Ramblings of emotions

It's an interesting experience to live with one concept of myself, one view of my heritage, one set of values, and one connection with Israel for 23 years, and find the entirety of it all shattered in only 3 months.

I had a very intense conversation with my mom about the above confusing and conflicting emotions. I was hoping that by talking it out with the person who understands me better than anyone else I would come to some clarity. Instead, she told me that she understands my confusion, that it's natural, and great for me to be thinking such things. My dad later agreed. Thanks for the help, guys! Some parents... sheesh.

I write the following blog post partly as my own therapy, and partly to give you all a glimpse as to how this experience has affected me. I've shared my views on different trips, and here and there expressed a line or two about Israeli values that I like and don't like. But I have a huge fear that I'm changing too much here, and I'll come home a stranger to you all. I can't promise that what I'm about to share will make sense to you, or that it will be written in any sort of cohesive manner. And I can pretty much guarantee that it'll be longer than most of you care to read. But we'll see what happens...

My last blog post was April 8, which puts us to almost 3 weeks without an update. I've experienced יום השואה (Yom HaShoa - Holocaust Remembrance Day, April 12), יום הזיכרון (Yom HaZicaron - Remembrance Day, April 19) and יום העצמאות (Yom Ha'atzmaut - Independence Day, April 20). It should thus be no surprise to you all that it hasn't exactly been the easiest few weeks, and with no lack of emotion, both personally and nationally. In a nation cursed with a history of tragedy and constant war, everyone has a story about someone close to them in the Holocaust, and someone to pay respects to on Remembrance Day. My second cousin, a remarkable man, only 21 years old, spent Remembrance Day visiting his friend's grave. 21 years old with friends who have died in wars. Yes, I know that in American history many also have stories. People have grandfathers who served in WWII or in Vietnam. People have ancestors who served in the Civil War, or came over on the Mayflower. But it is by and large not the norm. And very few of us in our generation know people fighting overseas, let alone fallen in battle. To that extent, when speaking about American soldiers, we refer to them as "over seas" whereas Israeli's fight in their back yards...

To me, November 11, Veteran's Day, has always been the day after my birthday in which there is no school, allowing me to enjoy my birthday into the late hours of the night. I have never stopped during the day to think about those who fought. And by name alone - Veteran's Day - we celebrate those who have survived, rather than those who have fallen. Or course I know that the day is meant to remember everyone that has ever fought in an American war, but it is so poorly named. In Israel, you can't help but remember. It is around us every day. Memorials all over the country, youth walking around in uniform, and more stories that you would ever want to share. On both Yom HaShoa, and Yom HaZicaron, a siren blared over the entire country calling for a minute of silence. Cars stopped in the middle of the highway while people got out, school stopped, work stopped. Israel stopped. Israel stopped for a whole minute while everyone stood silently to an eerily pitched war siren and paid their respects to those who died, those who were injured, those who served, and those who were effected by wars, and terrorist attacks.

As part of our "celebration" of the holidays, we watched a few films and spoke to people with personal stories that they were strong enough to share with us.

Eilat is a very warm woman around 50, and one of our house moms here. She bends backwards to make sure we're all okay, and, by coincidence, is somehow distantly related to me (I believe that she and my uncle-through-marriage are cousins, or something of that sort). Her mother is a Holocaust survivor, and Eilat shared with us her experience growing up with a woman who was continually angry, tried to conform as much as possible (standing out of the crowd with the Nazi's was clearly not good), and how her life changed when she finally understood why her mom was as cold as she was. Her talk was beyond moving, and I would do her injustice to even try to summarize it. The root of her message was that the head controls everything else. The way we think has physical repercussions on our body, and our actions have clear affects on our lives.

The following week, for Remembrance Day, we watched a documentary about Michael Levin, the only American Israeli soldier to die in the second Lebanon War, which hit me way harder than any film of the sort has ever affected me before. Seeing his friends speaking, that these are all people my age, some with a similar history to mine, and knowing that two of my second cousins were fighting in Lebanon rushed at me.

