It's The Jews

Yom chamishi, 2 Sivan 5768/2 June 2008, Thursday.

She sips her cafe hafuch. "So, do you have friends?"

"Well, of course," I answer her, thinking how weird is the question. We move on to other topics; and suddenly, it is time for her flight back to the States.

She has been my very good friend, wise and funny, for ten or fifteen years. We know each other pretty well. I guess she wants to be sure that my move to Israel is going well, that I feel no lack. Her question seems strange to me, because I know that she knows that "friend" doesn't happen in six months. How does the expression go? "It takes a lot of time to grow an old friend." (It's more graceful in Hebrew, in which I first heard it.) You encounter your commonalities, and celebrate them. You discover the things that each of you is missing, that the other can fill in. You "eat a lot of salt" together, either over the times you don't get along so well, or over the crises you share with each other. You rejoice in her joys, and suffer during her sorrows. And she over yours. All of this takes time. Sometimes you live in a place for years, before you even meet her.

I have met many really lovely ladies since we arrived. But "friend"? Not yet. And, of course, I am not bothered by this, because I read the above paragraph.

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Before we quite make it to the door of the hardware store, Shlomi leaves the stack of baskets he is organizing outside, and moves quickly to shake my husband's hand. "Shalom, my friend! It's so good to see you." His smile is really radiant. "You know, I don't own this place. I only work here." He says this to prove the sincerity of his next words. "But when I see people like you, who come to live in Israel, I am so happy. I am so proud of you! Thank you for coming to live here! Kol hakavod. Kol hakavod! I am always so happy to see you!"

We are grinning at him, pleasantly overwhelmed by his enthusiasm. "We are always happy to see you, too, my friend," says my husband, gripping his hand warmly, and giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze with his big baseball mitt hand. "You are always friendly. You make us feel welcome."

This session goes on for several silly, sweet moments. Going to the hardware store has become a favorite ritual, because pleasantries are always shared. Shlomi praises our efforts at Hebrew, and continues to make us feel welcome. His ahavat Yisrael lights up the room.

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I am not sure how I will do in an all-Hebrew Tehillim shiur. But Geula says that it is all right for me to sit in, even if all I do is listen. I go, and thoroughly enjoy myself. Her Hebrew, though a bit fast for me, is nice and clear. I understand a bit more than I thought I would, enough to know that hers is a unique and interesting view of David HaMelech's mission in writing the Tehillim. Once again, a very intelligent teacher shows me that there is so much depth to our holy Torah, and that everything is interconnected, without accident. The ladies in the class are very pleasant, and make me feel like a welcome addition to the small circle of talmidot. I am very happy that I didn't talk myself out of participating.

The next night, I am privileged to attend a function at which will speak the great Jew and Nobel Prize-winning game theorist, Professor Robert Yisrael Aumann. Before the program, there is nosh, of course. I am strolling around the room with a new acquaintance, when I see her. "Ah!" I exclaim to my new friend, "There is my excellent teacher." As she sees me, Geula walks over to me, and gives me a genuinely warm hug. I am a bit taken aback, as she is a very elegant lady; and even a reserved smile and nod of the head would have delighted me. It is like expecting a lovely light salad, and being served a perfectly-grilled steak. I walk away feeling very seriously "friended."

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Say what you want to, about the closeness to Hashem, the kedusha of the Land, the interesting culture, the flavors and smells and music.

It's the Jews that make Israel home.

Green Almonds, Fresh Cherries, Cabernet Hevron

Yom revi'i, 9 Iyar 5768/14 May 2008, Wednesday.

America is brimming with so much, that it is sometimes hard to realize that we are a bit cloistered. We can get any fruit or vegetable anywhere in the country, at any time. Okay -- it may not be ripe, since it had to be harvested too early, in order for it to travel thousands of miles without risk of spoilage. So we get slightly tasteless star fruit and mangoes in Baltimore. We get cherries just before they are ripe in California, when they would taste great, just off the tree. My kids never tasted a truly flavorful ripe apricot. (I grew up near an apricot tree. How I wish they could taste that amazing flavor! But it never arrived in the Baltimore stores.)

Today I purchased some fresh cherries, that fairly burst with sunny, rosy sweetness. They shared time on my palate with a delicacy of which I had never heard: green almonds. Take a sharp knife, a little caution, and split the fuzzy green teardrop along its seam. Extract the pale, creamy infant nut. Dip it into a bit of olive oil and sea salt. Accompany with sweet red cherries and Cabernet Hevron 2005. Lovely Middle Eastern nosh!

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There is a lot about Europe that is wrong.

