A Bumpy Landing

The airplane’s landing was bumpier than I thought. In more than one way. I was returning to Toronto for the first time since my mom’s passing. Living in a far away country had somehow made my loss less real.

When I got up from the shiva in Canada last November and flew back to Israel with a broken heart, a part of my mind filed my mom’s absence to a folder called ‘long-distance relationships.’ In this file, I imagined she would be there as always when I visited Toronto.

She would be counting down the days until our arrival as she always did. She would be so excited to see her growing grandchildren, to give them tearful hugs and just stare at them with love and pride. She would be there for me too as she always was. Patient, soft, gentle, glowing with love. Boundless love that only a mother can provide.

And when the plane’s wheels bumped onto the runway, the tears trickled, then flowed over my cheeks. This landing was my reality check. We, her family who left her to live in Israel, were here. And she was gone.

We took our luggage and drove to my father’s home, no longer my parents’ home. The last time I had been here, it was early winter. My mom was seriously ill and was in palliative care. We were doing 24-hour shifts to make sure she was comfortable and felt loved until it was the end. And so I left. And so I return.

My father hugs us all at the front door.  He marvels over how tall the children are now. I peer over his shoulder and there is no one. Her chair is empty. No novel or reading glasses on the coffee table. No slippers by the front door. She is truly gone.

The following day we all go to the cemetery for her unveiling.  Her grave is covered with a cloth. My father, my brother and I approach the stone, and with trepidation we tug at the covering. It gives way, revealing the stark letters of her name engraved in stone. It is real. Too real. The letters are too deep. These etchings I cannot erase. She is gone from us.

This past year of grieving, I tried to connect with her and invited her to share in my life in Israel. I healed through my hikes, to the silence of foot treading upon the earth, of the infinite feel of rock.

And so she ‘accompanied’ me on my hikes. And on each hike, I picked up a rock or two with the intention that I would bring them to her grave.

And now the day of returning the rocks is here. Each person at the unveiling picks out a rock and I read:

When we visit a Jewish graveside, we place a rock on the grave and not flowers. Why is this? No one really knows the origin of this ancient custom. One theory is that flowers eventually die, but stones do not. Instead they symbolize permanence of memory and legacy.

A second thought regards the Hebrew word for pebble. Tz’ror.  This also means bond in Hebrew. In El Ma’ale rachamim, the prayer we recite at a funeral and today at the grave side, we ask that the deceased be bound up in the bond of life – tz’ror hahayyim. So we place the stones to show we have been there and that the memory of our loved one continues to live on through us.

The rocks that I am passing around are no run of the mill rocks. They have a story and a history.

Since my mom’s passing, I felt a deep loss and emptiness. The only thing that truly gave me comfort and filled me with spirit was hiking. It was my way to be alone in nature and with my thoughts, in the open and the quiet that, for me, signified my mom’s essence.

Hiking became my way to heal. This past winter and spring, I hiked the deep canyons and dry riverbeds of the Eilat mountains, where we crunched over soft red sandstone, and past black, red and green mountains.

Although my mom had passed, I felt she was with me and as I put on my hiking boots I would say “Come on Mommy. Today we’re hiking. I know you think I’m a bit crazy, but you’ll love it.”

Eyes to the ground I would pick up a rock or two on every hike. I found basalt, quartz, granite, flat slate stones, marine sediment rocks and limestone. Some of these stones are millions of  years old.

We also hiked in central Israel, past spring poppies and cyclamens, along where winter rains fill the rocky river beds.

My son Shaya often ran 10 km to the beach, picked up a shell or sea glass for his Grandma and ran home, depositing a prized seashell in front of me. We had my mom in our minds on all our outings and have now brought our tzrorim and konchiot, our treasured pebbles and shells, back to my mom’s resting place.

My mom loved nature. She loved Israel. She loved her family. And we loved her. This is our small way of connecting.

 The day of returning the rocks came. And passed. I am back in Israel and am still in my 12 months of mourning, a time that forgives, allowing the loss to be real and giving us space to  heal. I do not go to weddings or parties. I stay home where I feel I should be.

Tonight my husband is at a wedding. There is singing and dancing and much joy. For me, I still feel introspective. So I sit with my tears, my words, my healing, my very long-distance relationship. And I miss my mom.

