younger children are in Gan on the kibbutz and my older son takes a bus to his school in Givat Ela (a 15 minute-drive away), I don’t have much reason to leave. In fact, I don’t really have much reason to shower. (See? Already I’m contributing to the water conservation effort in Israel.)

This makes for a very insular life. Which, for the moment, I enjoy.

Especially since this type of isolation means I can forget I live in a country in the middle of a war zone.

Did you ever see the Christopher Reeve film, Somewhere in Time? It’s a time traveling story in which Reeve’s character, Richard, falls in love with a woman (Jane Seymour) he sees in a vintage portrait. Richard figures out how to travel back in time to the turn of the century to meet her…where they fall in love. He needs to be mindful, though, because if he sees anything that reminds him of his own time, he will be hurled back there in an instant.

I, too, need to be mindful. All it takes is one email, one conversation with a friend, or one visit to msnbc.com to remind me that I didn’t move to a communal farm in New Hampshire, but to a kibbutz in Israel, a land whose fate is consistently in question.

The other day I was driving to Nazrat Ilit, the nearest “city” to Hannaton with my friend Yitzhak, who is also a new oleh. On the drive, he asked me if I was concerned about the situation in Egypt. “What’s going on in Egypt?” I asked tentatively. He looked at me as if I had three heads. “Do you know what’s going on in Tunisia?” he asked. I told him I thought I saw a picture about it on Facebook. He sighed.

When I got home later, my husband Avi was closely reading an email in his inbox. When he saw me looking over his shoulder trying to make out the Hebrew, he quickly closed it out. “What was that about?” I asked. “Oh, nothing we need to worry about right now,” he replied.

The problem with his response is that I already saw the photo included in the email which, it turns out, listed the dates the local municipality would be handing out complimentary gas masks to each family in the region, and the specific locations at which we could pick ours up.

“I see,” I said, noting that the soonest date to pick up our stash was mid-February. I took a deep breath and glanced over at the miklat* in our house, which for now is filled with boxes we have not yet emptied, as opposed to gas masks, extra water, or bags of dehydrated food.  I was better prepared for catastrophe in New Jersey, where I kept a big tupperware box filled with 2012 End of Days supplies in my basement.

Is it ignorant or naive of me to think I could move to Israel and not be forced to confront the politics of living here? I think the clear answer is, Yes.  And, yet, I’m doing a really good job of it so far.

Or so I easily lead myself to believe…

I think it’s only time until I will be forced to confront, or at least acknowledge, what it means to be an American Jew living in Israel. When all the careful indoctrination I received studying International Politics in college, interning at the Embassy of Israel, and working in Washington, D.C. think tanks rises to the surface.  

I am, in fact, very aware and informed of the history of the land I now I live in. It’s one thing, though, to read Amoz Oz or write a paper on “Why the West Bank Is An Important Strategic Asset to Israel” (which I did in 1993). It’s quite another to pay taxes here, prepare my children for a bomb drill, or walk beneath fighter planes doing exercises in the sky.

When there is inevitably another media blitz about an Israeli military choice or when Israel is once again front and center in the international news, where will I be? Lobbying in support of my country? Or quietly insisting that the latest news doesn’t concern me?

Only time will tell.

Like many transformations I’m experiencing as a new immigrant here, my political leanings are still…TBD.

GLOSSARY

Miklat = Bomb shelter (which by law every new Israeli home built has to have. Most people use these as closets, storage rooms, or offices.)

Politics, Religion, Work

Terror

Jen

As we were trying to put the kids to bed last night, and as my husband was scrolling through news from back home on his IPhone, he saw the headlines about the shooting of Arizona Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords and bystanders at a local Safeway grocery store.

“There was a shooting in Tucson today,” he said. “They shot Gabrielle Giffords.” A few years back, my husband had met Giffords, the first Jewish congressperson from Arizona, when we lived in Tucson and Avi was executive director of the America Israel Friendship League, Tucson chapter.

“How can that be?” I asked him, even though I knew he didn’t have the answer, and that the question had no definitive answer.

Sure, Tucson is not without its share of controversy, immigration and border issues being the biggest headlines, second only to wildfires, perhaps. But when we lived in Tucson, we felt safe. Particularly since we landed in Tucson two weeks after 9/11 and our new home was a million miles away from what felt like terror centrals at the time: New York City, where we had just moved from, and Washington D.C.

So how is it that a local supermarket, one that’s probably frequented by our former neighbors and colleagues, was the scene of what is looking more and more like a hate crime? How is it that a Jew has fallen in Tucson, a town that never felt threatening to me, not for a minute, despite the bars on the windows and the occasional gun on the belt of an old school cowboy?

Here I am in Israel, where we are certainly reminded of the threat to our safety thanks to bag checks at the entrance to every store and the very visible presence of the Israeli army. But it’s what has happened in Tucson that frightens me.

I feel the fear as a Jew and as a woman. As someone who speaks up for what I believe in. As someone who airs my grievances publicly. And as someone who wants to feel safe at a community event at a grocery store.

It’s in a moment like this that I also want to say to my American friends, those who are scared for my safety here; those who think Israel is too dangerous a place for a family to live; those who think they are safer than I am because they live in the United States:

Terrorists can strike anywhere, any time. What I am learning, though, even after living here only two weeks, is that Israel is simply better prepared for it.

Religion

De plane, de plane

Jen

I’m thankful for this parody forwarded to me by my friend Deborah, which does such a good job making fun of El Al flights (like our flight to Israel) that I don’t have to spend time doing it myself.

One thing I have to add to this blogger’s post is the unique insanity that accompanies Israel-bound flights because of the necessity (Or desire? I don’t want to offend.) for orthodox Jews on the flight to “daven” (pray). Individuals such as the gentleman seated in front of us who seemed to lose his prayer book every time the beverage cart started down the aisle and had to go searching for it in multiple pockets of multiple suit jackets in multiple overhead compartments.

That said, during the minutes I thought the plane was going down from extreme turbulence, I was very grateful for those on our plane who had God’s ear. I was rational enough to think at the time, “This plane is as blessed as you can get,” while simulatenously countering that rationale with the Holocaust, evidence that you can pray super hard and still tragically perish.

But most of all, the one thing you can count on from El Al that you don’t see on domestic American flights is that no matter what the emergency, tea and coffee will be always be served…with pleasure.

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.