But I remember enjoying about it all that was quaintly different from America. In those days, there were many villages that had never heard of MacDonald's and Kentucky Fried Chicken. There were little bistros and pubs, where old men in hounds' tooth jackets (and young people in rock tee shirts) played chess and gossiped. There were open-air markets with old ladies in scarves, carrying baskets with fresh herbs and flowers, paper cones filled with steaming chestnuts in the winter. There were gates which opened onto yards filled with straw and chickens. People sat in upstairs windows, with window boxes filled with glorious red Begonias, gazing at the passersby as a break from television, conversing with neighbors similarly entertained. It just wasn't suburbia. And that filled a hungry space created by all the novels and poetry I had read as a girl.

But Europe is not a place to raise Jewish children. Neither is affluent America, even with all of its Torah learning. It still belongs to Esav; and we are there on his sufferance.

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There are so many attributes Israel offers me personally, that may not have any particular magic for someone else. That is one of Hashem's miracles: many individual facets to the same diamond. Sometimes it seems as if He writes the play and sets the scene for each of us, individually. Besides all the kedusha, Israel has restaurants with old-world European charm, where old men in hounds' tooth jackets (and young people, in bright Breslover cottons) play shesh-besh, and discuss the day's events. There are open-air markets, with women of all ages, some in scarves, pulling plaid cloth-covered agalot filled with fresh herbs and fruit and vegetables. There are villages with chickens and turkeys and cows and goats, not far from the houses; and there are herds of sheep being driven by on the highways alternating with donkeys laden with twigs or plastic jugs. And neighbors sit on mirpesets or in windows, over boxes of bright geraniums, watching the passersby as a break from the internet, sharing a friendly chat.

And then there are these green almonds. I think a small chunk of Parmesan would make this snack just about perfect.

The sun is setting on the Mediterranean just now. Time to fix food boys can eat: Deluxe Macaroni and Cheese, baked in the oven; corn in butter; garlic bread. A fresh green salad, with lots and lots of kedushat shvi'it lettuces, to round out the vitamins.

I am closer to myself here. Thank you, Hashem, for that. Hamon toda!

Family Together

Yom shlishi, 8 Iyar 5768/13 May 2008, Tuesday.

I haven't written in a while. Too busy living, b"H.

What's news? We had the best Pesach of our lives. One Seder definitely rocks, as the kids say. I used a gimmick suggested by a close friend, in order to bring home the feeling of really getting out of Mitzrayim. When we reached the part of the Hagaddah which begins "Avadim hayinu..." (We were slaves...), I invited the family into a darkened room, lit by candlelight. Each person was asked to tell over his day under our slavemasters, the Egyptians. I started, and spoke of helping another midwife to secretly help a mother bring a new boy child into the world, and then to hide him. Abba told of a recent beating from one of the Mitzri. Aryeh, whom I expected to make a joke of the whole thing, instead spoke very eloquently about finding a toddler who had wandered from the "safe house," and helping him to find his way back. Dovid spoke of learning a Mishna, b'al peh, with three young slaves and a rabbi/slave, and how they had to be very secretive about their learning. And Dani lamented that a Mitzri had taken away the ball he had made of straw and mud, and how poor rocks were for secret moments of soccer. We have no clue whether or not there was any historic accuracy to our fantasies. But when we left our little stage set, and returned to the Seder, we shared a feeling of escaping from slavery.

Dovid, our yeshiva bochur, was visiting us from the States. As a visitor to Israel, he had to make a second Seder. It was to be his very first, without Abba or another adult at the helm. Several people in Neve Daniel had out-of-country guests, and asked if Dovid would let them attend his Seder. I was proud to hear that he was excited at the prospect. For one reason and another, only one guest was able to attend... and he ended up being an old friend of Dovid's from one of his yeshivot! They had a really wonderful time together, with lots of ruach and divrei Torah. I took a few photos (because I could), and monitored the brothers, so they wouldn't crash the party more often than was cute.

We spent the extra-long Chol Ha-Moed traveling to Meron, Tzfat, and to Avnei Eitan in the Golan. We spent time with old friends; and the boys hiked to the Black Falls. It was Dovid's first time in the north; and it meant a lot to him and to the rest of us to include him. There was much beauty, and many moments to experience the holiness of sacred places. In reality, it should have been an awful trip. It was very hot; the car overheated about a dozen times; we ran out of drinking water for a time. But, due to the amazing attitudes of three teenagers, it was our best vacation ever! They laughed at every hardship, rather than complaining. Dovid sang Breslov songs, with his arms upraised, in his Na Nach Nachman kipa (which he had purchased for the sole purpose of "freaking out" his beloved Rosh Yeshiva, for the fun of it). Aryeh made a documentary of "nearly dying of thirst" on the road. Because it was an Aryeh Eastman Production, it was extremely funny. We took lots of photos of Abba pouring bottles of water into the radiator. We played music together, and enjoyed ourselves, our friends, and each other.

