Spying out the Land - Part 3 (6/4/2010)

I have written a special column for Shabbat Parashat Shelach for each of the past two years. I was originally inspired to write the first column by Nefesh B’Nefesh. They had a program in which they encouraged their olim to e-mail a top-twelve list of the reasons to make aliyah to twelve friends in chutz la’aretz in the week of Parashat Shelach.

I thought differently. While there may have been twelve meraglim who spied out the land in biblical times, I have no problems with two of the twelve. So I decided to write ten reasons instead of twelve, corresponding to the ten spies who influenced the Jews to not enter Israel. And instead of sending it to twelve friends, I address it to the nearly 200,000 readers of this paper.

Here, then, is the third installment of another ten reasons (in no apparent order) you should be joining us in making aliyah (please note that I expect the geulah at any time now, so the following reasons apply only on the off chance that the geulah has not yet come):

10. The soldiers — With one nephew completing his military service and another being drafted in a year, this is the longest gap our family will have with no one in the military for the next 20 years or so. So my siblings and I are certainly very aware of who is keeping us all safe.

We have tremendous pride in our soldiers. I have written about giving mishloach manot to them on Purim, our trips to bring presents to them on their bases, and how much love and concern we have for them. Yet it is their inner joy and love for us which is most overwhelming. The excitement and pride they feel in themselves is truly inspirational.

There is no doubt that being in the military is an incredibly maturing part of the lives of our youth, religious or not. It instills discipline and pride in them and can be an incredible bonding experience. All too often, they also learn about loss, as my nephew did when his buddy was killed on erev Shabbat HaGadol.

Yet, as I tell my children with a sentiment that is shared throughout our land, everyone has a time that is their time. What a great kavod that his time came while defending our country instead of in a meaningless car crash or other accident.

Each one of them knows what they face. Yet they also know that we love, honor, and care for them. This is a tremendous lesson that my family gets to learn all the time. Yours should too.

9. A three-day chag is extremely rare — This is a bit of a repeat. I have talked about having only one day of chag in a previous list and touched upon the fact that only Rosh Hashanah can be part of a three-day chag here. Then I took a look at the calendar.

Have you looked at the yom tov calendar for the next ten years or so (through 2020)? If not, let me be the first to tell you: You had better get used to the three-day yom tov, because you are going to be seeing a lot of it. There is not a single year of the next ten that does not have at least one three day yom tov. Years 2010, 2011, 2013, 2014, and 2017 are all ones during which you will get a triple dose of Rosh Hashanah, Sukkot, and Simchat Torah three-day chagim. Out of the next 22 times there will be a three-day chag, only 5 of them will be held in Israel. All the housewives out there should be putting down the paper and starting to make plans for the move here right now!

As a postscript to this, I should add that no one here counts a yom tov day as a vacation or personal day. You just get the day off, with no repercussions (unless you are an hourly employee). Some companies don’t even count chol ha’moed days against you, while others do, and yet others take a novel approach and only calculate them as half a day off.

8. The semachot — I don’t mean to say that a simcha outside Israel is not joyous or meaningful (and fun to be a part of). Yet there is something about the way we celebrate life here that is simply different.

Attend a b’rit milah in Israel and you will be inspired. Yes, the circumcision is no different, but the “ritual” is so much different. From the moment the baby is brought in and the father and attendees begin singing the pesukim of Shema and Ana Hashem, everyone is immediately thrust into the role as participant instead of attendee.

Bar mitzvah celebrations at the Kotel (either putting on tefillin the first time or the actual day of the bar mitzvah) are events you can participate in, simply by going to the Kotel. Enjoy a Sephardi family singing and dancing their way from outside the Old City walls all the way to the Kotel every day if you want.

Even weddings are different—especially the Religious Zionist Israeli weddings. Things are so informal. I have been to outdoor chupot where the crowd sang, danced, and clapped along with an acoustic band who played through every pause in the ceremony. Every occasion is filled with a communal joy that is unique here.

7. Barack Obama is not our president — Enough said.

6. Israeli politics — Politics here reminds me of the reputation of Chicago in the times of the original Mayor Daley. You know what I mean. The days when people knew to “vote early . . . and vote often.” The days when voter registration drives consisted of a few volunteers taking names and birthdates off the tombstones in a local cemetery.

I didn’t like Olmert or Livni. You might not like Bibi. I personally feel they are all a bunch of crooks looking for a way to line their pockets. Yet it is so entertaining to see another round of indictments and realize that we have bad sides as well as good sides.

The one difference for us is the passion with which politics is discussed and voted upon here. In the USA, we never felt passionate about an election for one candidate or another. Well, maybe the school board and tax/budget elections, but nothing else. Here in Israel, the elections carry so much weight in determining who will build what and where, which groups get more funds and which get less, that the passions can sometimes be overwhelming. We feel like we make a difference much more here.

5. No separation of church and state — Public funding does not apply solely to parks and community centers. Mikvaot are municipally funded as well. Shuls often get siddurim, chumashim, and other necessary supplies as well. Organizations such as Puah and other religious charities serving the public get funds from the government, because we provide vitally needed services. There is recognition that the state must support social services not just for physical needs, but also for religious needs.

