Accidental Tourists

“Send me photos. It’s beautiful there.” 

Instead of sending my daughter pictures of Rhodes with its azure skies, Grecian ruins, and sparkling Aegean beaches where sunbathers sip cocktails on beach chairs, I sent a photo of three memorial candles. 

The caption on this photo read: We lit these candles to commemorate the lost lives and atrocities of October 7th. 

These candles were lit at a memorial for the 1,604 Greek Jewish lives lost during in the Holocaust. On July 23, 1944, the entire Jewish community of Rhodes, men, women and children, were rounded up and imprisoned by the Nazis, sent on a ship to Piraeus, and then pushed in cattle railroad cars that delivered them straight to the flames of the gas chambers in Auschwitz. 

I was in Rhodes on October  7 - and not by choice like the other Europeans holiday makers here and the thousands from cruise ships. My husband, two daughters and I became marooned Israelis when our flight from Rome to Tel Aviv was suddenly cancelled due to the ‘situation.’

Door knocker at the
synagogue in Rhodes.

Perhaps the talk of an Iranian missile attack spooked the European carriers; this did not scare the Israeli airlines who realized they could charge an exorbitant amount akin to war profiteering in order to deliver thousands of stranded Israelis home for Rosh Hashana.

One daughter was practically hyperventilating upon hearing the news; she had to get back to her husband and two young children, and Rosh Hashana was in three days. 

We took a deep breath as we paid two exorbitant airfares for our daughters to go home on the few airline tickets we could find. The ticket price was equivalent to buying a trans Atlantic fare for a ‘hop’ from Larnaka to Tel Aviv. Thanks Arkia Airlines….

The two then flew from Rome to Athens and on to Cyprus. Arriving at a hotel late at night, they headed straight back to the airport in the early morning to make sure they got on the precious flight to Tel Aviv. 

Just before my daughter boarded her flight, she found out that her husband was called back to do reserve duty on the Lebanese border. He was supposed to be the chazzan for Rosh Hashana services on his kibbutz; instead of wearing a long white kittel and holding a machzor, he was donning his khaki uniform and slinging a gun over his shoulder. He has already served over 200 days this past year, away from his wife, kids, and hospital job. 

As my daughters’ plane landed in Israel, I read of the impending strike from Iran. I grit my teeth and tightened my jaw, imagining one daughter taking a train north then driving home, while the second was driving with her husband and kids. They actually saw the ballistic missiles flying overhead and landing on roadsides while their kids napped in the backseat. 

As for us, we did not go for the exorbitant fare. Instead we decided to head to Zagreb where we have family plus a Chabad for the upcoming three-day holiday. This meant we would be far away from our immediate family at a time when most Jews look forward to celebrating with loved ones. 

We flew from Rome to Zagreb via Split. Zagreb once had a vibrant Jewish community likes Rhodes, but the Ustace and Nazis took care of that, leaving behind a tiny, mostly intermarried and unaffiliated community.

Hospitable and dedicated, the Israeli couple running the Zagreb Chabad were doing their utmost to change this. Unfortunately, as soon as we walked in with our Croatian cousin, one member of the community started screaming at her uncontrollably and threatened her. 

Before prayers began, the last words I heard were from my husband, imploring him to remember the holiness of the day. “Please, it is Rosh Hashana. Not here. Not now.”

And then my tears started. I looked over at Amir and he too was crying. I believe hatred from one Jew to another is one of the factors that sealed our fate last year, resulting in October 7 and this war. 

It has been a tragic and difficult year for Israel and the pain continues. Just before I lit candles, I saw that eight beautiful young soldiers had been killed. Here we were, Erev Rosh Hashana, and many families were mourning. 

I once learned that one’s state of mind on Rosh Hashana reflects and influences the energy of the year to come. But instead of feeling joy and gratitude, I was overcome with sadness. Tears flowed every time I tried to pray. 

I was far away from my family and my homeland. And I continued to cry. In Tzfat, where I was supposed to be praying, sirens were wailing into the air 14 times over these three days, sending adults and children scrambling to a safe space dressed in their holiday’s finest. 

These three days of Rosh Hashana without communication with my children were interminable and surreal. Come motzei chag, we raced to our laptops trying to find a flight home - us and the thousands of other stranded Israelis, including many Hasidim who, unfazed, traveled to Uman in the Ukraine, going from one war zone to another.

