Hi everyone! No time no blog, good to be back. As most of you know, I was home (as in, America) for 3 weeks for Passover, which was super nice. It was great to see my family and friends, including many of you, to be in my house (no dorm room showers!), and to just have a nice holiday and a good break from my routine here in Israel. Needless to say, I was thrilled to be back in Israel, although there was that obvious pang of sadness in having to leave my family. Since returning to Israel, I want to say I've fallen back into my routine, but it's been such a busy time that there's hardly been a routine.
Last week, I began the week with a tour of Mount Herzl, Israel's largest military cemetery, located in Jerusalem. It was a chance for us to see the place from an educational perspective, talking about the place and the soldiers who were buried there with our teachers on an otherwise quiet day. We walked passed the graves of thousands of soldiers, from those buried in 1948 to those buried last week (yes, literally last week). One of the most special and amazing things about Israel is that from the most well-known, publicized, honored soldier deaths (think Yonatan Netanyahu, brother of Bibi Netanyahu, who was killed in Operation Antebe in the 70s), regardless of rank or class or race, every single soldier is buried in the exact same grave, same headstone, same height, width, all in even, modest rows of neat, understated marble. Privates, lieutenants, war heroes, Ethiopians, Europeans, Americans, Israelis, black, white, girl, boy, poor, rich, everyone alike. In America, the military is often a divisive system, attracting certain classes, regions of the country, and socio-economic groups, in Israel, it is truly the great equalizer. Everyone is drafted, everyone must serve (as you can imagine, this is why the abstention of much of the Ultra Orthodox community from the army is so offensive and upsetting to so many people and is increasingly unpopular and unacceptable).
Monday morning, we were dealt harsh news: Rabbi Aaron Lichtenstein (z''l) passed away at age 82. For many of you this may mean nothing, but to members of the orthodox Jewish community this was a huge blow. Rav Aharon was one of the greatest rabbis of our generation, a household name in our community. He was a genius, noted for his humility and compassion. He was a proponent of values such as the importance of women's Jewish learning on the highest level (ex: Talmud), the importance of the modern State of Israel, serving in the army, and mastering all areas of Jewish thought (many people stress Talmud over everything else, claiming or at least indicating that everything else is less important or less prestigious). He was also the Rav (Rabbi) of most of my teachers, and had a close relationship with many of them, so Monday morning was a paralyzing time for them and for my whole school. We spent much of the time discussing Rav Aharon, who I never met but have learned from and about my whole life, and learning in his memory. At his funeral the next day, which I was so privileged to attend, there were over 10,000 people. It was such an emotional and special experience to be a part of such a seminal moment for Modern Orthodoxy and to be witness to an amazing gathering of so many people touched by one single person.
Tuesday night we moved into mourning, as it was Yom HaZikaron (Remembrance Day For Israel's Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror). My memories of American memorial day have always involved barbecues, children rolling around on lush spring grass, bare feet on the warm sand, and a scant number of small American flags, displayed almost as an afterthought. It's possible that it's different in different places in America, but for me, Memorial Day was never anything more than a (hopefully) sunny day off. In Israel, this couldn't be farther from the truth. In a country of 8 million people, it's not an exaggeration to say that eveyrone knows at least one person who has been killed in the army. Usually, it's many more than one, and quite often, they are brothers, sisters, fathers, cousins, friends or neighbors. Victims of terror are much the same, as terrorism is an unfortunate reality in Israel, and although it ebbs and flows in the number of attacks and in their maliciousness and casualties, it is always there. This year, I can't even count on two hands how many terrorist attacks there have been. The ones that make then news are only the bloodiest, most photo-worthy ones with the greatest number of victims, but multiple times a month people are stabbed, hit with cars, stoned, attacked, and terrorized in so many different, horrifying ways, simply for the crime of being Israeli. To live with terrorism as an acknowledged, somewhat accepted part of life is no simple thing.
For Yom HaZikaron, we returned to Mt. Herzl, this time not for the education but for the experience. We were joined by more than 150,000 others, there to mourn sons, friends, relatives, and to share in the burden and responsibility of national memory. This year, there are more than 100 graves that weren't there last year, young boys killed protecting their homeland. To see mothers bent over the graves of their sons, wives and girlfriends over the names of husbands and boyfriends, children hugging the tombstones of their fathers, is a sight you can't explain. Strangely enough, though, it is not depressing. It is sad and tragic and greif-inducing, but it is also such a moment of pride and national unity. In contrast to Holocaust Rememberance Day (a week before Yom HaZikaron), which feels so depressing and is such purposeless death and misery, Yom HaZikaron is a moment when we mourn people who died for a purpose, who gave their lives for their nation and for their state. People still live in Israel, even when they lose children, parents, friends. Ask these grieving parents (of which I spoke to many as we weaved through the headstones), and they will express sadness and loss, but they will always say that if their son could have died for one thing, it should be for the glorification of God's name and the State of Israel, the State of the Jewish people. Not one person I've ever spoken to has suggested that the death of their boy or dad or spouse was a waste. It's not for me to say, but I guess that must mean that to them, to us, it is worth it.
And then, three hours later, BOOM, celebration like you can't imagine. It's Israeli Independence Day, and grief gives way to overwhelming joy, dancing, singing, and national pride. Flags wallpaper buildings, cars and windows, everyone is clad in blue and white, everyone is cheery, smiley and friendly. There is an infectious atmosphere of joy and jubilation, of gratitude for God's grace and the sacrifice of so many that allowed us to be here. It is an amazing and inspiring day. The transition is obviously difficult, but it allows us to see that the tragic loss of young lives was not for nothing, and that likewise, the State of Israel wasn't, and isn't free. The connection between the victims of the Holocaust, the great Jewish leaders of our generation, our lost soldiers, and our glorious, beautiful state, for all its flaws and all the lice, is not lost on us. The fact that such an emotional week culminated in celebrating Israel is a testament to how important Israel is, how lucky and blessed we are. How lucky I am, to be writing this in Israel, in the autonomous Jewish state, where I will be, God willing, again next year.
Of course, shabbat was super relaxing, just what the doctor ordered after so many hours dashing about from ceremony to ceremony, trip to trip, from joy to sorrow and back to joy again in such short a time. This week has (thus far) been relaxing, sweet, and super hot. And although the crazy Zionism of last week has ended, I still feel it just as strongly as I did beside the graves of fallen soldiers, in the midst of waving Israeli flags, in the unity of voices singing the Israeli National Anthem.
Love you guys, R
No comments:
Post a Comment