4. Help New York City balance its budget — I read the other day that over one million people attended the Salute to Israel Parade in each of the last two years. A million people create a lot of garbage and require a lot of police protection. The overtime for the security and cleanup of the parade is enormous.

Imagine if only 10 percent of those people made aliyah. A crowd of 900,000 people is still significant enough to make an impression of support, yet the city would save tens of thousands of dollars each year. In these trying financial times, you could provide much-needed relief to the entire city of New York.

3. Tuition — You knew this was coming. The only item to appear on each of the three lists is the incredibly low cost of tuition here. Have you gotten your registration forms for next year in yeshiva yet? Ha-Ha-Ha! We pay about $300 a year for preschool for Moshe, and half of that amount is a voluntary surcharge we agreed to in order to hire a rebbi to come in for a few hours each week. Even high-school tuition is only a few hundred dollars each month—for two kids!

Building fund? Why? The city builds all the school buildings and even pays for maintenance! The money that the lottery makes actually does go to education here. Classes are crowded, and the quality of instruction sometimes suffers because of that. However, even including the private tutors that we hire to supplement the kids’ education, the costs are so much lower here that it is astonishing.

2. No tax returns to file — We do have different tax rates based upon income, etc. However, since there are very few deductions, there is no reason to file. Only people who are self-employed or have unique situations to report have to file a return (if you are entitled to a refund for some reason or perhaps have overseas income to declare). Everyone else has their taxes paid via withholding, and the government gets the accounting for it directly from the employer.

Even getting a deduction for something like a charitable contribution is simple. The receipt is given to the payroll administrator and the credit is given to you as part of your next paycheck. What could be simpler?

Our tax rates are very high, as is the mandatory payment for medical coverage. Yet the record-keeping is pretty simple. I might not understand the basic form, but I know that it truly is basic and is evidence of a simple tax system.

1. Achdut — This one is a bit of a reversal for me. I have bemoaned the lack of achdut between the different segments of our community. This is definitely a problem here and is a serious concern. The fact that huge groups of Jews not only don’t get along, but actually despise each other, is troubling. I definitely feel that this is less of a problem outside of Israel.

However, the longer we live here and bond with our neighbors, the greater our sense of community becomes. While we cannot seem to make friends with the chareidim, we have friends from many cultures and backgrounds. Earlier this week, Chaya had a friend over for a day of studying. All our kids came and went throughout the day and barely noticed them. The fact that this friend is Ethiopian registered more deeply for Goldie and me than for the kids. They simply don’t care.

Our shul is a mishmash of olim (all Ashkenazi) and Israeli-born (mostly Sephardi) families. Yet we try as hard as we can to make everyone feel included and part of the community. The only barriers are language barriers. The other barriers are falling. I think this is great.

The more we can integrate and be viewed as part of the tapestry of Israel, the more we are able to bond with each other and make a contribution. Hundreds of thousands of Russians made aliyah in the most recent wave of immigration (one of them being my nephew’s aforementioned buddy who was killed in action earlier this year), and the country is different because of them. Joining with the thousands of English-speaking olim who have made aliyah, you can help us make Israel better for all of us.

Occasionally, I will use the last paragraphs at the end of my column to wish a mazal tov to friends or relatives here or overseas. This week’s mazal tov is a little closer to home.

When we are at a bar mitzvah or other celebration, Goldie and I often comment to each other how uncomfortable we are when the husband or wife publicly confesses their undying love for their spouse. The proclamations seem a bit much to us and more appropriate for a private conversation. So I want to simply wish a mazal tov to Goldie on our 20th anniversary this Friday. (I might also wish her a yasher koach, since living with me is no picnic.) As for all the rest, she knows what I have to say without my having to spell it out here.

NOTE: The previous two articles are available at the following links:

Spying out the Land: http://aliyahchronicles.blogspot.com/2008/08/spying-out-land-article-87-61908.html

Spying out the Land (again): http://aliyahchronicles.blogspot.com/2009/07/spying-out-land-again-article-117.html

Getting Ready for Another Move (5/27/2010)

Shavuot is the only chag that I really think is not as deep here in comparison to chutz la’aretz. While I am no fan of having two days of yom tov, on Shavuot it feels as if we have less than a half day of true yom tov. That is, it feels that way for those who stay up for the whole night.

There is a strong school of thought here that people should not really stay up all night. The argument is that we should learn for a couple of hours and then go to sleep for five or six hours, returning to shul for davening. This would allow us to be refreshed and attentive for davening, while at the same time maintaining the practice to study Torah the night of the chag. I have a couple of friends who do this—they say that it adds to the value of their davening, and they are much more comfortable this way.

I was not ready to change, though. With the exception of that strange sense that I missed the chag (because it ended before I had a chance to really experience it), we had a terrific chag. Mordechai (age 9) was my chavruta for the evening. This was his first “all-nighter” and no matter how many of his friends went home, he was determined to stick out the whole night. And he did.

I had joked with him that he would fall asleep during Megillat Rut. I was wrong. He fell asleep waiting for us to start the Megilla. His older sister Batya made it all the way to laining before she too fell asleep in her chair. So at the end of davening I had the treat of waking them up and trying to get them moving toward their actual beds.

