Ze Lo Nicaragua

Ever tried to pack too much into a day? We did on Friday. 

And although it required sophisticated pre-planning, we thought we had it all under control.

Our To Do List for the day:

Run the Tel Aviv Marathon at 9 am

Return home, pack up car, pick up daughter from school

Drive 200-km to Tsfat

Cook, clean and set up our place for 40 girls who were ‘dropping by’ after dinner

Have everything done by candle lighting at 5:08

Did we squeeze too much into our day? Well, it all depends on whether everything runs smoothly…and one never knows what can happen in a day.

It was a bright sunny morning as we drove to the Herzliya train station. We had our son’s bike on the roof rack as he wanted to pick it up later and ride to the beach to catch a few waves. (He was not planning on coming to Tsfat.)

It was a six-minute train ride to the starting line of the race, the train was leaving in five minutes and, uh, oh, everyone else in the parking lot was wearing the same marathon shirt as us. We were swarmed by hundreds of other runners who also decided to take the train—and there was only one stressed-out man at the ticket booth.

The train was now leaving in one minute.

My 15-year-old son, who had decided he was going to win this one and did not want to be late for the starting line, jumped over the stile along with about 100 other frantic runners and disappeared down the stairs.

We stared in disbelief, then resumed our wait in the long line, happy to take the next train.  We made it to the race just on time. Music was blasting. People were stretching, chatting, jumping, shaking out their limbs. With 40,000 runners packed in to a small area, we only realized the race had begun when the mass slowly surged forward. The road was so dense with people, we had to constantly dart and dodge between runners. This race felt like a cross between bumper cars on Nikes and a massive street party.

We felt a part of cosmopolitan Tel Aviv, running past people sipping café lattes in outdoor cafés and cyclists carrying baskets brimming with flowers and fresh produce from the market. 

There were blind runners being led by guides, a smiling teenage girl with Cerebral Palsy accompanied by three watchful youths who protected her on each side. The Israeli National Speed Walking Club was out there strutting their stuff while Hareidi women, covered in black long sleeves, ran past girls in skimpy pink tops. I felt as if I were part of one united, healthy, happy nation.

We ran past a rock band, thumping away, strumming a fast beat to encourage us from the middle of an intersection. A few kilometers later, a full choir belted out tunes from a park. It was all so invigorating, fun, lively. And since we were running at a good pace, it was likely that we would be heading home soon.

And then my phone rang.

We were about eight kilometers into the run so I ignored it. It rang again and I ignored it a second time. My husband’s phone rang and he picked it up as we jogged along.

Someone asked in Hebrew if he was the father of our turnstile- jumping-overly-eager-determined-to-win son. 

“What’s ‘hitalef’’ mean?” my husband asked me.

Hmm, I thought, scratching my head and searching my brain for words I had learned but could not remember. Fainted? Collapsed? After many years of living in Israel, I still could not comprehend the important stuff. But what I did understand was that my son was in the hospital.

We felt confused, distracted and worried but had no choice other than follow the crowd to the finish line. The dancing and music at the end meant nothing to me as I made a beeline to the exit; I knew I had to find my son, but first needed to find my car or the train station or a cab.

But we were lost.

We must have walked an hour until we found a cab. I looked at my watch and decided there was no reason to be frazzled as I was not going to Tsfat. The cabbie, in true Israeli-philosopher cab style, told me not to worry, that all was good and it could have been worse and ‘ze lo Nicaragua.’

Nicaragua? What did that have to do with anything? We may not be in Nicaragua, but we do happen to live in the Middle East surrounded by enemies. But since cabbies in Israel are modern-day  prophets, I took this as a special message reminding me to be calm and grateful.

We got to the train station, jumped in our car and headed back to Tel Aviv. But since many roads were closed due to the marathon, we could not get to the hospital so easily. 

The clock was ticking. 

My husband jumped out at the emergency ward of Ichilov Hospital and I decided to park the car. So I entered the underground parking lot.

Scr-a-a-ape.

Hmm. What was that? I drove on, deeper underground.

Crunch, crash.

The bike! I stopped the car and thumped my head on the steering wheel. I got out to investigate and saw a gnarled bike squished into the metal rack like the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I recently found in the bottom of my son’s back pack.

I am a weakling. On a good day when the bike is not mangled into metal, I cannot lift a bike off this rack. And now? No one was around in this deep, dark garage. Sweaty, tired from the race and stressed out about my son, I just wanted to curl up in the back seat of the car and cry. But I did not. I pulled and tugged and extracted the bike, then shoved it into the back of the car. By this time, my husband and son were outside waiting for me.