That evening, we watched an Israeli film, Operation Thunderbolt, about an AirFrance hijacking that left over 100 Israeli's in Entebbe, Uganda, held by freedom fighters. The rescue mission was planned in only 2 or 3 days, and was high risk. There was much doubt among the soldiers that the plan would even be approved - and it actually wasn't until they were already in the air! We were privileged to have one of the Captains from the mission, Rami Sherma, living on the kibbutz, and willing to speak to us about his experience, emotions, and thoughts. He was an incredibly kind and humble man, willing to answer questions of every kind, whether they be blunt, emotional, or shallow (he even laughed at a question that he deemed dumb... and didn't try to hide that he thought it was a stupid question). I spoke to him afterward to clarify a question that I had asked earlier in the session, and after talking for a bit, we realized that he had picked me up hitchhiking only a couple days prior! Small world. We've agreed to hike part of the Israel National Trail together in the fall, and I'm looking forward to spending more time with him. He's a man of amazing stories, wisdom, and generosity.

On top of those experiences, we also watched two Israeli films, taking place during the time of war - Yossi and Jagger (in which my cousin's husband plays a main character) and Lost Islands. In my opinion, they are both worth watching, but also both sad, as war movies tend to be.

On the eve of Yom Hazicaron (Remembrance Day), remember, Jewish holidays go sundown to sundown, there was a beautiful ceremony on the kibbutz. Candles were lit all over, a few songs were shared, and a couple of people shared small anecdotes about loved ones who died while serving. The entire kibbutz participated, and somehow even the babies and young children knew to stay silent as soon as the flag was lowered to half mast. During the day, we held a small ceremony with the Ulpan, and a former teacher spoke to us about a man who would be 26 if he were still alive. He had participated in the Ulpan, and died in battle 2 years after he completed the program.

I write about all the above experiences so that you might try to understand where my head is at by the time I get the courage to sit down and attempt to put my emotions down on paper (or, computer screen, as it were). While I have always known that every Israeli serves and is connected to tragedy, it has been a fact that I've known rather than a truth that I've internalized. My teacher had never watched a movie about Lebanon until we watched Yossi and Jagger in class because her high school boyfriend died fighting in the First Lebanon War. My cousins, as previously mentioned, fought in the Second Lebanon War. A guy I shared drinks with in Tel Aviv also served in Lebanon. When I travel by train for weekends or holidays, the seats are packed with soldiers, men and woman younger that I am, in uniform heading home for the day or two with friends and family. These young adults walk proudly, some with guns, all with honor. I know it sounds cheesy and patriotic, and that's generally not the type of person that I am, but the nation was built and protected by these people, and they all know that. While I can't support war, and the necessity of mandatory service hurts me, no one can deny that it is a unifying force of the country, and everyone can be proud of that common baseline of understanding, respect, and trust for one another.

Which leads me to my first identity struggle. I have never in my life even considered the possibility of serving in the IDF. The option was dismissed at first thought when I was 17 and filing exemption papers, as I had the luxury to not serve in wars that I don't always agree with, and the ability to distance myself from politics that confuse and anger the whole world. I was speaking with a friend of mine, Adi (18, Argentina), who has chosen to move back to Israel to serve. She was born in Israel, and moved away at the age of 2. While talking to her, she said to me "As an Israeli, it is my obligation to serve. As someone who was raised abroad, it is my choice not to" and I couldn't agree with her more. But for better or for worse, I never debated the choice. I've been happy with my decision, and never doubted it until now.

With one of the best pubs (clubs) in the area, I meet Israeli soldiers every weekend. Anyone my age has just finished serving recently, or are even still serving (many sign on for an extra year or two, especially if serving in special units which require long training periods). Friends of people on my program, soldiers giving me rides to the train station as they head back to base, a guy I've been casually dating when our weekends on the kibbutz coincide, random soldiers next to me on the train, the guy hitting on my friend in a bar, the girl flirting with the boys in the room next door - these people could all be my friends. These are people I could have grown up with, and people with more self understanding, self worth, and maturity than any American their age. And these people all wear a uniform, or have within the last 2 years. The high schoolers that I milk cows with, get arm deep in shit with, and feed calves with, they, too, will all serve, and have already wished friends good luck as they dress in uniform, and already have stories of sorrow. To be Israeli is to serve. I have been so surrounded by it that earlier today when my iTunes started playing The General (Dispatch) while on shuffle I actually stopped what I was doing to listen to it, and found myself understanding it in a whole new light.