Shavuot marks the stretch run to the end of the year here. Not only for the schoolchildren who are looking forward to summer, but also for the thousands of your kids who have been here for a year (or two) of learning in yeshivot and seminaries. It is fascinating to see them rushing from place to place, trying to squeeze every last ounce out of the time that remains for them to stay here.

For the first time since our aliyah, all of our kids will be in Israel for the summer. (Chaya may go for a brief two-week trip before she enters into national service for the year—but that doesn’t count.) Aliza and Batya will be going to Israeli sleep-away camps. (For Batya, this will be her first sleep-away experience.) Mordechai, desperate to go himself, begged us to falsify the registration forms and claim that he is a year older. He argued that he is bigger than most kids a year older than him, so why shouldn’t he go? Sigh

This will be the first Shabbat in a couple of months that all of us will be in the same country. Yet, true to form, we will not all be together. Our shul arranged a weekend in Kiryat Arba/Chevron, and we will be taking the three younger kids with us to participate in the Shabbaton.

I was of two minds in considering whether to go for Shabbat. Although there is a famous psak that states that kohanim can go into the Mearah, I personally refrain from it. There is a difference of opinion, and although I cannot set the standards for others (my father in fact, holds by this psak), on a personal level, I am loathe to err in this matter.

We decided to participate when we discovered that the group is davening by the Mearah only on Friday night, so I would not be missing too much.

The older kids, who will not be joining us, have all spent Shabbat in Chevron already. They have gone with their friends, sleeping in empty school classrooms on Shabbat Parashat Chayei Sarah along with thousands of other Jews. So for them, this is less of an experience. Plus, they get to spend a Shabbat with their friends.

It is also good that we will all be together to help prepare and pack for our forthcoming move. We are still not sure where we are going to end up (we will hopefully clear this up in the next week or two), but we know we have to be out by August. So having Chaim home will certainly be a help.

We are trying to get him registered to drive our car. For the first four years that we own our car (purchased with aliyah tax reduction credits), Goldie and I are the only drivers automatically allowed to drive it. As our kids get their licenses to drive, we have to go to the tax offices and get a special release to add them as drivers to the car. Without this release, they are driving illegally. Not only can they get ticketed, our insurance could refuse payment on claims resulting from a kid driving the car without the release.

Chaim, not being Israeli, adds a new dimension to the situation. He has a New York driver’s license, is not an Israeli, and yet is still our son and should be allowed to drive our family car. We called our insurance agent to find out how to register Chaim, and he told us that we should actually get him an Israeli license first. Apparently, since he is our son and comes to visit several times each year for an extended period of time, it is possible that the authorities could rule that he is obligated to get an Israeli license as a non-citizen.

Getting the license requires that he get an eye test, submit a doctor’s certification that he is healthy enough to drive, take two driving lessons from a licensed instructor, and then pass a driving test. It will take a couple of weeks to do. Once he has his license, we will then register him with the tax authorities as an approved driver of our car.

Conveniently, Israel offers something called youth insurance. In it, you register the car and the driver with the company, and they give you an hourly (or maybe daily) rate. When the driver is going to take the car, you call in and activate the insurance. Once he is finished with it, you call in and deactivate it. Since insurance for teens is so expensive here, this allows us to minimize the cost.

With Chaya getting ready to take the driving test as well (it is a much longer process for her to get her license, with a requirement for nearly 30 private lessons with a driving instructor), this will come in very handy. Hopefully, having a couple of drivers who can run the occasional errand or carpool will be beneficial.

We just hope that the process will be as easy in practice as it was in planning. We confirmed some of it at the Customs Authority this week. We originally went to their office to get a permit to buy a refrigerator with aliyah tax credits. However, even though we were told that we had four years to use the refrigerator purchase rights, it turned out that it is only available for three years. So we will pay a few hundred shekels more than we originally planned to. What can you do?

We are all Jews (5/13/2009)

One of the most striking changes we faced in coming on aliyah was getting used to the diversity of the people. That is not to say that our American neighborhood was not filled with people from various ethnicities; it was. We were one part of the mosaic of the neighborhood. Yet, as Jews, we had an affinity for other Jews in the area, since we had a common sense of being different. We shared a common bond in that we were Jews, and different from the majority of the country.

In Israel this is not the case. Yes, there are non-Jews here. However, depending on where you live, you might not see a non-Jew for days or weeks at a time. So we are all the same, so to speak. Yet, in many ways our community is still divided by “ethnicity.” There are Anglos, charedim, Sephardim, chilonim, Russians, Ethiopians, and others. And that is just our little corner of Bet Shemesh.

We tend to daven in separate shuls (Sephardi, Ashkenazi, Ethiopian, charedi, etc.) and socialize within our individual group. That is not to say that you cannot find a mix of people, or that we do not socialize across “ethnic” lines. We do. It is just hard to do so. With so many cultural differences, it is often hard to relate to a neighbor who grew up in a radically different culture than the one you grew up in.

Our children will not feel the same sense of separation that we do. Not only will they have much less of a language barrier, but they will have grown up in the “cholent pot” known as their schools.

In our children’s classes, there are children from all sorts of backgrounds. They play and study together. They make friendships and bond, regardless of the color of their skin or the background of their parents. And we love it.