In our last week with Dovid, we visited Ma'arat HaMachpela. This was also a first for Dovid. As with all spiritual experiences we have shared, the moments were made even more precious because he was there. Dovid always finds the deeper meaning, and shares it very articulately.

Yom Ha-Atzma'ut was spent with friends, participating in the holy Israeli ritual known of as "mangal." While I do remember barbecues as part of Fourth of July celebrations in the States, the nearly frantic urgency of the mangal makes it unique. Also, perhaps because beef seems to be less available in Israel (at least of the quality and variety one finds easily in the US), there seems to be an almost religious fervor surrounding the grilling and consumption of mass quantities of hot dogs, hamburgers, and steaks. In an attempt to be "true Israelis," Dani and Aryeh ate approximately one cow each. Our host wondered how we feed them the rest of the year...

Josh is now in Golani Brigade, and engaged to be married! It was good to have the brothers together again, after nine months. Although their lives and directions seem to be very different, Avi and I are honored by the way they love and respect each other. Avi has always told them that achdut (unity) starts at the Eastman table; and when the Jewish people truly have achdut among ourselves, the world will have true peace.

So now we are planning the big trip back to Baltimore, in July. Soldier Boy will get a few days off from his IDF responsibilities to get married, and then will return to training. (We try to be his cheerleaders, and completely close our minds to what he is training for, and where he will probably be sent.) He and his bride will live in Israel; but as of yet, it is a mystery exactly where in Israel. May Hashem bless them with finding the right apartment, at the right price, in the right location. In the meantime, we have reminded them that family is about being there for each other, and that the spare room can be made into something resembling "comfortable," at least for a short time.

Enough catching up for now.

Going Back Home, To See Mom and Dad

Yom sheni, 28 Shevat 5768/3 February 2008, Monday.

My friend, Neil Gillman, reminds me that the 'blog has been quiet for a while, and challenges me, suggesting that I have already lost inspiration... Knowing Neil, I understand this throwing of the gauntlet, and return same. (Uh, Neil... point me to YOUR 'blog, buddy?) He is almost right... I have not lost inspiration, but TIME. Life is incredibly full. But, I appreciate that someone is reading this thing; so I will fill in with something I wrote five years ago. It is still metakein the cheit of the meraglim, our zaidies, which is the humble goal of this 'blog... And it is in honor of Kobi Mor, hero; unnamed doctor, hero; and in memory of the as-yet-unnamed murder victim in Dimona, hy"d.

B”H

“Don’t worry. It’s fine. Come on in.” Her voice has that slightly annoyed edge that tells me she is a little tired of reassuring people.

Shelli Karzen and I are not friends; in fact, we’ve never met. But she is an important point-of-contact. She is my compromise between those who say, “You’re crazy, right? You’re not going into Hevron?!” and those who say, “What’s the problem? It’s perfectly safe here.” Calling Shelli before I go into Ma’arat Hamachpela each year is why my husband let’s me go.

Today it is raining (Baruch Hashem!) in Kiryat Arba. The rain makes me as joyful as any other Jew; the cold I could do without. Gam zeh ya’avor… My son and I are waiting at the bus stop. He is right; we should have just taken the 160 straight in. But I had to make my phone call first, to be sure…

We finally get tired of waiting for the bus. It has started to hail. Struggling through my poor Hebrew comprehension, we take the advice of the pizza shop proprietor. “Take a tremp. Everybody driving by is going to Hevron.” The soldiers in the pizza shop agree. “It’s the best way to get there.” I have been raised on terrifying tales of American wackos who pick up hitchhikers, and don’t put them back in the same shape in which they found them. I am skeptical about whether or not my husband will be thrilled with this decision. But, as is often the case for me in Israel, I decide to put our safety into the hands of Hashem, and trust my “family” to have my best interests at heart. We stand by the corner curb for about four seconds. A kind rabbi, already with one passenger, pulls over and offers us a ride. The passenger is a woman whose English is a tonic to me. “I’m getting off just after you. I’ll show you where.”

