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living
on the front page
a letter from home |
I’m an American. Not a day goes by when good-natured
sabras struggle to decipher my Hebrew 101 directions to the city entrance
or smile when, in a restaurant, I embarrassingly ask for a ‘tomato
war’ instead of a ‘tomato soup.’ Forty years after finishing
grammar school, I can still recite the Pledge of Allegiance and, without
effort, sing each line of every celebratory patriotic ditty. Living in
the war zone of the Middle East has done little to dampen my love of democracy,
freedom of expression and buy-one-get-one-free coupons.
But I’m an Israeli. I know it when haggling over a kilo of avocados
in the shuk or reserving a space on the bank line for a Russian cleaning
lady who can’t stand after a long day of washing. I know I’m
Israeli when I use the morning rush hour to read my prayer book as the
bus driver wends his way through the city.
Moving here was neither an accident nor a quirk of fate. It was a deliberate
gesture, borne out of our Long Island seder in 1993. Finishing with the
same song as always, it struck me that we weren’t being honest.
We always say ‘next year in Jerusalem’ but what do we mean?
It was after the second seder that I couldn’t sleep. The words kept
haunting and refused to let me hide. After all, I had always taught my
children to be careful with words: ‘say what you mean and mean what
you say.’ Why was I getting sloppy with, of all things, prayer?
Memorial Day – Yom HaZicharon – reminds me of the first time
I ‘got it.’ Sitting in a traffic jam just a year after arriving
here, I was particularly peeved at someone and feeling sorry for myself
for a myriad of reasons. Angry, teary and frustrated, I was jolted out
of my reverie by a gentle tap on the car window. Carrying several bouquets
of flowers, a pretty redheaded woman asked, through the now-lowered window,
whether I might be driving in the direction of the military cemetery at
Har Hertzel. My eyes were glassy with self-righteous tears but hers were
clear as she stated, simply, “I have to see my son. These are for
my boy.”
There but for the Grace of God.
How can I share this? Can anyone out there reading these words know how
much it means to this writer that you ‘hear’ the taps at the
ceremonial close of this day of remembrance? This day of gratitude? This
day of prayer and hope? To ache for the lost potential as we, in turn,
enjoy the fruits of their sacrifice? I can only shuk-hop because they
kept it for me! My children can romp on a beach in Netanya because they
secured it for me! ‘Birthright’ can flourish because there
is an embracing home waiting to receive our children – all due to
the belief that this is, indeed, ours. Have you seen the traffic stop
– dead-still – as drivers emerge from their cars and stand
in silence with the rest of us, humbled by the two-minute wail of a siren
as we recall the wails of fathers, mothers, siblings and lovers upon hearing
the news that their baby won’t be coming home?
There is no time-out following the final salvo of Memorial Day because,
with a stoke of brilliance, the founders of this country decided that
Israel Independence Day is the only fitting conclusion to a day of mourning.
Clearly indicating that it was NOT a vain gesture, fireworks light up
the nations skies as if to shout, “We Are Here!”
Barbeques, parties, parades and dancing in the streets are some of the
ways Israelis bond. Here, in our own blessed country, the concept of each-man-is-my-brother
becomes, indeed, reality. Our enemies assure us of this at every turn.
Last month my son reported for his first army physical. When not slouching,
Netanel is a striking six feet, three inches in height. (Never mind that
he weighs less than 150 pounds.) He is handsome, angular, affable and
precious to me. We laugh, occasionally, thinking about the size of the
boots he’ll be required to wear. It isn’t always easy to find
shoes for him in this country.
But what are the secret fears I harbor? I’m still too ‘old
school’ to record them on paper, lest I attract the attention of
the evil eye. I love him – but no more than most mothers love their
sons. What does a mother’s love weigh? I can’t say. It is
fierce.
On some days, love is paralyzing. Because there but for the Grace of God
go I.
An Israeli.
For feedback, contact editor@sdjewishjournal.com.