I remember what I thought of Ethiopians when I first came here. They were different, not like me. They might be nice people, but since we were different, I didn’t need to really concern myself with them other than as part of society. I wasn’t thinking of having any friends in their community; they were too different from me. I’ll admit it.

And they are different. They dress differently and behave differently. Yet, this is one of the best lessons I learned in Israel (Gabe Levi, this is for you): A Jew really is just a Jew. Pull back all the layers, and he is still my brother. For an intolerant guy like me, that is a big statement.

We paid lip service to this idea when we first came. It took time and exposure to our neighbors for us to really get it. Yet, once we became more comfortable with ourselves as Israelis and began to really communicate with other people, the sense of commonality was incredibly enhanced.

Unfortunately, economic conditions perpetuate our differences. The Ethiopian community, for instance, is by and large a poor community. They came to Israel with nothing, and others are extremely prejudiced against them. In Bet Shemesh, one of the poorer Ethiopian housing projects is right next door to an Anglo community, with private houses and seeming abundance wherever they turn. This creates a sense of distrust between neighbors and a jealousy that can even turn violent.

I don’t have the answer to these problems and how we can help raise their standard of living. Yet I have an example. I have a friend and neighbor who I absolutely love, who is the epitome of what can be good here in Israel. His name is Amir Avraham.

Amir came to Israel in the 1970s, with the first wave of Ethiopian immigrants. He went to school and excelled. He wanted to be a lawyer, but his father told him that there was plenty of time for law school; first he had to study Torah.

He learned in the Gush and eventually changed his goal. Today, Amir Avraham is a teacher of Torah to children in a yeshiva elementary school. He and his wife Tamar are really outstanding people. We have a few (very few) non-Anglo friends, and they are two of them.

Amir davens in our shul. His sons go to school with mine, and all the children play together outside shul while their parents are inside. My kids are so comfortable with his that the fact that their skin color is different is really immaterial. They just don’t care. What makes Amir so incredible is his background.

His father doesn’t read Hebrew. He couldn’t help him with his homework or study with him, and I am sure at some point it is hard for them to relate. Amir has become part of another world. Yet the respect and honor he clearly shows his father is amazing. He constantly credits his father for putting him on the correct path.

Amir gives of his time to teach within the Ethiopian community. He doesn’t just lead by example. He arranges activities and educational opportunities. His gentle manner and sincerity are a striking contrast to the stereotype against which he is cast.

His son Etiel, a recent bar mitzvah, made a siyum on erev Pesach on all of Mishnah. He did a significant amount of the learning, including many meforshim, on his own. Clearly, the apple did not fall far from the tree.

Goldie and I were privileged to attend Etiel’s bar mitzvah celebration last week. Aside from the standard speeches by the rabbi, the father of the bar mitzvah, and the bar mitzvah boy himself, there was one more speech. Amir introduced the person who first taught him Gemara. He spoke of him with reverence and clear gratitude. It was clear to me that Amir maintains a special place in his heart for the person who introduced him to a new world.

Of course, after the speeches came the dancing. This was something I had been looking forward to for weeks. After all, ethnic Ethiopian dancing!! The first dance surprised me. It was regular music and the standard dancing. I even went over to Amir and said, “I know how to do this; where is the Ethiopian culture for me to experience?” He looked at me and smiled, telling me to be patient.

Eventually, at the end of the dance, they played a single Ethiopian song. It took a while, but the men eventually came to the dance floor and we got a taste of the music and the dance. Interestingly, Goldie told me that as soon as the music changed, the Ethiopian women who were not dancing (at least half of them) all rushed to the dance floor and participated.

After a break, the dancing began again. As you can see in the online video (shmub.mp4 at youtube.com/user/shmukatz) I had an amazing time trying it. In the video, Amir joins in the dancing (he is the shorter guy with the beard). We were so excited to experience some of their background and upbringing, and it was a tremendously fun night for us.

In the past, I have bemoaned the lack of achdut here in Israel. We allow the things that make us different to become so divisive that it becomes difficult to coexist. I am proud that there are still some things to bring us together.

I want to wish all my readers a terrific day of Shavuot together with me in Yerushalayim. I look forward to participating in bringing the korbanot of the chag. It will truly be an honor to share the first chag in our rebuilt Bet HaMikdash together. If this is delayed for some reason, enjoy the chag anyway. And remember, L’shanah haba’ah b’Yerushalayim hab’nuyah.

Turned Tables (4/29/2010)

I promised myself that I wouldn’t do this again. Yet, it is impossible to avoid on a personal level. Living in Israel is incredibly emotional on a regular basis. We experience everything so deeply because it is tied up not only with our daily life, but our religious existence as well.

So I wasn’t going to talk about the teens that harassed my 11-year-old daughter and her friend or the stolen flags or the Yom HaZikaron siren at work. While they were all troubling events that bothered me a lot, I certainly wasn’t going to write about them. It just isn’t worth it.

Each time I do it, I get a bunch of angry e-mails telling me that I am a hateful jerk picking on people who are different than I. Then, a week or so later, I get the angry comments from my neighbors complaining that either i) I have upset their parents/family in the U.S. or ii) I am killing their property values. And I vow to never broach the subject. I make a conscious decision to omit a part of our lives in writing this, a journal of our lives.