Exhibit A: Jewish Florence

“Why is a Shabbat table behind glass?” My daughter looks at me in shock, confused.

“How come Shabbat is a museum exhibit?’ my son asks.

My kids are peering at a table adorned with a white tablecloth and two silver candlesticks. Two plastic braided challahs peek out from an embroidered cloth. We are visiting The Great Synagogue in Florence, which is now a museum.

My children are confused as their own living Jewish culture and traditions look like they have been neatly stuck behind a piece of plexiglass for the world to peer in at.

As for me, I recently went through this same queasy feeling when I visited what was left of Prague’s once vibrant 700-year-old Jewish world. Now extinct, there were a few synagogues, a cemetery and a museum with similar exhibits. 

So what happened to Jewish Florence? The community in Florence dates way, way back, being formally established in 1437. The Jewish story here is similar to that of other European Jewish communities: expulsion, forced confinement in ghettos, persecution and destruction.

An abbreviated history of Jewish Florence starts in 1571, when, under the rule of Cosimo de’Medici, Jews were forced to wear badges and to live in a Ghetto.  This lasted until 1799 when Napoleon awarded the Jews civil rights, however, in 1814, when the grand dukes returned to power,  Jews were forced back inside the ghetto. It was only in 1861, when Florence became a part of the kingdom of Italy, were Jews freed from the Ghetto.

After 400 years of living in a Ghetto, being persecuted and banned from entering many professions, Jews finally received equality in the constitution, becoming inspired to build a beautiful, grand synagogue. They did not waste any time, and in 1868, a Florentine Jew named David Levi bequeathed his possessions in order to build the ‘Tempio Maggiore Israelitico.’

This impressive Moorish-style synagogue was built in travertine and pink palmetto stone with a green copper dome that is distinct on the horizon of Florence’s church domes, clock towers and spires. The synagogue’s interior is painted in arabesques of red, blue and gold.

It is a miracle that this synagogue stands after the Holocaust decimated Jewish life in Florence. During the occupation, it was used as a garage by the Nazis and when they retreated, they mined the building.

Most of the Florentine Jews were murdered in the Holocaust, while some were saved by righteous Italian Catholic families.  By the end of the war, only 1600 Jews remained.

And today? There are an estimated 1,400 Jews living in Florence. There is a Chabad here and a progressive minyan.  Given the tight security around The Great Synagogue, most of the Jews must surely walk around incognito.  

In fact, the security around this synagogue was tighter than anything I have ever seen, except for the World Trade Centre Museum in New York City. We had visited some of the world’s most beautiful treasures over the past few days of touring Florence and had seen surprisingly little security. 

Being from Israel, where you cannot enter a grocery store or a post office without being checked out by the watchful gaze of a security guard, we were actually feeling a little vulnerable. 

Going up the narrow winding stairwell of the Duomo’s cupola, without our bags being checked by security, made me a little fearful. The 460 steps were narrow and dark. There were so many people going up, we were often stuck in the humid darkness of a narrow stairwell. This was not an outing for those with claustrophobia. 

We finally exited at the top of this magnificent cathedral dome and circled the cupola within arm’s reach of the paintings that adorn the roof. The milling masses of people below looked like ants from this height. We marveled at the mastery of the floors, the ceilings and the sheer will that created such an architectural feat.

We walked outside above the skyline of Florence, treading atop the rooftop of this famous landmark.

Unbelievable that there was no security here.

The Accademia, which houses Michelangelo’s sculpture David had an x-ray machine for checking bags. The Uffizi had no security at the entrance.  The Pitti Palace, with its rooms full of art treasures, had no security at all.

Many, many churches, each an incredible masterpiece of its own, were open to the public without anyone scrutinizing the visitors or their bags. Maybe I have lived in Israel for too long and am paranoid, but I do know that the world has changed and is a much darker place. Europe is under threat, but no one in Florence could conceive of this.

That is, until we went to The Great Synagogue.  An army jeep was parked outside. The perimeter was fenced in by a thick chain. A high iron fence surrounded the synagogue while a glass triangle jutted out from the wall with bulletproof glass. Inside this outpost stood four armed Italian soldiers.