I don’t really need her to tell me. As soon as we get into the neighborhood, the old familiar feeling begins to wash over me. It is a kind of mental tunnel vision. My senses become very acute, and I focus on each sensation and memory as if they are distinct living beings. I am going home to Mom and Dad, and these memories and feelings are my dear friends. Soon, Herod’s façade thrusts itself into view. The weather has cleared up, and Ma’arat Hamachpela looks majestic against the blue sky. As we step out of the car, thanking our driver, I am overwhelmed with a desire to say Sheyechianu. But I don’t know if it is appropriate; and Rabbi Goldberger is too many thousands of miles away to ask. So I speak to Hashem in my own words: “Thank you, Ribono shel Olam, for bringing me home again. Thank you for knocking down all the roadblocks so I could bring my son to this special place.” I am slightly out of breath. I look at my tall son. He is 16, and this is his first trip to Israel. We are geirim, and I feel such intense pride as I take him up the steep path to visit Avraham and Sara, truly Avinu and Emainu. If I analyzed my feelings with the rationalistic viewpoint I had just 15 years ago, this would all seem very odd to me, I am sure. But I have learned to trust these feelings. I am taking my dear son to show him off; and I am as excited as if there were two people with kindly eyes waiting for us at the top of the hill, waiting to see how well I’ve done so far, in this most important venture…

At the top of the hill are soldiers. As in previous years, I am painfully aware of how young and beautiful they are. Does the IDF select these kids to guard the major tourist attractions based on diversity and beauty, or are they all like this? Remembering the photos of the sweet-faced young soldiers we have lost to this evil Oslo war, I answer myself. Of course there is no political design here. Jewish soldiers just really are this beautiful. There is an Ethopian youth, and a dark-haired girl. There are two young men joking in rapid Hebrew with each other. I begin to divest myself of all the junk I carry all over Israel. Our soldiers are amazingly patient. “Weapons?” asks the girl. (She doesn’t even attempt to communicate with me in Hebrew. I wryly wonder to myself how long I will need to live in Israel before my body stops screaming “American tourist” wherever I go.) “No. Just a Swiss Army knife,” I answer. She shrugs, and waves me through. (I remember the guard at BWI Airport taking my twelve-year-old son’s round-tipped safety scissors away from him before our flight last year. Israeli caution always makes American fear seem comical.) The male guards are a bit more thorough with Yehoshua. I wonder what about him triggers their particular profile awareness. His age, his short black hair, his black leather jacket and jeans? In any case, it ends soon, and we thank them for being there. “We are sorry you have to be here, and we are glad you are here.” It is my family’s mantra to every soldier we meet pulling guard-the-Jews duty.

We climb some steps, and meet a second set of guards. I cannot remember there being a second set last year. Is it my memory, or have we gotten even more careful? This time, the young female soldier is not as comfortable with my knife as was her counterpart.

She takes it out of my pack. “You can pick it up here later,” she says, putting it into a lock box behind her. We continue walking, and now my breathless feeling returns as we enter the main sanctuary. I lean a bit forward, remembering my way. There are several rooms off of this main room, each designating the small sanctuary devoted to a pair of emahot and avot. I wait with Yehoshua for a moment, savoring the sweetness of just being here. I show him the giant ner tamid, remembering aloud the explanation I was given a couple of years ago. The Arabs do not allow us to keep anything inside that is a permanent fixture. Sure enough, as one looks around, everything Jewish has a sense of impermanence, as if it could be hustled out within a few moments. Except for that ner tamid. It is also portable, if you happen to be Shimshon. But who else would want to lift it? It is an ironic punch in the nose to our recalcitrant hosts. It makes me smile as I tell it over to my son, who also appreciates the humor. We light candles. My hands are shaking, and my son helps me. All of the Baltimore cool has left him. He is tender, and does not seem to see my emotionalism as foolish. I am grateful.

We take a sharp right, and gingerly enter Avraham and Sara’s room. The little shteibel has a Yiddishen ta’am, due to the heartfelt davening of a Jew in the far right corner. Yehoshua asks if it is inappropriate to take pictures. He asks why the gates behind the names of the patriarchs are locked. I tell him to look closely, and he will see that there is nothing Jewish behind those locked gates. “Jews aren’t allowed to go in there. They are places where only Moslems can pray.” As his jaw sets in a very familiar way, I tell him not to worry. “Our Abba and Ema are buried very far under this building. What’s going on up here cannot touch them. But our prayers will reach Hashem, and He knows we are visiting them.” He is only mildly appeased. Like me, like every Jew I know, it doesn’t sit well with him that we are told how and when we can visit our holy sites. I brush these thoughts aside, and go to my old familiar position on the right side of Avraham’s gate. I press my face against the marble. “Hi, Tatte. It’s good to be home. Look who I brought!” I sit for a long time in the plastic chair, thinking and saying Tehillim. I pray to Hashem that I should have guidance in raising these special boys. I pray that my husband and I should be good Jews, and that our family should resist the impulse to procrastinate in fulfilling our individual missions. I pray that all of my children, and their parents, will see Moshiach.