I can't say that I regret my decision to be exempt from service. At the time, I believed strongly in my disagreement with some of the policies, and believed even more strongly that I had to go to college to pursue my education. I was convinced that I'd continue straight on to a doctorate, too. But many, if not most, Israelis are also conflicted about the decisions of their government. Most of them would not enlist if it wasn't mandatory - though, I have encountered those who try to convince me that you don't know what it means to be Israeli unless you've been face to face with an Arab and had to decide whether or not to shoot him. Everyone is saddened by the constant state of war. My views are far from unique. But they have the obligation. I had the choice. I wonder now if I should have served. If I should have embraced that obligation - not because I wanted to, but because of my heritage. At this point, I'm too old (mandatory service for girls returning/immigrating to Israel ends at the age of 20), and the thought of enlisting now was thrown out almost as soon as it started. If I decided to join, which I haven't, I would either have some short term stupid office job since I'm so "old", or I'd have to utilize my degree for a serious position, likely on a 2 or 3 year contract. Neither of which are appealing, and the bond of serving with my generation is already lost. Regardless, this new found doubt is scary. Zionism, patriotism, and Israeli obligation have never really been part of my repertoire. But that, too, is part of being an Israeli.

On the other side of the spectrum is the connection, comfort, and understanding of myself and family dynamics that I've found in Israel. I find it very easy to speak to Israelis. They call me old and experienced because I already have a bachelors degree, which they see as the start of "real life." Most Israeli's travel after service and don't even start college until 24 or 25. I call them old and experienced because they've been hardened by their service, and the countless stories similar to those above that they all share. We usually agree that we are both older and younger than one another, but bond on other levels. I can't rationalize the ease that I feel with Israelis, but aside from the hardcore army rats that I chose not to talk to, I speak to Israelis with more comfort than most new encounters, despite the language gap.

The only way I can possibly explain the phenomenon is that they have been raised by parents similar to mine. As we speak the same general themes of family, heritage, and importance of self discovery unravel. While it is true that most travel after the army to decompress, they go for months at a time to embrace the culture as well as the sites. Even family vacations are often a month or two in length over the summers. Rushed 2 week cruises are few and far between. As I'm sure most of you know, this is why I love to travel. I believe that the more I learn about others the more I can learn about myself.

This country is full of Shavit's. People who invite you into their home because of some distant connection. People who make sure you have a place to eat dinner in the company of others instead of a hotel room. People who put their family above everything else, who spend any free time at home instead of at the movie theater. They are in a constant state of stress to get to the beach and lounge in the sun, or rushing to get to the cafe to relax with friends for a cup of coffee. An Israeli told me "Israeli's are always in a rush to go sit somewhere and relax." Being part of family functions, both mine, and of friends, reminds me of the things I love most about my family and that the country is built on it. I went out a couple of weeks ago to dinner with my parents' friends, and they treated me as their own daughter. I felt as if I was at dinner with my friends, and the generational difference didn't matter. Every new person I meet teaches me a little bit more about the environment that my parents were raised in, and piece by piece it feels like this country is trying to explain to me who my parents are, and why I should feel and believe the values that I've been raised on.

I hate to generalize, but many American families fight. There is the stereotype that teenagers hate their parents, and that "parents don't understand what I'm going through." My mom has always been my best friend. There are few things that I ever kept secret from her, and even those have been revealed over time. I go to her for advice about life, fights with friends/family, fears, and to talk her ear off when I need to vocalize my thoughts if for no other reason but to force myself to think about them. Starting at a very young age, she did the same with me. She told me the mistakes that she made in her youth, her heartaches, and her regrets so that I would never doubt that she could relate to me, and that I would always chose to come to her first. I have always been told, and agreed, that this relationship was unique. It's not. It's Israeli. It may hold true in other parts of the world, I don't know. But I know that most people I have met here speak about their parents the way that I have always spoken about mine. Sure, we have our fill of family drama; my family certainly does. It doesn't change the way we hope and strive to be.

I guess at the end of all of this, what I'm trying to express is that I'm finding myself here. I've found a place where my experiences have helped to clarify my views, rather than overwhelm me with new ones like most of my travels do. I have my doubts as to the Israeli I've been up to this point. I always used the term, but I'm not sure I always embraced or explored it. Living here, connecting with family, meeting new people, traveling around the country on my own, improving my Hebrew, and hearing stories from people of all backgrounds has both confused and inspired me in a way that I never expected - and I'm enjoying every moment of it.