February 2007

“Days in the Life…”

Shalom and greetings from once-sunny-and-lovely, now dark-and-cold Ra’anana Israel! Actually, I think the initial period of cold was more an effect of my mind than the actual temperature, but the hot water bottles (2 of them, covered in Kelly-green felt—very British!) sure made a difference! And we need the rain, though level of the Kineret (Sea of Galilee) has not benefited as much as we would like.

My life has settled into a routine of class, study, homework, learning the music, words and choreography (now don’t laugh at THAT mental picture!) of the music for the Galron choir tour of Germany, and now the music for a second choir I joined, mostly because the music is easy, and I have a chance to work with Jeanne Rabin, a consummate performer, and talented choir director. She has taken this disparate group of novice singers and in 3 months has turned them into a choir on par with Koleinu! So I will learn a lot from her, and she and I have become friends.

Last week I had to go to Jaffo (southern Tel Aviv—yes the ancient port city!) to open my “tik” file at Israeli Customs, because the ship on which my stuff is traveling will come in soon. (My sister Pat and I had a laugh about the reference to “someday, my ship will….!”) Everybody told me “take ALL of your documents, with copies. Take a snack. Take a book. Expect to spend all day, and to be sent from office to office.” OK, so I loaded myself up, caught the 502 bus to Tel Aviv, found the 46 to Jaffo, found the office immediately. Walked in—the place was deserted, except for one very pleasant clerk, who invited me to sit, took passport and ID book, stamped my immigration book, typed into the computer, then looked up, smiled, and said, “OK you are finished!”

“What?” “No, it’s in the computer—we’re finished!” “Em…well, thanks!” And to myself: “wait! What about my snack? Time to study my music?” So off I went on a gorgeous sunny day, to explore this very old place. I sat in a park at the top of the hill that overlooks the ancient port on the Mediterranean and thought of all of the thousands of years of people that lived on the shores, fished the sea, and sailed it in search of commerce and conquest. Explored the amazing flea market—street after street of everything you could possibly think of, from rugs to hookahs, modern kettles to commercial deep fryers, cheap jewelry to old, old silver menorahs and other truly unbelievable Judaica and Islamic artifacts. Coffee stalls, and juice stands, and wonderful little pastries!

(And I made it back again, too!) All by myself! My Israeli friends are divided between “Kol haKavod!” (well done!) and “So do you want a medal or something?” Any time I get on the right bus going the right way without the bus driver yelling at me because I’m slow and tentative; any time I get off the bus and actually walk the correct direction and find my destination right away; any time I transact my business, do a little sight seeing and make it home without incident—I want a medal!

“What Price Your Homeland?”

I could write about a lot of experiences, but one is really standing out to me, both because it affects every single person here, and because of the situation of our troops in Iraq and their families and friends.

Israel’s war during last summer was a terrible thing for this tiny country, this remnant of a people hanging on to this land with everything they have, against the feeling of the entire world. Every person I have talked to was ravaged in some way by the war. Someone close to them was wounded, or killed. The memorial services are still going on—several per week! The Galron choir will perform for one of them next week, in Kfar Saba. Memorial songs are still being written and performed for huge gatherings of mourners. These soldiers, as tragic as their losses are, will never be forgotten, not for a moment, not by one person who knew them or knew of them. We average Americans have no idea what this is like!

As I have listened to the ceremonies, learned the identities of these beautiful, brave young people, looked at memorial websites and done my best to sign the guestbooks in Hebrew, I have been shocked by the realization that the American people have not taken the casualties of the Iraq debacle into their hearts, or minds. American soldiers go, are wounded or die, and are sat with in hospitals and nursing homes, or mourned by a tiny fraction of those who should remember who they were and what were their sacrifices for the American people. In the end, although it is a government that condemns their soldiers to serve and die, whatever the “reason” offered to the public, the soldiers serve us, the people. But we don’t know them, and if we catch a story about them on the evening news, we shake our heads and forget them almost immediately.

The Israeli people know their soldiers, and understand their sacrifices, only too well. These people have suffered, in living memory—they remember the suffering, and the pain this land has absorbed since the state of Israel was established. The suffering continues, and the absorption of pain continues—and the Israeli people show at once a depth I have never known in any others, and an optimism that befits a people who have experienced miracles, big and small.

I want to know these people, to work and live among them, to learn to feel deeply and believe in miracles, to find a way to fit in and serve—these are some of the reasons I am here.