Category: Work

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.)

Kibbutz, Living in Community, Parenting, Work

Kibbutz Commute

Jen

This morning you might have mistaken me for a Folger’s commercial.

I left the house this morning with a big ceramic mug of piping hot, fresh, homemade coffee in my hand. My husband was alongside me loving up his own cup. My two little ones played “parade” as they walked single file up the hill to their respective ganim*. It’s January, and the sun was bright in the sky. There was a bit of a chill in the air — enough to wear a fleece over my long-sleeved hoodie– but clear blue skies heralded the coming of another gorgeous day. Unlike what our friends and family in New Jersey are preparing for — yet another snow storm.

This is our kibbutz commute. (Happy sigh.)

Of course, we’re new immigrants and, for all intents and purposes, still without signficant work to focus on, other than unpacking boxes and adjusting to life without our Blackberrys.

Both Avi and I are freelance consultants at the moment with a only few projects to keep us busy and to contribute to our cost of living. This is temporary, of course, so it’s too soon to tell if our morning glory will be permanent or if it will soon revert back to morning rush once we seek out and secure additional work.

Still, we took notice today on our walk back down the hill of the differences between the suburban and the kibbutz commute. For one thing, Avi said, you need to be chipper in the morning. No more eyes turned down, I-pod turned up, ignore your fellow train rider attitude. From the time we left the house until the time we arrived at our front door, we exchanged about 75 “boker tovs,” 25 “yom tovs,” and two dozen enormous smiles.

As a new arrival, these warm greetings are welcoming and reassuring, but will it soon get old? Personally, I’m having a hard time looking presentable in the morning — the water here is working against me, and my hair looks greasy no matter how often I wash it.  I’m really regretting the savvy, short hair cut I got before I moved because it makes a ponytail impossible.

Will I still welcome the friendly interactions when our kids inevitably revert back to psychotic, disagreeable rugrats after a bad night sleep or too many kosher marshmallows at a neighbor’s house? No one wants to be on display as they have to parent their child through a temper tantrum.

Oh well. That’s the kibbutz commute.

For sure, I don’t miss the bundling up of winter gear, the warming of the mini van so the automatic door will open, the driving up and down icy streets, or the three-stop drop off. So far, the smiles and greetings come easily to me because I’m significantly more relaxed than I have been in a very long time — at least since I gave birth to my first child.

But, the truth is, a lot of my relief likely comes from a reduction in tasks and demands.

My oldest dresses himself in a school “uniform” (iron-on t-shirts with the school logo and sweatpants) and walks himself up the street to the bus stop.  My littlest is fed a healthy breakfast and a hot lunch, so less for me to pack and prepare. My middle guy is the only one home mid-afternoon for lunch and, since he is the one who most benefits from one-on-one time, he’s a lot less grumpy at the end of the day when we all meet together again as a family.

Is this Israel? Or just a lifestyle shift? Many might argue that I could have achieved this by moving back to Arizona or putting my kids in daycare. Perhaps, they’d be right.

I’m not going to spend too much time carefully considering why and how I’m so relaxed right now. I don’t want to jinx it. But, I think it’s important to publicly aknowledge its existence so that when my kids come home with lice (God forbid) or the toilet backs up, I can count on you to remind me that once upon a time, my life was a cheery, sunny commercial for blissful living.

*GLOSSARY
Boker tov = Good morning
Yom tov = Have a good day
Ganim = kindergartens

Learning Hebrew, Love, Work

The Israel Experience

Jen

Part of the reason I feel so safe and secure in my decision to move to a foreign country is because my husband is not only fluent in the native language, but he lived here as both a child and, for a short time, as a young adult. Furthermore, he spent many years leading and coordinating teen tour programs through Israel. He even has an Israeli passport. In my mind, he’s Israeli.

But, as he keeps trying to tell me, there’s Israeli and then there’s Israeli.

The other day, we were driving around Tiberias on our way home from Misrad HaKlita (the most important government office for new immigrants since they are in charge of issuing us our monthly stipend) when I saw an interesting looking building.

“What’s that building? Do you know? It looks like a museum,” I asked Avi.

“I don’t know what that building is,” he responded.

“What? It says yad v’levanim. That sounds like yad vashem. Is it a museum?” I asked more emphatically.

“I really don’t know. Maybe it’s a museum,” he responded a little more impatiently.

“Well, what does yad vashem mean? Doesn’t it mean hall of rememberance or something?”

“No,” he said. “Yad means hand. Shem means name.”

“Yes, I know,” I said finally exasperated. “But maybe yad is like an official word for rememberance museum, even though it doesn’t mean museum or rememberance?!?”

“Jen! I don’t know what Yad V’levanim is,” he said. “I don’t know why they called it Yad Vashem. I don’t know everything! I can tell you what it’s like to swim in the Dead Sea, or what time of day you should climb Masada, or where to find kosher pizza on Ben Yehuda street. I know the Israel experience! I don’t know Israel LIFE!”

And suddenly I got it. Avi is a newbie, just like me.

Neither of us are freshmen, thank goodness, which is why we had the courage to make this move.  I’d probably place myself with the sophmores: I know enough Hebrew to read road signs and enough Arabic to know that the billboards in this village are not in Hebrew.

Avi is easily a rising senior, with his fluency and ability to seemlessly switch from an American to Israeli accent. He can order a double espresso and flirt with the Israeli barista; he can explain our son’s nut allergies to the waitress; and he can talk his way out of a speeding ticket. But he still has a bit to learn: There are words he needs to know now that he never learned as a kid, like “income tax” or “down payment.” Though an experienced professional for many years, most of which involved interacting with very high level professional and community leaders in both the States and Israel, Avi now needs to learn how to be an Israeli businessperson and consumer.

This isn’t the JCC Israel Experience, where we get a driver, a tour guide, and an air-conditioned bus, not to mention thousand of shekelim to keep in our fanny packs “just in case.” This is no vacation. This is no three-hour tour. This is our life.

And we’re not counselors looking after a bunch of teenagers from Syosset for five weeks — we’re parents of three young kids, who happen to have a few challenging needs to navigate in Israel. In particular, a sesame allergy for one and a nut allergy for the other.  But, that’s a rant of a different color.

I’m lucky. I know this. I don’t need to clutch my Hebrew-English dictionary. I have a husband who, for the most part, serves that purpose. I’m also fortunate to have a few friends here, who have already crossed the bridges I need to cross, and can advise me as to which is the smoother trail.

But, for sure, my husband and I are now seeing Israel through new pairs of eyes. Not as eager young tourists or upbeat, energetic counselors who know that a hot shower, a soft bed, and a familiar home-cooked meal are only weeks and a plane ride away.

Nope.

This is our home now. And it’s going to take both skill sets — his and mine — to make it feel that way.

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.

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.