“No problem. I am coming,” I assured them.

I followed the exit signs and at the electronic arm realized there was no person at a pay booth. All you needed to exit this dungeon was a credit card. But I, unprepared in my sweaty running clothes, had nothing on me but a 100 nis bill.

I backed up and went round the garage again. No pay station. I parked the car and ran inside wildly, looking for someone who could guide me out of this dark abyss.

The clock was ticking. I felt as if I were in a nightmare, the slow moving kind when you try to wake yourself up by screaming but cannot.

Finally, a woman told me where to pay with cash. I paid then exited into the garage, but could not find my car. The nightmare continued, spiraling me into stress. Of course my phone was at one percent battery. So I gave in and panicked, running  around the parking garage like a mad person, jogging up and down the lanes and ramps, cursing my bad sense of direction. Forget about Shabbat in Tsfat, I thought. I will be spending my Shabbat in this parking garage. And with my nearly dead phone, I would not even be able to tell my husband where to rescue me.

I finally did locate the car; it was the one with the mangled roof rack. I carefully drove out, ducking my neck under the low concrete ceilings, afraid the entire car roof would cave in over me. 

When the electric arm finally went out and released me to the outside world, I rejoiced to see blue skies. And I was reunited with my husband and son, who, it turned out, was OK. He just needed to learn how to use his brain more than his feet while running. I decided he should stay in sight close by my side for the next decade.

We crawled home through Tel Aviv traffic, arriving on our doorstep at 1:30, exactly three hours behind schedule.

“We can make it,” my husband said in his pep talk tone as I pulled food out of the fridge and freezer, stuffing it into plastic bags. No time for a shower or eating or packing Shabbat clothes. Not this time. We jumped back in the car, picked up my daughter who had been waiting at school three hours for us and hit the highway.

When I finally lit Shabbat candles that evening in Tsfat, I was teary; grateful that my son was healthy; relieved that we made it here safely and on time; ecstatic that I had Shabbat in my life and thrilled that I was here in Israel,  'lo Nicaragua.' 

Before me lay a full 24 hours of pure, divine, timelessness. If I did not have Shabbat, I know how complicated and fast paced my life would be. Just imagine what my To Do list would look like.

Day of Love

Last Friday was February 14. When I was in Toronto a few weeks ago, the store windows were filled with hearts. Red was the theme in shop windows and on classroom walls. Greeting cards were a hot commodity.

Back in Israel, Valentine’s Day is not so hot. At least I did not see too much commercialism surrounding this holiday where I live.  But I did see a sweet sign in front of a florist’s shop that read “Day of Love.” Yom H’Ahava. Yes, people were running around with bouquets in their arms, but this actually happens every Friday here; traditionally, husbands and children bring flowers home to their wives and moms for Shabbat.

And then I read this study.

In honor of Valentine's Day, Twitter revealed that in 2013, "I love you" was tweeted in Israel more than in any other country in 2013. According to this social media site, Israelis expressed their love on Twitter more than any other country in the world.

Here are the stats. In 2013, more than 481 million Tweets said “I love you.” It was tweeted in 116 languages and tiny Israel ranked number one.

After Israel’s profusely affectionate tweetings, here are the top nine countries: Sweden, Norway, Spain, Hungary, the Netherlands, Greece, Saudi Arabia, Turkey and the United Arab Emirates. Where did the United States, home of the most Valentine’s Day cards fall? The United States ranked 26th.

I thought about this study and soon realized that Israel actually celebrates Valentine’s Day every day. We do not need a ‘holiday’ to express our love because there are reasons to feel this here each day.

Case in point. On Tuesday, we went to a ceremony in Jerusalem to mark the graduation of the new paratroopers. These soldiers had just trekked 180 kilometers over the last twelve days, covering a distance equivalent to walking from Tel Aviv to Rosh Hanikra (which is close to the Lebanese border). They walked day and night. They ate little and slept less. Many carried heavy loads on their backs and shared the burden.

The very last night, they started the last phase of their journey, walking from evening to morning, assisting those in pain and encouraging each other. And when dawn broke, they ran the last three kilometers uphill, completing 50 uninterrupted kilometers in one night.

We were there to support them and celebrate with them the same day. The young soldiers stood proudly on stage in formation, ready to receive their ‘kumta,’ the red beret worn by paratroopers. The outdoor seats were all filled. Parents and siblings perched on stairs and sat on the grass beside baskets filled with food. (How can any upstanding Jewish family celebrate without a feast?)

Banners and Israeli flags flapped in the warm breeze. Wrinkled Ethiopian grandmothers wrapped in colorful long dresses shuffled while Russians in tight jeans perched atop high heels. Yemenite women belted out their sons’ names and a professional army trio sang sweet songs.