After a bit, I get up and join Yehoshua. He has been wandering around, exploring all of the rooms. We find a young man out in the main area, and ask him how we can get to the Yeshiva of Ma’arat Hamachpela. We explain that we have promised a friend in the States that we will bring tzedaka from her to the yeshiva. “The yeshiva is right here,” he says, indicating one of the larger rooms. “Would you like a bracha from my rebbe?” he asks. “Oh, yes, for my son! And for the woman I represent.” I push Yehoshua ahead of me into the chamber. There are several students learning, and a rebbe at the front of the room. The boy interrupts the rebbe, who calls Yehoshua across to him. I give the young man the name of my friend. “For you, too?” he asks. Inexplicably, I am flustered. “No, just for my son, thank you, and my friend, that she should find her bashert.” He asks my name anyway, and goes back to the rebbe.

When Yehoshua and I meet again in the main room, another young man, older than the first, joins us. I anticipate why he is there. “I have tzedaka for the yeshiva, and a rather odd request,” I tell him. “My friend would like a receipt, just so that she can have something with ‘Ma’arat Hamachpela’ on it. She just wants to feel connected to this place, to have something she can hold in her hand.” For some reason, it is important to me to not give this Yid the impression that we want a receipt for mundane tax or proof-of-purchase reasons. “Wait here just a moment,” he says, and disappears. His face is so kind, and the experience has been so comforting and intense. Yehoshua puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Ema. I can wait for him. Go back in, if you want to.” I did not even realize that I was looking longingly toward Avraham and Sara’s chamber. “Go ahead, Ema,” he repeats softly. I walk back into the room, and this time I sit down by Sara’s gate. I realize that this is the first time I have ever sat here, and the tears begin to flow with surprising warmth and force.

“Dearest Sara Emainu. Before my mama passed away in September, it would have seemed disrespectful to her for me to be here. You understand. Please put in a good word that Hashem should take extra special care of her, won’t you?” The crying is cleansing, and unleashes a torrent of prayer, for those who have lost children and parents in this evil Oslo war, for those who cannot have children, for those who are desperately searching for their mates. I cry for several minutes for all of my siblings who need refua shelaima, parnassa tova, yeshua ruchani… There is so much to cry over and to pray for.

“He’s back, Ema.” Yehoshua is waiting for me at the door. I marvel at how mature he seems. I hope his time here has been as productive as mine.

The young man from the yeshiva is holding a picture of Ma’arat Hamachpela in his hands. There is a beautiful prayer written above the picture. With this, he gives me a receipt for my friend’s tzedaka. “I hope she will like this,” he says humbly. (Yehoshua and I figure out later that he has slipped downstairs to purchase a picture for her. How great is the understanding in the heart of a Jew for the longings of a fellow Jew!) He gives me two small booklets with specific Tehillim. “Your friend and your son should recite the whole book every day for thirty days,” he says, with deep seriousness. We find out his name is Menachem, and we give him a bracha for his children to be successful in Torah, and that they should be able to remain in Israel.

I pick up my knife, and thank the soldiers for being so careful. On the way down the steps, we laugh to see tens of Jews from the States coming up to visit the Holy Patriarchs. “It’s really sad about the reduced tourism in Israel,” I say to Yehoshua. He laughs. “Yeah, really. People sure seem scared.” (True, they are not coming in droves the way they used to; but I am proud of these Jews.) We even see some friends from Baltimore. Only moments ago, we were pilgrims on a solitary spiritual quest. Suddenly, we are surrounded by fellow tourists, enjoying the fun and lightheartedness of a community outing.

I buy Yehoshua a sweatshirt in the gift shop. “Hevron…me’az v’l’tamid!” it cries. I ask a soldier how we get to Hevron. “You’re in Hevron,” he says. “I mean the Jewish community,” I say, not sure of why I am not being understood. “Avraham Avinu?” he asks. At first, I am confused, as I have just left Avraham Avinu. Then I remember that “Avraham Avinu” is the name of the tiny Jewish neighborhood. He says, “Just walk around the corner and down the street. You are there.” Our friend Menachem appears. (I am convinced that he is a malach.) He directs us through our confusion. “Go that way,” he points. “Ask the soldiers. There is a curfew today, so it is safe.” We thank him, and begin walking down what appears to be an alley. Every door has a black spray-painted Magen David on it. There are soldiers in full battle dress at intervals along the way. The walk is eerie, because Yehoshua and I are the only travelers, and because I am struggling with so many conflicting emotions. The sensation of mental tunnel vision is so strong, I can feel my brain. It is not a headache; rather, it is a sense of intensity, as if awareness were a physical sensation, rather than an emotional or intellectual state of being.

With the guidance of our guards, we wend our way into a beautiful little courtyard. The creamy white buildings are tall, and close together. There is a not-unpleasant feeling of being closed in. People come and go, and greet us pleasantly. At first, no one stops to speak to us, and we are a bit at a loss. We see a poster on one wall. “Shalhevet Pass was murdered here.” Yehoshua allows me to take his picture here. (“What do I think I am doing?” I scream inside myself.) I wrestle with my conscience for a few seconds before I pose him near the poster. His expression is a mixture of mourning for little 10-month-old Shalhevet, and defiance. I snap the shutter, and my son and I make our quiet protest.