However, a recent event changed my mind. It demonstrated to me that we are all victims of our own circumstance and need to do more to extricate ourselves from our prejudices and assumptions. We need to figure out how to make things work in a positive and loving manner because the alternative is not good. And it led me to talk once again about our neighbors in Bet Shemesh.

A few days after Yom HaShoah and before Yom HaZikaron, our daughter Batya was walking home with a friend from their afterschool activity. They were walking down the main street between neighborhoods when about 15 kids from the neighborhood across the street, standing behind a fenced in playground, started shouting at them that it is forbidden to stand in honor of the memorial sirens. While they weren’t threatened at any time, the shouting and yelling followed them all the way down the street and bothered them enough to lead them to tell their parents about it.

A few days later, on Yom HaZikaron, an announcement was made over the PA system at work. It said that at the time of the siren, all workers are to stop working for the duration of the siren.

I was initially puzzled by the announcement. Wasn’t it obvious that people do that? Yet, when I asked, I learned that in the past, there were workers in the building who did not honor the sirens and continued to work during the sirens. This troubled our director so much that he instituted a policy of instructing everyone not to work for that minute.

I just don’t get it. I understand the issues involved. I understand that there are people who are against the existence of the State of Israel. I just don’t understand their lack of appreciation for the people who die on their behalf.

Soldiers die so that they can sit and learn Torah in Eretz Yisrael. Innocents are killed in terror attacks simply because they are Jewish. These are the people we are memorializing and honoring. Simple gratitude means that you should join in as well, regardless of your politics or religious beliefs.

Some will say that these people never asked or wanted a State of Israel nor did they ask for or want the protection and sacrifice of those soldiers. To that I have a simple question. Are you so naïve that you think you would be able to live the life you lead if there was no State of Israel and no Jewish soldiers defending you?

Is it possible that these people think they would be better off living under Arab rule? Do they think they would be allowed to worship freely? Do they think they would not be terrorized, persecuted, harassed, beaten, and killed without restraint? Are they really that simple? If not, then they are obligated to be thankful for the protection and safety being accorded to them no matter who is providing it.

Or, if they really have such deep-seated objections that they cannot find it within themselves to do so, they are definitely welcome to vote with their feet. No one is forcing them to stay here. They are here, as are we, of their own choice and are free to go somewhere where they do not have to live an existence that is objectionable.

It was with this familiar sense of frustration that I heard some upsetting news on the morning of Yom HaAtzmaut. One of my neighbors gleefully called me to tell me that someone had put up a bunch of Magen David signs all over the main street in the charedi area and that I had to go see it for myself.

On my way to a Yom HaAtzmaut event, I was persuaded by my family to go take a look. What I found was not signs. It was spray paint. When my daughter saw it she mentioned that she had seen the group who did it the night before at about 1 a.m. Apparently, a group of teens went singing through the charedi neighborhood at the wee hours of the morning, spray painting the Magen David as a symbol of the Israeli flag all over the neighborhood, on building walls and sidewalks.

Although my initial thought when I heard about “signs” being put up was a sense of satisfaction, I was not pleased once I saw what was actually done. They vandalized the neighborhood, much in the same way that I have (repeatedly) railed against the charedim for vandalizing ours. Spray paint is spray paint and it is not any more “right” just because I agree with the message.

The incident had slipped my mind when I heard something new. There was apparently a confrontation. Either the spray painters happened upon a group of people from the neighborhood or their antics roused them. In either case, the vandals were attacked by pipe wielding young men and hurt, badly. A couple of them are still hospitalized.

When I heard this, I was also told that there is a group organizing to protest and to file a police report against those who hurt them. I was stunned. Here was a group of teens who were involved in vandalism and we are supposed to make them a cause célèbre to the community? I can understand their parents saying, “Hey, they spray painted and you put them in the hospital—the reaction was too strong.” But I don’t think the community can legitimately defend vandals.

And I realized that instead of ignoring the issue, I had a few things to say.

The first is that we were wrong here. If I can accuse the “other side” of wrongdoing, I have to admit guilt. We wronged our neighbors on this one and they have every right to be offended. The same way that we are offended when they spray paint on our property.

Secondly, I am concerned, not for my city, but for my country. The split between charedi and everyone else is getting worse, not better. It hasn’t flared up lately, but I don’t think that makes a difference. Every few days there is a story about a minor incident somewhere. I worry.

I worry about the fact that we cannot seem to get over our hatred toward one another and the feeling of superiority that exists between different segments of the Jewish population. I worry about the fact that the dividing lines are getting too strong to breach. I worry that instead of reaching out to each other to bridge gaps, we are pushing away from each other to make them.

Finally, I have realized that both sides are teaching a horrible lesson to the next generation. When nine-year-old Mordechai comments to Goldie when they are getting out of the car to go to the doctor in a charedi neighborhood, “Eema, take in the flags; we don’t want them stolen again,” I realize that he may have learned the correct practical lesson, but the wrong moral one.