There was so much love in the air as each boy received his new kumta from his commander. Tears rolled down cheeks of proud parents and friends of these brave, strong boys who had endured and accomplished so much with dignity.

And there was love in the air recently at another tekes (ceremony) when a young man became an officer in the navy. It was such a special occasion, he decided to bring along a velvet box that held a diamond ring. And here, in front of his army friends, that he asked his girlfriend to marry him. Read about the IDF wedding proposal here.

Yes, love is in the air here everywhere and everyday. Here in Israel we are not afraid to express our love and we often cry tears of joy. We tweet and we hug, we dance, sing and shout in triumph and we jump in victory. We simply love to be who we are b’ahava.

Snowy Encounter

“Why did you move to Israel?”

People always ask this question and I’m sure they expect a deep, passionate response.

“Well, it’s a bit superficial,” I answer warily, lowering my eyes in embarrassment. And since I’m not someone to fib or hide truths, I tell it as it is. I take a deep breath, look back at them squarely and announce, “The weather.”

Silence.

I don’t think people hear this answer too often.

“I came for the weather first,” I explain. “And only after living in Israel did I become a fervent Zionist.”

But let me give some background. I am from Toronto, a place where the temperature was recently minus 30 degrees, a mercury reading so cold that Fahrenheit and Celsius are equal, flash frozen in frigidity. 

It is a place where people are glued to weather forecasts so they can determine whether they should wear a facemask to work; a metropolis where eyes are peeled to the storm watch channel in case they must dash out for milk before ice rain pelts, turning roads into skating rinks.

And I have been told that I live in a dangerous place.

Driving in the depths of a Toronto winter is far scarier than being on Israeli roads even with our overly caffeinated, hot-tempered drivers.

Case in point. I was in Toronto last week and had to drive a fair distance to be at a friend’s home for Shabbat. I started watching the storm channel on Wednesday, two full days before I had to sit behind the wheel. They spoke of a gathering storm and heavy snowfall, filling me with anxiety; the car I was to drive had no snow tires.

Sky and ground: an undifferentiated mass.

Friday arrived in its gray splendor (the kind of day when sky and ground are an undifferentiated mass, matching the snow banks towering outside everyone’s home). Roads were clear according to the latest traffic report so I was set to go, arriving at my destination just as the snow flakes started to swirl.

All day Saturday, more snow fell, piling high along windowsills, cloaking the pines and completely erasing the roads. By the time we watched the Havdalah flame sputter out, my heart was pounding with anxiety. I trudged to the car and with the help of my daughter and my friend Jon, we grumpily scraped and dusted the snow off the car windows. I blasted the heat, sat down and gripped the steering wheel tightly.

 I drove 25 kilometers an hour, bit my lips and obsessively pressed the windshield washer fluid button, hoping it would give me peace and clarity. But it merely smudged things up. I could not see a thing save for the red lights of the car in front of me.  The lines that separate the lanes on the highway were gone. I had nothing to guide me. My nerves were so shot, I drove to the nearest sanctuary, my brother’s house, where I abandoned the car.

I have been living in the Middle East for eight years and I have not been as scared there as I was that night navigating the 401 during a blizzard. 

Winter is a real hazard, yet each morning Canadians set out in their parkas, scarves and toques to drive along icy roads where wind whips snow across lanes and slush globs onto windshields.

I guess we become accustomed to our environments and maybe I have been away from Canada too long, eh?  Yet this snowy encounter gives me such gratitude to be living here in Israel where the one assurance we do have is good weather.

Spiritual Eyes

Tragedy has struck Jerusalem. What should have been a routine service visit became a disaster. Where once two little girls sang and danced lies silence and grief. Life turns its back in a chilling moment.

A young family of six had been plagued by moths in one particular room. They called their local fumigator, a veteran of thirty years. He decided to use a slow releasing poison to kill the moths. He set up the poison to do its work, sealed the room and left the house.

Unknown to all, there was a small leak in the seal. The poison, deadly and unscented, escaped without detection. It attacked everyone’s nervous system, creating symptoms of nausea, vomiting and diarrhea. Thinking they had food poisoning, they rushed to the hospital and were simply told to take a pain reliever. 

They then returned to a home where poison seeped; a brew as toxic as that used in the Syrian chemical weapons attack. By morning, a few children were unconscious and one little girl had stopped breathing.

Their two little daughters, Avigael, almost four, and Yael, 18 months, died. At the funeral, the stricken young father called out to G-d. 