We wander for a few minutes more, not really sure of where to go. (Later, when I find a map to consult, I see where I will walk next time I come. But now the area seems too private for us to explore without a guide.) Finally, I stop a gentleman and ask him if there is a place to get a bite to eat. He looks puzzled, and then tells me that the cafeteria in the hospitality center at Ma’arat Hamachpela is pretty much it. I ask him if he can direct me to someone to whom I can give tzedaka for needy families in the area, or for security needs in the community. “Is there a rabbi or someone?” He tries to think of who might be able to help me. “Can you make sure it gets to the right places?” I ask. (Yehoshua, child of America, later asks me how I could trust this stranger. Somehow I have a hard time imagining a resident of Hevron being short on integrity. When you are one of 250 families in the eye of the storm of a spiritual battleground, you probably don’t pocket your community’s tzedaka.) “I? Well… I am a kohen. Is that good enough?” He asks this with a kind smile. We give him the tzedaka, and find out his name. He is Misha’el. We give him a bracha, and he gives us one back. (All this bracha-bestowing on my part comes as a gift from the gadol, Rav Michel Twerski. I approached him at a wedding several years ago, asking for a bracha for my sons. “I will give you a bracha only on the condition that you can accept a bracha from a plain Jew,” he said. “I accost cleaning ladies for blessings for my children, Rabbi,” I answered him, whereupon he laughed, and gave me my bracha. Since then, it occurred to me that I certainly fit the description of a plain Jew. Holding firmly to the conviction that if I feel a need for something, I certainly should make sure my fellow Jew doesn’t go without it, I liberally dispense brachot whenever it seems responsible to do so.)

Now it is time to go and catch our bus. We go back the way we came. As we walk, I try to figure out the mix of emotions I feel in the Avraham Avinu neighborhood. They do not go well together, and I must unravel them. I am enraged and afraid; I am proud and joyful and defiant. I untangle the threads. I am afraid to walk in this place, because my enemies have vowed to kill me for being here. What does it feel like to be shot in the head? I am enraged that they dare to frighten my people and me in our holy land, the land given to us by G-d. What if they kill my son? How will I face his father? How dare they make me afraid here! I am enraged that the world thinks it is acceptable for Jews to die like this. If a Catholic were targeted at the Vatican, would the Pope be this understanding of the sniper’s feelings? Would the world be silent? Would the UN chastise the Church for holding land someone else coveted? I am angry at America and the West for allowing this, and for excusing it. Will they search so hard to understand the angst of the murderers when it is their children at play, their young soldiers sleeping, their grandmothers shopping, their simple folk immersed in prayers for peace? I feel pride that I am able to rise above my fear, and come here with my children to this place. I am overjoyed at being here, at still being able to be here, in spite of the impossible situation. The feeling of defiance, the childish “You can’t tell me where I can walk in my land!” is shouting in my head against everyone who would give away our Hevron. My head feels heavy with so much thought and feeling. It is good to get back out into the familiar area in front of Ma’arat Hamachpela.

“Are you going to Yerushalayim?” Menachem the Malach is right there. “If you aren’t afraid to travel by car, I can get you a ride. It’s faster than the bus.” I assure him that we are not afraid. (As an important aside, I am not crazy. I believe that if G-d has decided that I am supposed to be killed by an Arab, chas v’chalila, and I decide that I can hide from this by staying in Baltimore, the Arab will come find me in Upper Park Heights. So, while I do take certain precautions, I don’t see any point in living as if I can hide from whatever plan G-d may have for me. I do believe in trying to avoid a harsh decree, however; and take whatever spiritual measures I can to avoid danger.)

As we stand waiting for our ride, I tell Menachem about our pilgrimage. “Because we are converts, and Sara and Avraham are halachically our mother and father, it is important to me that we visit their kevorim.” He nods understanding. He asks respectfully if he may ask how I became Jewish. I only get so far as to tell him that my father was a Jew, and his face lights up. “This is truly hashgacha pratit,” he says, with a calm excitement I recognize. (People who believe strongly in a concept are excited, but not surprised, whenever they encounter yet another proof.) “We were learning in kolel just this morning about geirim who are children of Jewish fathers,” he continues. “Do you have any siblings?” I realize that he means “of the Jewish father,” so I tell him I have a sister. “Is she Jewish?” he asks. When I tell him that she is not interested, he says, “Nu? And why not? According to what we were learning today, you had a Jewish neshama in a gilgul she’avar… You know what it is? I don’t know it in English…” I am quietly ecstatic to be able to help. “A past life,” I tell him. “Yes, yes, a ‘past life.’ You did something not right…” -- he says this in a very humble way, which is endearing-- “and you had to do a tikun by being born as a goy. And when your tikun was complete, you were permitted to rejoin your People. Your sister, not. Anyway, maybe not…” He fairly acknowledges that her story is not yet over, and anything is possible. I tell him how special it is to a ger to hear these small divrei Torah. “Your child knows that you love him, yes? But he needs to hear you say it every day any way. We converts know intellectually that we are Jews. But often the yeitzer hara plays with our minds, and tries to convince us that we are at best unworthy, and at worst, inauthentic. When a Jew takes the time to tell us that we are part of the family, and that we are appreciated, it is very special. Thank you.”