Despite the stories of rockets and terror attacks, we had to get home. We would click on a flight, enter our details and then lose the booking. Late at night, after three hours of searching, we finally found a flight that was leaving early the next morning. So much for sleep. 

Memorial to the Rhodian Jews.

The flight took us from rainy Zagreb to cloudy Belgrade where we waited and changed planes, then to sunny Athens, where we waited and changed planes, and then on to Rhodes.

Stressed out, exhausted, and homesick, we landed in picture-perfect Rhodes, a beautiful Greek island of romance and beauty. Except this was not a time to be a carefree tourist. 

And no, we did not capture the place with the standard classic, carefree photos - not this time. We just wanted to be home.

SOS Garden Brigade

Summer is here like an inferno with intensely scorching heat, thirsty, parched lands, and fields the hue of straw. The country is literally a stack of dry kindling, so when rockets landed in the north on June 3^rd, care of Hezbollah, the place lit up like a colossal bonfire. 

As a result of rockets and shrapnel, there were so many brush fires, the fire department and foresters could not control them all. To add more challenge, it is dangerous for sea planes to douse the fires as there is fear of them being shot down. 

We happened to be at a wedding in Netanya that night, so we had no idea what had happened. We drove our son and daughter-in-law back to Haifa when the phone rang. It was my son in New York, my personal news broadcaster, always updated to the second despite the distance.

“Where are you? Do you know there are uncontrolled fires right near where you live?” 

Hearing his voice, I had a flashback to the evening when Iran attacked. We decided to go to sleep that night and he called us at midnight to ask where we were. He told us the missiles had just crossed into Israeli airspace. I had a mini panic attack before deciding that if this was it, I was going back to sleep.

As for finding a way home, Waze and Google maps were jammed as usual, programmed to tell us we were at Beirut Rafic Hariri International Airport. We were not. We were in Haifa and totally lost, going in circles on and off highway interchanges. 

Amir researched using an online map, the news, and community WhatsApp groups to see which roads were closed due to the raging fires. My daughter who was home did not pick up the phone. Guess it was time to have a mini panic attack, but as I was behind the wheel, this one would have to wait.

As we had to make a huge bypass around the Kinneret, it took us three hours to get home. Approaching our village, I noticed the streetlights were eerily lit as if shrouded in fog. Smoke. I stepped out of the car and smelled fire. 

The fire did not jump the highway and, thankfully, our place was intact. The casualty here was a dead chicken who either suffered from smoke inhalation or heat exhaustion or both. Fires continued the next day, consuming beautiful pine and oak forests across the north. According to Israel 21C, during those days, 80 percent of the forest burnt in the Naftali Mountains and the Al-Nabi Yusha forest. Birya, the largest forest in the Galilee, lost 12 percent of its trees.

It took days and days to put out fires in very dangerous conditions. Once an area was under control, another rocket could start it all again – and the firefighting crew had no protection against the rockets. All in all, three times more acres have burned than during the Lebanon war in 2006.  

These fires are a total devastation to people, animals, and plant life. The Golan is also suffering. It is 85 percent grasslands and cattle graze freely. A brush fire there decimates a herd and destroys a farmer’s income. 

I love these forests.  Over the years, I have hiked many trails on these treed mountains and huffed and puffed while biking the uphill paths, grateful for the shade the trees offer. I treasure the fresh smell of the forest, replete with pure oxygen, gifting a dose of happiness. 

The trees are home to many birds, while foxes, coyotes, and porcupines dwell in the grass below. I have come across turtles noisily clambering across dried leaves and occasionally, I have seen deer, ibex, and wild boar peeking out from trees on the slopes. A fire can decimate all of this in a matter of minutes and it can take well over a decade for life to return. 

One of the recent fires came within 50 meters of a horseback riding ranch. A call for help went out and many answered, including Amir and I. We were told to bring rakes, hoes, gloves, and weed whackers. 

This horse ranch, a popular tourist attraction, is on the edge of one of my favorite hiking paths so I know the forest well - at least I did, since not much remains intact. As we drove there in the early morning, I could see the devastation and smell the smoke.

Many people answered the SOS call from all parts of the country. Over this past nine months of war and trauma, doctors, social workers, psychologists, physiotherapists, chefs, and yoga teachers have all answered the call for help. Now it was time for an SOS garden brigade.

