Being Israeli
I live in a little neighborhood in the center of Jerusalem that best reminds me a small ‘Italian-type’ village. It is a unique neighborhood for Jerusalem, in that it is a collective mix of all different types of people – old Yerushalmi Sephardim, new Anglo immigrants, Chassidim, Hareidim, and non-religious Jews alike. It is a special place where everyone not only lives together peacefully, but is actually happy doing it.
As I walk through the streets of my little village neighborhood, I’m often struck by the music that echoes from my neighbors’ houses. The music, especially before Shabbos and holidays, is often rather joyful and uplifting. It’s also played rather loudly and seems to spread the joyful feeling throughout the community. No one would ever think to complain about the noise levels being bothersome, because the music itself makes everyone feel too happy to think about complaining.
In the last few weeks – the music changed.
As I walk through my special little neighborhood now, I hear different sounds. The quiet echoes of sad music permeate the air. I don’t even need to understand the words to feel the emotion that stirs within the lamenting echoes of the songs. It’s a deep, quiet, and painful tribute of national mourning that can’t be spoken. We all feel it in our souls.
The heavy tone in the Jerusalem air is palpable right now. The weather is cold for July and even the overcast skies seem to convey the pain in the hearts of every Jew here. People still walk through the streets, life still continues, but something, some feeling, is simply different.
What is most interesting to me – as still somewhat of an outsider in this culture – is that this change is not one of fear. While my Anglo friends and I seem to be rapidly dancing back and forth between faith and fear – the Israeli’s don’t partake in the dance at all. I asked my roommate, a kind sweet Israeli woman from Efrat, “How do you do it? How do Israeli’s deal with this all of the time?” In her non-chalant, laid-back, Israeli-style she simply said, “We just pray. What else can you do?”
Our conversation continued as I asked her for more details about how to handle an escalation of this crisis. “But how should we prepare. What should we do?” I insisted as I quietly began making a mental checklist for my “emergency war preparedness” kit.
She looked at me with a mixed sense of compassion, kindness, and a subtle dash of pity –it was the same look you give someone that you feel sorry for because they just can’t seem to grasp some fundamental principle of existence. And she said to me, “Listen, we’ll know what to do, when we need to do it. Now, stop reading your computer, and go read some Tehillim (Psalms) instead.”
For a brief moment, I understood what it was like to be Israeli, and to be a Jew.
So as my phone continues to ring off the hook in my Jerusalem apartment situated in my quaint little village neighborhood near town, and I’m bombarded with questions such as “Are you okay? Are you coming home?” I pull from that strength that exists within every Jew and answer like an Israeli – which I am – which we all are.
I am home. Won’t you come join me?
As I walk through the streets of my little village neighborhood, I’m often struck by the music that echoes from my neighbors’ houses. The music, especially before Shabbos and holidays, is often rather joyful and uplifting. It’s also played rather loudly and seems to spread the joyful feeling throughout the community. No one would ever think to complain about the noise levels being bothersome, because the music itself makes everyone feel too happy to think about complaining.
In the last few weeks – the music changed.
As I walk through my special little neighborhood now, I hear different sounds. The quiet echoes of sad music permeate the air. I don’t even need to understand the words to feel the emotion that stirs within the lamenting echoes of the songs. It’s a deep, quiet, and painful tribute of national mourning that can’t be spoken. We all feel it in our souls.
The heavy tone in the Jerusalem air is palpable right now. The weather is cold for July and even the overcast skies seem to convey the pain in the hearts of every Jew here. People still walk through the streets, life still continues, but something, some feeling, is simply different.
What is most interesting to me – as still somewhat of an outsider in this culture – is that this change is not one of fear. While my Anglo friends and I seem to be rapidly dancing back and forth between faith and fear – the Israeli’s don’t partake in the dance at all. I asked my roommate, a kind sweet Israeli woman from Efrat, “How do you do it? How do Israeli’s deal with this all of the time?” In her non-chalant, laid-back, Israeli-style she simply said, “We just pray. What else can you do?”
Our conversation continued as I asked her for more details about how to handle an escalation of this crisis. “But how should we prepare. What should we do?” I insisted as I quietly began making a mental checklist for my “emergency war preparedness” kit.
She looked at me with a mixed sense of compassion, kindness, and a subtle dash of pity –it was the same look you give someone that you feel sorry for because they just can’t seem to grasp some fundamental principle of existence. And she said to me, “Listen, we’ll know what to do, when we need to do it. Now, stop reading your computer, and go read some Tehillim (Psalms) instead.”
For a brief moment, I understood what it was like to be Israeli, and to be a Jew.
So as my phone continues to ring off the hook in my Jerusalem apartment situated in my quaint little village neighborhood near town, and I’m bombarded with questions such as “Are you okay? Are you coming home?” I pull from that strength that exists within every Jew and answer like an Israeli – which I am – which we all are.
I am home. Won’t you come join me?
posted by Rachel Tova | 7/14/2006 11:47:00 AM
2 Comments:
You closing paragraph... at least you are only bombarded with questions. I offer a prayer of safety.
Thank you! I offer you the same... wherever you are posting from! :)
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