He seems to understand, and now our ride has arrived. Yehoshua, who has been alternately listening and interviewing soldiers, rejoins us. We climb into the small car, and see that our driver is none other than our other malach, the Kohen Misha’el. “Of course,” I think to myself. Hashem has orchestrated this entire visit, as He always does. The two melachim speak to one another briefly. Misha’el asks, “You are going to Yerushalayim?”

“Actually, we are going to Efrat; but I assume the only way to get there is to go to Yerushalayim and take a bus from there.” The roads are always uncertain out in this area, I have been told; and I do not wish to go back the way we came, as the wait could be very long. The weather is good now, but the sky has been darkening again. I marvel at how Hashem has allowed us to have pleasant weather during our stay here. More conversation in the front seat, and Misha’el says, “I will take you into Efrat. It is halfway there, anyway.”

Hodu la’Hashem, ki tov! Ki le’olam chasdo!!!

Ruth Eastman, 11 Adar I, 5763.

Chanukah Reflections

BS"D

Yom Shlishi, 24 Kislev 5768/4 December 2007, Tuesday.

As we approach the lighting of the first candle of Chanukah this year, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. To Hashem, for allowing us to be here, as a family, and also as a nation. To those early gevurim, who answered "Whoever is for G-d, follow me!" with a resounding cheer. To the rabbi of this little community, for approving everything, individually, that goes into the makolet. To my husband and sons, for being brave enough to leave "the 'hood." To all those Israeli shopkeepers, for filling their shops with fresh sufganiot and brightly-colored packages, to remind me that this is OUR country. To the kids from Bar Ilan a few years ago, who brought the world's attention to the destruction being perpetrated under Har HaBayit. To those same young people, who are continuing to do something about it.

There are many other things about which to be grateful; but these are a few that come to mind at the moment.

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Every task is quaintly different here. I sponga my floors, instead of vacuuming my rugs. I hang my clothes with clothespins on a metal and rubber rack, to air-dry them, when the weather permits. (They smell wonderful!) Avi and I shlep our agalot (cloth-covered wheeled carts) to the makolet, to buy groceries. We have gotten very clever about putting them in the under-belly of the 164 bus, and shlepping them to Malcha Mall, for larger shopping. We are managing fairly well without a car. I scrape the water off of my countertops with a little squeegee, when I am finished washing dishes. My stove has two ovens: one is for milchigs, and one is for fleishigs. I can bake in them simultaneously, with Rabbinic certification that there will be no "cross-contamination," no breach of the halacha against mixing meat and milk. I am having a wonderful time in my Jewish and Israeli home!

Back On Line

B"H

Yom Revi'i, 18 Kislev 5768/28 November 2007, Tuesday night.

I should be in bed now... but today was one of those breathlessly happy days you hate to let go of.

We are finally settled in Neve Daniel. There are stories to tell of getting the lift, and the arrival of appliances, and starting ulpan... but they will keep. Today was a day I want to trap in time.

I finally got my internet hookup to work, even the wireless connection. I really, really cleaned the house. I gave a non-English speaking delivery man directions to our house, to deliver "the lost package," which I have been tracking (through various non-English speakers) for several days. I know, I know... this is not the stuff of romance novels. This is day-to-day life. When things work, that haven't worked in weeks. Dovid called, after far too long, and shared beautiful pieces of the Goldberger/Levi wedding (not the Shlomo-Ahuva wedding, but the Esther-Elie wedding -- many of the same players, but different members of the same families in the starring roles). I got to listen to Rav Shlomo Aviner and Tzafrir Ronen on the radio. I attended a really lovely "women's evening," and met many fine ladies, among them a favorite author, a favorite actress, and a number of women of such substance as to let me know I will be kept busy for many years, just hearing incredible stories. One thing you can say about people who move to Israel: they do not have boring stories. Okay, old well-loved gang from Baltimore, don't get offended. Your lives are interesting, too. Just think of what sorts of odd-balls decide to make aliyah: this one left Poland at twenty, and moved to England, and then to Israel... where she has lived for some 30 years. You know that first move meant a lot to her mama, at so many levels. And that one spent a night in jail, for doing something we would not consider a crime. And another has lived here since she was a baby, and can't imagine living anywhere else, even though mum and dad brought her from England. The whole family lives in Neve Daniel. Her husband's family lives in Maine, and can't quite figure their son out. The evening was mostly in Hebrew, with English subtitles. The main speaker hoped that next year, we will have evolved to the point of needing no translator. (BS"D!!!)