We walked in the kiosk of the synagogue. A woman behind bulletproof glass asked us to place all of our items in an x-ray machine and then place them in a locker.

“No phones, no cameras,” the woman at the ticket booth warned.

Next, we had to step one by one into a full body scanner, the kind they have at the airport, but rarely use. We stepped in one by one and exited though a glass door into the quiet garden of the synagogue.

From seeing no security outside the world’s finest treasures to this heightened security outside a 100-year-old synagogue in a place where few Jews live seemed absurd. Unfortunately, it is our new reality.

We toured the inside of the shul where fellow travelers played Jewish geography and then visited the Jewish ‘museum’ upstairs.

“Why is there a havdalah candle on the Shabbat table?” my daughter asked, pointing to the table in the display case.

“You would never have Shabbat candles and havdalah candles on a table together,” my sons comments. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Yes, this world does not make sense. Here again is a perfect example of how the world is slowly trying to erase us from the world map (just like Air France did a few weeks ago), placing Jews into a secure box for all to see, so museum visitors can press their noses against showcases and wonder what Jewish life was really like.

What they fail to understand is that we are still here, leading vibrant lives in many places across the globe, especially in a country called Israel. This is where our tables are set with the best china and silver each Friday night, laden with freshly made challahs and where Shabbat is ushered in with song. It is only after Shabbat ends that the havdalah candle comes out.

Tell that to the museum. Tell that to the world. We are still here and we refuse to be put behind a glass showcase.

I am crying inside

I am crying inside. I cry over the tragic deaths of the Palestinian children who were murdered last night. Babies, they died in a fire set by Jews. These so-called 'Jews' actually painted the word 'Messiah' on the wall of the house, then let the occupants be engulfed in flames. I am so upset by this story, I cannot bring myself to read the details.

And how did I find out abut this? My son, an officer in the IDF, came home late last night after being away for close to two weeks. 

He was working night missions and had not slept properly in two weeks. His clothes stank, he was exhausted and still had that nagging cough I heard a few weeks ago. 

He came home after guarding an area near Beit El, trying to ensure that angry Jewish settlers who were recently evacuated from a hilltop, did not come back to attack Arab villages. 

The Jewish army protecting Arabs.  Think about this. 

All seemed quiet, so he was let go. All seemed quiet until he received a call in the early hours of this morning calling him back to base in the West Bank. He and his soldiers and his dirty laundry and his weary body that needed rest and his nagging cough. 

He got out of bed and grabbed his unpacked army bag, then called all his soldiers who had only arrived home. He told them, “You have to report to base now. No questions asked. No excuses. Now.”

All because some insane rebellious Jewish youth, in the name of 

G-d, set fire to a home and destroyed innocent lives. Not only did they inflame a home, they inflamed hatred, revenge and terror for Jews the world over.

As Shabbat comes in and my son’s seat at the Shabbat table is empty, we hope and pray, but I am running out of patience. For when I see such behavior by Jews, I feel hopeless. 

And when I picked up the Jerusalem Post today and saw the headlines about a Hareidi Jew who stabbed innocent bystanders at the gay parade yesterday, I lose even more hope.

These crimes are being done in the name of G-d and we are to be a light unto nations? We, who were just sitting on the floor last Sunday, fasting on Tisha B’Av over the senseless hatred that Jews have for each other?

The time is ripe for anti-semitism without such tragedies and crimes, and it seems as if we insist on being our worst enemies. 

I am ripped open inside with fear. My son’s bed is empty. He is now out there in a heat wave, in his stinky clothes, stuck in the middle of a hatred being spewed by Jews who do not abide by the law and by mourning Arabs who are enraged.  

As Shabbat comes in, I am crying inside.

Tenth aliya anniversary

Words at IDF Officers' Training school
"Look on me, and then do likewise." (Judges Ch. 7. v 17)

Last week marked ten years of living in Israel. We made aliya on July 13, 2005, landing at Ben Gurion Airport with slight trepidation, crazed looks and four children aged 12, 10, 6 and 4.

What has happened since that fateful day of shoving all our belongings in one Zim shipping container, saying teary goodbyes to family and friends, then starting life all over?