We arrived to the chorus of multiple weed whackers humming in the area above the horse farm. Our task was to make a fire clearing between the forest (or what was left of it) and the farm. This meant cutting down all the brush, dead branches, and weeds and raking it into a huge pile.

During our orientation talk, a volunteer asked, “What if there is a siren?” There is no bomb shelter here in the forest. We were advised to lie down on the ground and cover our heads with our hands. 

With that sobering thought, we went to work. As we raked the brush, we were coughing from lingering smoke particles. 

When a TV crew came to interview the owner, he said he had lost 80 percent of his revenue since the start of the war. No one wants to horseback ride on these mountain paths and the horses here are having an extended vacation in their paddock.

The team was efficient and within a few hours, the area was clean, with a wide protective belt outside the ranch. I took the opportunity to pick up garbage; if there had to be a silver lining to this catastrophe, I felt I was tending the land.

Israelis have been planting trees for over seventy years, patting millions of saplings by hand into the earth all across the land. Tree planting is a symbol of putting down roots after a long exile, preserving the land, and enriching a harsh environment. 

Over the years, these saplings matured, creating hushed, humbling forests that became a quiet sanctuary, welcome shade, and a home for wildlife. The mountain sides now bear ugly black scars. 

While I was writing this, rockets from Lebanon landed in Dishon, creating brush fires that are out of control right now. I am devasted as this too is a playground of hiking, biking, a home to wildlife, and for us, wine tasting. 

This war is not over and may not have begun in the north, despite rockets falling here since October 7. I pray for peace, calm, protection of the forests, and a safe time to replant. This special prayer for planting trees, created by Rav Ben-Tsiyon Meir Hai Uziel before 1942, shows how much we value Israel and wish to tend this special Land.

אָבִינוּ שֶׁבַּשָּׁמַיִם בּוֹנֵה צִיּוֹן וִירוּשָׁלַיִם וּמְכוֹנֵן מַלְכוּת יִשְׂרָאֵל, הַשְׁקִיפָה מִמְּעוֹן קָדְשֶׁךָ מִן הַשָּׁמַיִם וּבָרֵךְ אֶת עַמְּךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל וְאֶת הָאֲדָמָה אֲשֶׁר נָתַתָּ לָנוּ כַּאֲשֶׁר נִשְׁבַּעְתָּ לַאֲבוֹתֵינוּ.	Our father in Heaven, builder of Tsiyon and Yerushalayim, and founder of the kingdom of Yisra’el, look down from your holy domain in Heaven, and bless your people Yisra’el, and the land that you presented to us that you promised to our ancestors.
רְצֵה ה׳ אַרְצֶךָ וְהַשְׁפַּע עָלֶיהָ מִטּוּב חַסְדֶּךָ תֵּן טַל לִבְרָכָה וְגִשְׁמֵי רָצוֹן הוֹרֵד בְּעִתָּם לְרַוּוֹת הָרֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וַעֲמָקֶיהָ וּלְהַשְׁקוֹת בָּהֶם כָּל צֶמַח, עֵץ, וּנְטִיעוֹתֵינוּ הַעֲמֵק שָׁרְשֵׁיהֶם וְגָדֵל פְּאֵרָם, לְמַעַן יִפְרְחוּ לְרָצוֹן בְּתוֹך שְׁאַר עֲצֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל לִבְרָכָה וּלְתִפְאָרָה.	Take pleasure in your land and bestow abundance upon it from the goodness of your lovingkindness — Give dew for a blessing and cause beneficial rains to precipitate in their season to satiate the mountains of Yisra’el and her valleys and to water upon them, every shrub, (and) tree, and our plantings. Make deep their roots and grow their crown so that they blossom according to your will among all the trees in Yisra’el for blessing and for splendor.
וַחֲזֵק יְדֵי כָּל אַחֵינוּ הָעֲמֵלִים בַּעֲבוֹדַת אַדְמַת הַקֹּדֶשׁ וּבְהַפְרָחַת שִׁמְמָתָהּ. בָּרֵךְ ה׳ חֵילָם וּפֹעַל יָדָם תִּרְצֶה.	And strengthen the hands of all our comrades who toil in the labor of the holy Earth, and make her desolate areas fruitful. Bless, YHVH, their might and may the work of their hands be favored by you.
אָמֵן.	Amen.

Living on the Edge

It has been nearly eight months of war, death, and destruction in Israel. I experience fear, then calm, and shattered hope. I cycle between these feelings, finding refuge in my garden where nature continues to teach me lessons. Here exists a predictable world as the reliable seasons cycle. 