And of course, the most important thing I did today: I got the name and phone number of the guy who organizes the basketball league in Efrat for the 13-year-olds. Needless to say, to Dani, I am "the man." HOO-rah!

The first thing I want to say is that I have had a remarkably happy day just living in Israel. The second thing I want to say is that you should not believe people who say "Don't worry about it. Everybody in Israel speaks English." I think what they mean is that if you remain ignorant of the Hebrew language, but have fabulous patience, someone will eventually come along who can translate -- more or less -- for you and your Israeli counterpart. You should not be lulled into a foolish laziness by thinking that every person/clerk/salesperson/official will be able to communicate with you in your native tongue. Ain't happenin', Cap'n. Take classes. Buy programs, such as Pimsleur, Rosetta Stone, or the new one by Rabbi Gold. Read easy Hebrew newspapers, such as Bereshit. I am not yet even close to fluent; but I am very grateful for the Hebrew I have taken the time to learn, and so is my family. Take ulpan. Everyone with whom I have spoken who went to work, and THEN tried to work in ulpan, wishes they had done it the other way around. There are good Hebrew teachers in the States. Find them.

There are other nice things to say. Mostly, I am just very grateful that Hashem has decided that the Eastmans are permitted to live in this beautiful, holy place. I hope that it is in His plan that we should watch many grandchildren, from all of our fine sons, grow up in this remarkable Land.

I hope many more of our old friends and teachers will be able to share this life with us, very soon. We are such a fortunate people!

Changes

BS"D

Yom Rishon, 23 Cheshvan 5768/4 November 2007, Sunday.

Today is the shift from Ma'ale Adumim, where we have lived for 26 days, to Neve Daniel. I will miss the lovely people who made us feel welcome, most especially the characters who own and operate "Pizza Nevo." There is something special about three brothers who won't let you order pizza until they can teach you to order in Hebrew, who invite you to do the mitzvah of taking challah, and who praise your children for being so reliable at building pizza boxes. Theirs is not just a food-service business. Pizza Nevo is a home-away-from home for the Eastmans, and will continue as such for a long time after we are no longer dwelling in the neighborhood of Mitzpe Nevo.

I will miss watching the sun light up the glass windows of Yerushalayim as I face the city to daven each morning. The view from the mirpeset has been lovely, morning and night. It is a pleasure for me to see Avi taking time to sit on the balcony in the evenings, enjoying the breeze, and the knowledge that he is gazing at the holiest city in the world. His continuous ability to marvel at the gift of being here revives the awe I feel.

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Aryeh and I had a great hour-long discussion last night. (There seem to be more of these than we had time for in Baltimore. May it continue to be so.) He was talking quite animatedly about how incorrect people were when they warned him about Israeli "attitude."

"These kids are nice, Ema. They don't think the same way, about having an attitude, like 'get out of my face,' to protect themselves. I started out with an attitude here, like 'wha,?' (he affects a perfect teenager 'tude, arms folded, shoulder hunched slightly forward, keep-your-distance grimace) -- but I dropped it, because I didn't need it." It's weird and helpful when your kids give you these insights into the drama of being a teenager. I don't remember putting on exactly the same mask; but I was not a city teen, and not a boy. And times have gotten tougher.

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"It's getting pretty sporty down here, sir!"

This is Avi's favorite quote from We Were Soldiers. He is using it a lot lately, to describe to the boys what life will be like for the next few days in Neve Daniel. We will start out on Monday night with exactly four pieces of furniture in the apartment: very thin mattresses, borrowed from a friend. No chairs, no tables, no fridge, no stove... etc. Tuesday, the appliances are due to arrive (and some time after that, they are supposed to be hooked up). Our real mattresses are scheduled for Thursday (with the beds that belong under them scheduled for some time three weeks or so from now). And the shipment is expected to land at the port of Haifa on Friday. We have roughly 16 suitcases, and assorted recently-purchased living essentials, to move to Neve Daniel... and we don't own a car. And are not quite ready to drive in Israel, in any case.

We grin at each other, and shrug.

"It's gonna get a bit sporty, boys," Avi says to his sons. The light of contest fills Dani's eyes. Aryeh shrugs, decides "'tude" is more effort than it's worth. He answers: "'We will ride into battle, and this will be our horse.'" He and his father understand each other.