Variations on a Theme (4/22/2010)

The first article I wrote about making aliyah was about our motivations for moving as well as an explanation of how I had overcome my fears of being in Israel and sending our kids to the army. A close friend had passed away in a senseless accident, and I realized that we do not control when or how our time is up. So I asked myself, “Wouldn’t I rather be in Israel?”

Last Shabbat, Goldie and I hosted one of my coworkers and his family in our house for Shabbat. He was being tried out as a rav for one of the local shuls. They have a son Mordechai’s age, and the two boys really got along well together.

After Shabbat, when it came time for them to leave, Mordechai was distraught. He cried uncontrollably and would not be comforted. Realizing that this may be related to his friend Andrew’s leaving Israel, I tried to distract him by mentioning that we would be having two sirens on Yom HaZikaron (Israel’s Memorial Day).

He asked why we have the sirens, and my answer led into a discussion of the way we celebrate Yom HaShoah, Yom HaZikaron, and Yom HaAtzmaut. I explained to him that we want to remember the Shoah and those killed not simply because they were Jews who were killed in a kiddush HaShem, but also because their deaths helped create an environment where the world would help create a Jewish State.

We then spoke about our obligation to honor the memories of all those killed in terrorist attacks and in defense of our country, and how their sacrifice is what enables us all to live in safety. And I added that only once we have honored those who paid for us to reach this point can we celebrate Yom HaAtzmaut.

He confessed (as he has in the past) that he is scared to go into the army. He asked me how we could come to Israel, if doing so could put him in danger. I reassured him that he could choose to not be in a combat unit if he wanted. Then I asked him if he believed that Hashem was in charge of the amount of time we have on this world.

He answered yes. I then asked him if it is possible, by running away to a different place, to get away from Hashem and avoid his decisions. He answered no.

“Okay,” I told him, “I have one more question. We aren’t allowed to put ourselves in danger for no reason, but if it is time for someone to die, do you think it is better to die in America or in a holy land?”

He looked at me for a moment, nodded his head, and went off to bed, his tears forgotten and his worries a bit soothed. My nine-year-old and I had a very serious conversation and a terrific meeting of the minds. I was very proud of his ability to maturely consider what I had told him.

The very next night, we participated in a terrific Yom HaZikaron event in Jerusalem run by the Tuesday Night in Jerusalem show. This is a weekly show that I believe can be seen online via www.israelnationalnews.com and is broadcast on cable and DirecTV. Although it was not Tuesday night, they hosted what promised to be a very meaningful event. It was also all in English, which was a bonus for us.

The event opened with a brief speech and then the memorial sirens. This was followed by a men’s choir performing a version of “Vehi She’amda,” and then the program began. Rabbi Stewart Weiss, whom I had known when I was a counselor at Camp Moshava in Wild Rose, Wisconsin, was introduced as the father of Ari Weiss, z’l, a soldier who was killed in combat. Rabbi Weiss spoke movingly about Ari and the loss their family felt, but I was astonished by the following story he told.

They were sitting shiva when a woman came to visit them. She was no one they knew, and it was the only time they ever met her. She told them that she had lived her entire life in Israel until her son turned 16. At that time, she and her husband decided to leave Israel for fear of having their son go to the army.

They moved to California and lived there quite happily. Their son reached the age of driving. With his driver’s license came a car (as with all his friends) and that is when tragedy struck. Her son was killed in a car crash.

“I am jealous of you,” she told Rabbi Weiss, “because my son died a meaningless death in California, while your son died defending our land and people with a kiddush Hashem.”

I was astonished to hear the very words and concepts that I had been trying to share with Mordechai repeated. And proud that I was not the only person with that thought.

There was much more to the evening. We heard from Doron Almog, a retired Major General who has fought in many wars and was the first Israeli soldier to leave a plane in the Entebbe rescue mission. He had lost a brother in combat and had the option to leave combat himself, and he described his commitment to fighting for Israel to us.

The evening closed with another performance by the men’s choir. They first sang our national anthem, Hatikva, in which the audience joined them in song. Then to conclude the show they sang an Israeli song called “Al Kol Eileh.”

This song speaks of many things and their contrasts. You may be familiar with an English version of this song, but it is not a literal translation and loses a lot of the meaning. It is a song beseeching Hashem to watch over and protect us no matter what, and a prayer for us to always return to our good land.

The choir’s soloist opened the song, his voice sounding clear and strong throughout the theater. When it came to the chorus, the rest of the choir as well as the entire crowd joined in. It was a very powerful expression, one in which we all felt linked by the beautiful words of the song.

Each stanza continued thus, with the soloist singing the words alone and all of us joining in for the chorus. The song and the event closed with the entire crowd singing the chorus in Hebrew:

Over all these things, over all these things,

Hashem the good, please protect,

Over the honey and over the thorn,

Over the bitter and over the sweet.

Do not uproot that which has been planted.

Do not forget the hope.

Bring me back and I shall return

To the good land.

For olim, this sentiment and longing to come home to Israel has great meaning. And I leave you this week with this question: What are you waiting for?

Pesach 5770 (4/15/2010)

I approach yom tov each year with a sense of anticipation, tinged with concern. I love the chaggim, especially since we made aliyah. I love the fact that we are forced to spend time together as a family and that we have an excuse to interact in positive ways in preparing for each chag. It might be building a sukkah, preparing for the Seder, or even making a cheesecake—whatever the activity, it all adds to the yom tov aura.