“Hashem, you gave us Avigail, who was so good and so pure. She was always asking, ‘Is this a mitzvah?’ She was such a pure spirit, she loved to help. Yaeli just started talking, always saying, ‘Daddy, Mommy.’ She was so pure, so sweet. They were such good friends… Yesterday morning they were talking and happy, at night they were still dancing. Hashem came and took them in an instant, from one second to the next. We didn’t even have time to pray.”

“We have no questions. We don’t know the ways of Heaven, we don’t know why this happened to us. But if the Holy One, blessed is He, brought us this crisis, He will give us the strength to withstand it.”

“Avigail and Yael,” he told his deceased girls, “go before the throne of glory, you’re babies who never sinned, and ask for Divine mercy for your brothers.”

The girls’ older brothers, aged 7 and 5, remain in critical condition in the Schneider Children’s Hospital. As there is no antidote for this poison, the boys have been put under general anesthesia to give their organs a rest. The grieving parents sit at the boys’ bedside day and night, hoping and praying.

Israelis pray for the recovery of Chaim Michael and Rafael Itzhak, whose condition is dire. There was a special prayer at the Kotel and women were asked to light candles five minutes early last Shabbat.

How can one imagine the intensity of the parents’ and grandparents’ despair, having buried two tiny precious girls, hoping, praying, waiting for the recovery of these two young boys.

Yet here is a letter written by a friend and neighbor of the Gross family. I read this letter and felt so humbled by these incredible people. Because, in times of despair, we are inclined to point fingers and lay blame. After the incident, the fumigator was placed under house arrest. Yet the mother of these children pleads that we not speak badly about him.

The letter below and the words from the distraught father’s eulogy over his tiny baby girls show that this young couple lives and judges and speaks on a very high level; it is almost as if they operate in another, very holy sphere. 

If we could all view life, with its darkness, grief and injustice through their spiritual eyes, our world would be a different place.

My Neighbor, Michal Gross

by Rachel Batya Aviner, Jan 27, 2014

My husband and I moved to Jerusalem’s Givat Mordechai neighborhood while my husband was in his year of mourning following his mother’s death. And in accordance with Jewish law, my husband would recited kaddish and lead the community in prayer.

One day a really kind elderly man sought my husband out after davening shortly before Passover and inquired where he would be for the holiday. My husband, assuming the man was asking because my husband was a new immigrant to Israel, explained that he would be with his wife and children for the Chag. This kind man insisted that my husband and I and our children should join his family for a holiday meal–an act of such kindness that we couldn’t refuse it.

During the meal we discovered that the reason the elderly man had invited my husband was not because he was an immigrant but rather because his mother had passed away, and concerned that my husband no longer had a mother to invite him home for Passover, he invited my husband to join his own family so he wouldn’t feel sad on the Chag.

This elderly man and his wife continued to call us periodically to invite us to their home. Over the years, we have met a good number of their children and grandchildren, and truly feel so welcome and taken care of by this wonderful family. It is only very special people who have such einei chesed, eyes of kindness, that seek out others in order to make them feel welcomed and loved.

One of the daughters of this kind family is Michal Gross, the mother of the two beautiful girls who died this past week due to inhalation of a poisonous substance after an exterminator sprayed their apartment for bugs. Michal’s two older sons, ages 5 and 7, are in very critical condition in Petach Tikva right now.

As they say, the apple does not fall far from the tree.

This past Saturday night, the women of our community organized an evening to pray for the immediate and complete recovery of the two Gross boys. The lady running the event had two messages and requests from Michal for us all:

1. We should all try to do a Kiddush Hashem in our own homes, through self-sacrifice for Torah, mitzvot, and good deeds,* for the merit of the refuah of her two boys.

2. We should not speak any lashon hara about the exterminator who had inadvertently poisoned her children; he is well known in our community and a man of learning and Torah. What happened, she explained, was Hashem’s decree and we should not speak lashon hara about this poor man who was just Hashem’s messenger.

Even in a time of such incredible pain and suffering, this family is still able to make a true kiddush Hashem and think of others in need.

Please pray for the sons of Michal and Shimon Gross: Chaim Michael Shlomo ben Michal and Rafael Yitzhak Isaac ben Michal who remain in critical condition as well as for their parents Shimon Ozer ben Tzipporah and Michal bat Rachel who are suffering through so much.

IY”H this incredible, righteous family should know no more suffering.

*How do we make a kiddush Hashem in our homes? Rabbi Dessler teaches that when we make what Hashem wants from us our top priority, even when it conflicts with what we want to do, and even when nobody will ever know about what we have done, that is the greatest possible form of Kiddush Hashem.