How have we changed since landing in Israel with jetlagged kids sipping sticky popsicles, after losing my passports and purse at the airport (yep, I did, and the adrenaline flow that set in has not abated since) and being greeted by Prime Minister Ariel Sharon?

Lots, and then again, not so much.

My children have been the real winners in the art of adapting to life in Israel.  I often wonder how they would have been had we not moved here and am sure they are stronger, more motivated, spiritually centered, independent and confidant than they would have been if we had not left Canada.

We arrived with a pudgy (sorry, Ariel, it’s true), shy, 12-year-old who only understood Aramaic from learning Gemara at school and who repeatedly muttered “you ruined my life” over the first six months of aliya.

Ten years in Israel have sculpted and groomed him into an awesome 22-year-old officer proudly serving in the IDF. He has learned leadership skills and has an army job that requires responsibility, clear headedness and snap decision making. He just received a promotion to 1st Lieutenant, receiving a second bar that he proudly wears on his shoulder. He is confidant and self-assured. Recently vacationing in Berlin, the feedback we received from him was, “It was nice but I just wanted to be home in Israel.”

Does any other army ask the mom to place the new insignia?

Our daughter, who was 10 when we arrived, melded into Israeli life easily. She knew how to shove herself onto a crowded Israeli bus at an early age and mastered the art of screaming at people when she became a lifeguard at a public pool here.

She loves this country so much, she makes it her mission to experience every hidden natural treasure, be it an untouched ma’ayan (water pool), camping on the beach, hiking across the desert and scrambling up peaks to catch the sunrise. Even her dreams are in Hebrew.  Her Amarit, a language she picked during army service as a sergeant of  Ethiopian soldiers,  is not so bad either.

My then six-year-old was once a wide eyed, softy. When kids threw his pencil case in the garbage can on the first day of Grade 1, he sobbed. I was the one who threw a tantrum and eventually pulled him out of that school, thereby starting my addiction of changing my kids’ schools, delusional that there was a better school somewhere. (Still looking…) 

This once teary six year old is now a buff 16 year old who has so much independence, he rarely returns home until before 9 pm, biking everywhere and filling after-school hours with work outs, surfing, piano, tutoring and volunteering. His Hebrew is just fine--and if someone were to throw his pencil case in the garbage today, they would quickly regret it.

Our four year old was the lucky child to experience gan (kindergarten) here. Once when she came home from school, we asked her how to say ‘excuse me’ in Hebrew. ‘Zuz,’ she replied.  Although in Hebrew  this means ‘move,’ if you’re four years old, a fairer translation would be ‘get out of here.’ So much for being nice Canadians. 

Despite all odds, she has maintained a polite disposition. She has a policy to read all novels in Hebrew and can maintain multiple Whats App conversations simultaneously in two languages.

As for me, I still cannot speak Hebrew as well as I anticipated, even though I’ve tried every ulpan around and have accumulated piles of notebooks with vocabulary words that I cannot insert into my cobwebbed brain.

When people ask me how long I’ve been living here, I reply “since July” (which is not really a lie). My husband and I make a good team: if there is reading involved, I am called to task and if there is talking needed, he is up to bat. So between the two of us, we have semi-functional Hebrew. Ten years in Israel has rewarded us with kids who negotiate in Hebrew over the phone, saving us parents embarrassment, frustration and money.

I may not be connected to the language, but over these years, I have become connected to the land and the nation to a depth that is hard to imagine. We have hiked countless trails, from sweet pine forests in the north to the ragged peaks in the south. Every step we take is beautiful, profound and a blessing.  As for the nation and for the people here, I cannot imagine living anywhere else.

So what has changed after having lived in Israel for 10 years?

Lots, and then again, not so much.

 

Over the course of our decade here, we’ve also been through three heartbreaking wars and five governments (Knesset numbers 16 through 20). 

The subjects of the headlines are much the same as they were ten years ago, but the threats are now more dire and the prognosis grimmer. In August, 2005, Bush warned Iran that "All options are on the table," implying the threat of American military intervention. Until last Tuesday, that remained the same.

 

Despite the threats and the gloom, this remains our one and only homeland. We live life fully here in Israel and grow connected to this miraculous place with each small, dusty step that we take. Ten years later, my family would not want to live anywhere else.