Pesach, with all its various preparations, really takes the anticipation to another level. There are so many different ways to make the holiday meaningful. I used to think that we had a specific formula for how to approach Pesach and that it was important to perform everything the same way each year. Israel has changed that, as well. While we cling to certain family traditions, we have made our own traditions, interjecting a bit of the culture in which we now live into our lives.

With only six yom tov meals to prepare, Goldie has also relaxed in her approach. We have a shopping routine (going to CheaperKol in Kanfei Nesharim to buy the American products before rosh chodesh in order to avoid the huge crowds), a cleaning routine, and even a cooking routine. Goldie is incredibly organized, so we switched the kitchen nine days before Pesach to allow her time to cook without being pressured.

As I mentioned last week, we kicked off the Pesach season as a family by visiting an army base near Arad. It really was awesome. The soldiers are so appreciative of everything we do, when really it should be the other way around. I tried to take the time to chat with as many of them as I could. At one point, one of them turned to me and said, “Hey, wait a second—didn’t we sit together on my flight to Israel in November?”

He was right. We did. I remembered him. It was so incredible to be a part of their lives, if only for a minute. Especially because of the incredible warmth and love they showed to my kids. My kids love soldiers. They are of course fascinated by all the equipment (I watched Mordechai peer through a night scope, and it scared me). Yet they are also fascinated by the people. They look up to them and feel pride that they can interact with them.

I also like the fact that the more they interact with them, the more the kids realize that they are regular people, no different from them. They have important responsibilities, but they are still normal people and they laugh and cry just like the rest of us. When we got to eat in the mess hall and the food was noodles, I thought Moshe was going to pass out in wonder: “I like spaghetti!”

We had a babysitter of sorts, Ariella Gluckstadt, one of the “camp mothers” who is assigned (I hope I get this right) to be a “mommy” to the soldiers under her care as they go through training. I am not sure, but I think this is something they do only for the “lone soldiers” who have come on aliyah without any other family and have no one to turn to when they are down or alone. She was terrific.

She engaged the kids and showed them whatever they wanted to see. She kept us company and introduced soldiers to the kids and really made friends with them. I am sure that she was chosen for her job by virtue of her great personality and friendliness. Which goes to show you that sometimes even the Israeli army can actually be smart. (A special shout-out to her uncle, Sandy Herskowitz. You have a terrific niece!)

The next day we went matzah-baking—another totally awesome activity. We came with mostly family members, with a couple of neighbor teens joining in. We were in the bakery for over three hours and went home with plenty of matzot. I can confidently say that there is nothing quite as exciting as making a brachah and eating the matzot you made for the Seder and all of yom tov. It was doubly special because we were able to get a time slot when Chaim could join us, having arrived the night before.

The Seder was nice. My brother Ely and his family joined us from Chashmonaim. The kids had a terrific time and we added a new wrinkle this year—a Ten Plagues kit. I try to personally engage the kids in telling the story of the Seder. I saw an ad this year on the Bet Shemesh e-mail list offering something I thought was unique.

The kit came with stuffed animals representing a lot of the plagues, as well as a glove with boils on it and other visual representations of the various plagues. It was a nice way to elicit discussion and excitement from the kids just when their interest was beginning to wane.

Chol ha’moed was nice. We spent a lot of time with the kids, highlighted by a trip to raft on the Jordan River. Goldie and I had done the exact same trip a couple of summers ago. I remember commenting on how low the water levels were at the time and expressing concern about the water situation. I think it may even have been the beginning of my obsession with the water levels here.

In any case, I remarked to the workers at the rafting place that the water seemed much higher this year. They laughed at me. I couldn’t understand why, as I remembered the water being much lower. They agreed that it had been lower, but added that this level, while an improvement, is nothing like what it should be.

We also went to the Ben & Jerry’s retail outlet in Modiin. That was really cool. They had a nice big sign on the wall stating that everything for sale was Kosher for Pesach and kitniyot free. They had a limited selection, but the flavor I was amused to see was the “matzalate” or something like that. Chunks of fried matzah in the ice cream. That’s something you don’t see in America.

Unfortunately, we did not get to eat the Korban Pesach this year; hopefully we will next year.

After Pesach ended, we did something we had never done before—placed an order for gas masks. Apparently, the government does not want to get caught having to mass distribute them in case of a war. So they give them out. Every few years they all expire, so you need to turn them in and then get a new one. Since we had never gotten them, when they issued the statement that they could be replaced, Goldie called and made an appointment to get them.

Rather than picking them up ourselves, we paid $6 for home delivery, which is pretty good. So now we have seven boxes of sealed gas masks in the house, which we hope to never use. I was concerned about it initially, but this is just another facet of who we are. Not that we need another reminder.

Of course, the reminders continue through the next couple of weeks. Yom HaShoah was earlier this week and Yom HaZikaron and Yom HaAtzma’ut will be next week, so we will have plenty of reminders of who we are and how we got here. I only hope that no one steals the flags from my car this year.

