No, I’m not ignoring the fact that Operation
Protective Edge is in progress. Haaretz has making that
impossible.
What I am trying to ignore is the fact that's
all anyone wants to talk to me about when I mention I just got back from
Israel. No one wants to hear about Masada or the Dead Sea, Haifa or
Tel Aviv or even Jerusalem. Just this latest situation.
In case we haven’t personally talked, you may not
know my whole story behind my touristic aliyah to the Holy Land. I will
not be telling the whole story right here; it is not necessary. I will leave it
at the beginning: Seventh grade social studies, a current events project,
and two weeks in the November of 1995. For some, that time might have
instant resonance, for others perhaps not, but anytime I see that iconic
picture of Yitzhak Rabin and Yassir Arafat mid-handshake, framing a young
idealistic American President, I’m thirteen again, and the hope for peace
(and the quiet that it brings) seems gone.
To those that comment “I bet your glad you came
home when you did,” hope may be gone again (if it was ever there). I,
however, have always had hope, be it the teenage me back then or the
nevermind-what-age me of today.
So, to respond to that comment at the local
Walmart, Target, restaurant, or where ever I am at: No.
Don't jump to conclusions about
my mentality with that statement. My personality makes me a loyal helper,
especially for those aspects of life that I love. This feeling since I’ve
been home parallels the feelings that are resolved for me during the
martyrology service of Yom Kippur. Many that sit in the synagogue seats have
heard it all before—not just from the previous year, but from mothers and
fathers, grandparents, other older relatives, some of whom experienced first
hand the exact theme of the service. Despite the serious and matter-of-fact
nature of this program, I appreciate it. I don’t have that shared
personal history; it’s not something that I have heard stories about from
generation to generation. By listening of those that lived for their
faith and their existence to their ends, I can carry a bit, taking some from
those that have personally been weighted emotionally throughout their lives.
I feel as a part of the two Israels: The people (Am Yisrael) and the country (Medinat Yisrael). The more I am welcomed into both, I know there is more
to this land than what meets the media’s eye. And I love it.
Because of this growing connection, the push
notifications from Haaretz that tell me the sirens are sounding in Tel Aviv
trigger something in me; I feel a bit guilty. I am not there to be a
part of the collective in those shelters or on those streets that I have
walked in the best of summertime. Unlike the Ten Martyrs service, I don’t
know what I can do for my newfound communities.
Don’t tell me this is irrational. We
make connections daily throughout our lives; some are unavoidable, others
unexplainable. Either way, sometimes the mind decides what we want in our lives
with the soul choosing what we need. Think about that one place you love
outside where you grew up, the one that is like a second home; that is Israel to me.
We all
have our Israel. I've talked to people who were miles and years
away from their brief life along the Red River Valley who would still ache when
she would flood. When the Boundary Waters Canoe Area had their massive
blowdown, many Minnesotans, some natural and others naturalized through
vacations, mourned for the land and lakes. I envy these people for they
had solutions; they could go and sandbag or head north and manually remove the
fallen trees.
All I can do is write. And hope for quiet.
I don’t want this to be a political blog—I want it
to be a travel blog—because my Israel doesn’t have controversy; it has
coexistence. My Israel is two
people that make it work, because that is what is right for both parties, both
families. I’m not naïve enough to pretend that there aren’t
multiple claims to this chunk of real estate, nor will I claim one is right and
one is wrong. This recitation of jousting narratives is interwoven,
and neither story can now be told without the other. In the anthology of
the region, both pieces (and peaces) of prose need their respective attention;
both voices need to be heard if we wish there to be a next chapter or volume.
Hope is not just my story from middle school, it’s
not even just my story now, having experienced the land. It is the
story of anyone, anywhere, on any side, that has cupped a palm of sand, or has eaten the fresh fruit of a date
palm, or has even had a date under the thick sky while sipping coffee.
It is the
story of anyone that has held this land in their hand and in their heart, and
therefore its hope.
As someone who really likes it when things come
around full circle, I really appreciate that the martyrology portion ends with
the singing of “HaTikva,” Israel’s national anthem. It is a great way to
conclude such a service; after all, as Am Yisrael, we still have hope.
Writing has been a great, because it
allows sunlight to be shed onto my version of life in the land of Israel.
Every hotel and attraction review I write becomes a digital shield to those
unpleasant push notifications. Any tourist tip and trick negates the pundits'
programmed mongering. Beyond all this though, every click of my keyboard brings
you, my reader who must share some sort of interest in this nation, away
from the last week and little closer to its boarders, its beaches, and its
beauty.
I hope.
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