The bitter sweet side of Israeli life
Today is Yom HaZikaron (Israel's Memorial Day) which honours all those who have died not only in military conflict, but also all the innocent civilians killed in terror attacks. Over 22,000 people have died since Israel declared independence in 1948 - and of course, most of them since the 1967 war onwards. At 8pm last night and 11am this morning a siren rang out throughout Israel and everyone stopped what they were doing, stood up and was silent for two minutes.The day has a heavy and oppressive air about it. The radio plays non-stop sad songs and people speak more quietly than usual.
The strangest thing about Yom HaZikaron is that at about 7pm tonight when it ends, Israeli Independence Day (Yom Ha'atzmaut) begins and people strip themselves of their sadness and mourning and go out and celebrate. There are huge parties, BBQ's, people in the streets, fireworks - the lot. The first time I witnessed this transformation I thought it was the weirdest - bordering on sick and bizarre - thing I had ever experienced. How can a country go from mourning to celebrating in a matter of minutes???
I came to realise slowly that the two holidays are deliberately sandwiched together. It's a fact, and a sad fact, that Israel's history is scarred by tragedy and continues to exist in a state of alert and fear because of our lovely, peace-loving neighbours.
Israel's hard-fought freedom in 1948 came at a heavy price, and it's a price we are still paying for. It's a bittersweet joy, a mixed blessing, but despite all the pain and suffering, there is still a lot to celebrate and be joyful for (believe it or not!). That Israel even exists is, in itself, a miracle.
People often refer to native-born Israelis as “Sabras.” The Sabra is a desert cactus – prickly on the outside and sweet on the inside. Israel is a cactus too. It needs to have a strong defensive exterior to protect itself. It needs to protect itself so that the inside – its people – can survive. And they do. Yom Ha’atzmaut is more than a celebration of independence. It is a celebration of survival. And that is every reason to celebrate.
A few weeks ago, I was asked by the Australian Jewish News to write an article for their Yom Ha'atzmaut supplement. For all of you that didn't see it (probably because you don't live in Australia!) this is the story I wrote:
For a long time, I was the only Jewish kid in my school. A thousand-something non-Jews, and me. That is, until Tali Zuilkowsky came along. Suddenly the Jewish population of Hong Kong’s decidedly colonial King George V School had doubled. To make matters even worse, Tali not only had a Jewish sounding name (unlike my very non-Jewish sounding name), she came from Israel. She was a REAL Jew. As Jewish as they come, I thought.
She spoke with this sing-songy accent that all the girls thought was cool and all the boys swooned at. With her long red curls and glowing olive skin, she looked like she had come right off the kibbutz. She was exotic, she was kind, she was popular and I hated her.
Of course, deep down I wanted to BE Tali Zuilkowsky. As much as it makes me cringe today, I distinctly remember having a conversation with her one day at school. You see, I had immediately introduced myself as the “other Jew” in school, some kind of territory-marking ritual probably. In order to bond with Tali as much as possible, I made up some story about all the relatives I had in Israel. With an excited edge in her voice she said “oh really? Where do they live?”
And that’s where I stumbled. “Uhh. Well I have so many relatives and well, they are all over the country really. Some live near Haifa, some near Netanya, oh and Tel Aviv of course.” (By now, I had practically run out of all the places in Israel I’d heard of). I was, of course, lying through my teeth. The great irony was that I did have a slew of relatives living in Israel, but it would take another fifteen years or so before I would discover them.
I look back now, all those years ago growing up in Hong Kong, and wonder how on earth someone like me would end up making aliyah and living in Israel. I came from a mixed marriage (Jewish mother, non-Jewish father), absolutely zero Jewish education – formal or otherwise, and long before my mother and I instituted our bagel brunch Sundays, bacon and eggs were more the order of the day.
For as long as I can recall, all I ever wanted was to “be Jewish”, to “do Jewish” – whatever that means. I yearned to cling to a culture, an identity and be able to point and say, “That’s my country, those are my people, this is my identity.” Even when I moved to Australia in my early twenties, I never managed to achieve a feeling of connection, of belonging. Even living in the heart of Melbourne’s Jewish community wasn’t enough for me.
I recall an emotional conversation with my mother a few years ago; “I go to a Reform shul and I don’t fit in. I go to an Orthodox shul and I don’t fit in. I feel like a gentile in my own community and I feel like a Jew outside it. I want to be in a country where everyone is Jewish, where no one will question my authenticity because I don’t look the part or because I don’t have a Jewish-sounding surname.”
And then it hit me.
Israel.
All this painful soul-searching had a very simple answer.
I made my first trip to Israel at the end of 2003, when I was accepted to be an artist-in-residence at the WUJS (World Union of Jewish Students) Institute in Arad. Crazy girl that I am, I also made aliyah without ever having been to Israel. Most people thought I was insane, a few thought I was brave and adventurous, but most people just thought I was plain insane.
I spent almost a year living and writing in the breathtaking expanse of the Negev desert. At the end of my program, I realised with painful admission that I had not prepared myself at all well for aliyah. I put almost no effort into job seeking, networking and although I studied hard in ulpan, my Hebrew after only a few months was not going to get me any further than buying fruit and veg in the local market. With a heavy heart and even heavier debt, I returned to Australia.
I may have been down, but I was not out. “Israel’s not going anywhere. It will be here when you get back” my well-meaning Israeli friend Galit told me in an attempt to cheer me up. I spent the next two and a half years working on my personal “Project Israel”. I was going to find a way back and I was going to succeed this time, I told myself.
Well, two and a half years on, here I am. I live in a surprisingly spacious apartment in a classic Jerusalem stone building in the historic neighbourhood of Talbieh. I am a stone’s throw from the infamous King David Hotel and on Saturday afternoons I can wander to Independence Park with a book and a rug and watch the world go by. In the space of a few hours I see Haredi families taking their Shabbos stroll, I hear a muezzin calling his fellow Muslims to prayer and the bells of a nearby monastery ring out.
For five days of the week, I get up and go to work. I have been incredibly fortunate in that I landed an exciting and challenging job with a leading Israeli research and educational institute. It’s not just a job. It’s a place where I feel that one day I will really be able to make a difference. Still, it’s amazing how normal my life is in such an extraordinary country.
It’s not always easy though and I would be a liar if I said it was. Israel is not an easy country to live in and it’s not for everyone. I have moments where I feel utterly overwhelmed, painfully lonely and when I question the massive move I have made.
I am often reminded of a line in Philip Roth’s seminal novel, Portnoy’s Complaint, and each time I read it, it makes me smile.
“What was incredible and strange to me… what gave my entire sojourn the air of the preposterous was one simple but wholly implausible fact: I am in a Jewish country. In this country, everybody is Jewish.”
In a nutshell, this is what Israel means to me; it means home.