Kinneret update. I am continually amazed by how good the rainfall was this year. There was much more snow than I thought, and the runoff of water from the melting snow has really impacted the water levels. Without any rainfall, and in a time of hot temperatures, the Kinneret level jumped some more. Since my last update (the week before Pesach) the Kinneret has risen 10 cm, to –212.66, but looks to have finally peaked. We need another few years like this, but we are much better off than we thought we would be. Baruch Hashem.

May He Bless the Soldiers (4/9/2010)

On the Wednesday before Pesach, I took four of our kids to present gifts to 140 chayalim bodedim (immigrant soldiers who have no family in Israel) serving in basic training for combat. My regular readers know that this type of activity is a special thrill for my family.

Our shul had even participated by having the children draw pictures for the soldiers, complete with messages of support. For families of olim like ours, whose head of the household was already too old to serve in the military when they made aliyah and will have no true sense of what is involved, this is the only way to participate in helping the troops. We have never stood a post or manned a checkpoint. We can only imagine the hardships these young men and women face. So we try to make things a bit nicer for them and help ease their day-to-day lives.

Unbeknownst to me, the commander of the base decided to make a formal ceremony out of the presentation. They put out some light refreshments (for soldiers who had just trained in the field for four days, this was a special treat) and then assembled everyone for a formal presentation. The commander said some nice things to the troops and then asked me to say a few words.

I told the soldiers how proud of them we were and that our presence (and presents) were not something we needed thanks for but were rather an expression of our thanks to them. I told them how we are only giving from our money, which pales in comparison to what they bring to the table. I thanked them for their dedication and commitment to our country and in putting themselves and their lives (literally) on the line for our safety.

We greeted each soldier personally and even shared dinner with them in the mess hall (my kids loved it). It was inspiring and humbling to be a part of making their lives more comfortable and pleasant.

As we were still flying from that high, I got a call from my sister on motzaei Shabbat. She asked how we were and then told us that she had a terrible Shabbat with my oldest nephew, Yonatan.

For those of you who don’t know, my nephew Yonatan is in the final months of his service in a combat unit. I have shared a couple of stories of his in this column such as his draft day and the time he got a care package from a stranger in the USA. He has seen action in Gaza, identified and detained a terrorist carrying a bomb at a checkpoint in the West Bank, and carries our pride with him wherever he goes.

For my sister and brother-in-law, it has been a draining few years. They share in his fierce pride at all his accomplishments and are overwhelmed by his determination to do his best for the country. Yet, they are also gravely concerned about his safety, knowing all too well the risks that he faces and the possibility—shared by all families with children in the military—that he could be injured (or worse) in action.

My nephew had been taking a special course over the past few weeks. I am not sure what he needed to learn. I think it was some kind of new equipment that he needed to operate. So, for a few short weeks, he was off the front lines and spending weekends at home with his family.

On Friday, erev Shabbat HaGadol, he was at home (having completed the training course). He was due to rejoin his unit on Sunday. They were about to come off the line themselves, having almost completed a rotation in Gaza. One of his buddies from his platoon had even posted a note on his Facebook page saying, “LAST SHABBAT IN GAZA!”

That soldier never made it to Shabbat.

That afternoon, in an exchange of fire with terrorists at the border, two soldiers were killed in action with a third severely wounded. Maj. Eliraz Peretz, one of the two dead soldiers, was the commander of their regiment, a man whose brother Uriel had been killed in Lebanon a decade earlier. At his funeral, his distraught mother wondered what she was supposed to do on Yom HaZikaron (Israel’s Memorial Day for fallen soldiers); which son should she visit first? Which life, tragically cut short in service to his country, should she honor above the other? What a horrific concern for a mother. Especially since two other sons continue to serve.

The other fatality was my nephew Yonatan’s platoon-mate, Ilan Sviatkovsky, an immigrant from Uzbekistan—one of eleven buddies he had done almost his entire military service with. Yonatan is devastated.

He rushed to join the platoon immediately before Shabbat. He helped bury his friend. The senselessness is overwhelming. Why should a 21-year-old have to face such heavy issues?

He helped bury his friend. At 21.

Hearing this, I thought back to the young soldiers I had met a few days earlier. I cannot imagine how stressful it must be for them to hear of soldiers, such as themselves, being killed in action. Yet here they are, 6,000 miles or more away from their families, ready to jump in at a moment’s notice. They are training to defend us to the death. And they do.

I don’t know what it means, and I don’t know when it will end. The only thing I do know is how proud we are of them and how important our soldiers and our country are to us.

I had intended to write a column about our terrific Pesach and chol ha’moed. It isn’t within me to do so. Instead I ask that you take a moment to honor the memories of Maj. Eliraz Peretz and Ilan Sviatkovsky, yehei zichram baruch. Mourn for their loss. Feel for a mother who has lost a second son and for her daughter-in-law and the four grandchildren (one of whom is a 2-month-old infant) whose husband and father will never again walk through their front door.

Grieve for an immigrant family who has lost a son and brother in defense of their adopted homeland. Share the pain of 11 young men who have lost a brother-in-arms. They almost made it to the finish line when they lost one of their own. Yet they go on, knowing that his sacrifice and their loss is what makes us who we are.