With this war raging, there is no predictability other than reading bad news daily: death of our young soldiers, imprisoned hostages, and an intense hatred of our state worldwide. 

There is an uncanny reverence for our brutal enemy. Reality has been inverted, lies are being honored while truth has been trampled.

And so I cycle into frustration and anger followed by hopelessness – until I was dealt a scary lesson via my garden. I go outside for hours every day with a little basket as if I am waltzing through a Disney movie. The birds are singing, the sun shining, a breeze is blowing, and the fruit trees are flowering. For me, this is perfection in a world shrouded by darkness.

 
My basket contains my weeding tools: secateurs, a knife, and gloves. I prefer not to wear the gloves and usually go out in sandals or barefoot. I hop from tree to tree and bush to bush pulling out the weeds around them and trimming back dead growth. 

This act is an example of my favorite permaculture principle called The Edge. Starting with a tree that has been engulfed by weeds, some six-feet-tall, I pull back the strangling plants and clean out the base to reveal a neat circle around the trunk. 

 
This is the edge between wild and cultivated, jungle and garden. It creates a balance that gives me a sense of harmony. I was feeling down, angry, and hopeless that day as I went out to an overrun area of the garden, eager to create edge in chaos, when I was stung by a bee.  

 
It hurt a bit but I continued to work for a while. It was my ring finger and I was wearing two rings on that finger. It started to swell but I ignored this as I thought a sting from such a little bee could not do too much damage.

I eventually went inside, washed the area, applied aloe gel, and took an antihistamine. I could still twirl the ring around my finger, although I could not remove it as the sting as on the joint. I went about my activities for the day and went to bed. 

And then it started to swell even more. I did deep breathing, went outside to apply more fresh aloe vera, did some visualization, and kept massaging the area to encourage circulation. I did not sleep at all. Then I saw a black line develop across my lower finger joint.

At 3am, I calmly got dressed and woke up Amir. “We’re going to the hospital,” I told him calmly and made him a coffee. We got there quickly and the emergency room was empty. I sat and waited for the nurse to find an instrument to remove my rings. 

The swelling worsened and huge blisters of blood started to develop. I sat and did some more deep breathing. They finally found a cutting instrument.  Simply inserting it under my finger was excruciatingly painful.  They pulled it and turned it and nothing happened. 

The situation quickly became critical. A surgeon soon arrived with another tool. The doctor and nurse tugged my finger, sawed and pulled and finally one ring broke off. The second ring would not budge so they frantically pulled and sawed. I was in intense pain. And finally the second ring broke off. 

I was told to lie down, keep my hand elevated, and try to bend my finger. My finger was a purple balloon with barely a tingling sensation. They sent me for an x ray and the surgeon’s last words were, “Force your finger to move and it if turns black, it is dead.”

I imagined a world with nine fingers and started to bend my finger as if it were practicing for gymnastics at the Olympics.  I went home and lay there in fear, afraid to look at my finger, holding it upright and moving it incessantly.

“What did you today?” my daughter asked me sympathetically when she came home from work.

“I lay in bed with my hand in the air,” I replied. For someone who is active almost every second of the day, this in itself was humbling. 

This night and day felt like a living horror movie, especially for someone queasy like me. The good news is my finger did not turn black and the pain is subsiding, although the swelling from the bee sting turned my hand into a baseball mitt.

My romanticized Disney image of the garden has shattered. There are scorpions out there and killer bees (for those allergic to bee stings such a me). Shoes and gloves and a positive attitude is what I need.

My evacuated neighbor who lives in my garden has an amazing attitude. She does not know when she can go to her home in the north and if she needs to move again, she is calling it an adventure. 

There are so many homeless families wandering around this country not knowing what tomorrow will bring, but they dig deep and cope by transforming challenges into opportunities. I am humbled by these people. 

I bend my wounded finger and realize that I too must dig deep and appreciate what I have. I now have intense gratitude for my ten fingers and appreciate how important that one finger is. This finger helps me type, cradle my morning coffee, and assist me with every two-handed task. It is such a simple gift to be able to stretch and bend a finger.

The jets continue to rumble over night and day, there are huge explosions nearby, the news rattles on with loss upon loss, and the situation can worsen at any second. 

My garden teaches me to appreciate seemingly small things in life. This gratitude propels me forward as I learn to live life on the edge.