This week is back to school week everywhere. I see Facebook posts of all of my friends' and family's kids going back to school. I see posts of all of my friends who work in education (teachers, administrators, service providers, consultants) going back to school. A part of me longs for the familiarity of it.
However, after 2 years, I am beginning to anticipate the cycle of the year here. It is our second first week of school and in some ways, I feel more confident that I know what to expect. I knew which forms I needed to fill out for daycare and preschool and I was able to do it without help. I knew what to expect this first week as far as a schedule (last year I was blindsided at the last minute with graduated end times to the school day). I know the teachers. I know the assistants. I know the lunch menu in the afterschool program. I feel at home there. The staff knows my kids and their siblings. The other parents know who the kids belong to and vice versa. Familiarity.
On the other hand, this Fall we are facing a great unknown here. Our oldest is starting first grade. I am well aware that no matter where we were living this time period would be filled with emotion and new experiences. Doing it here in a language other than my native language has proved to be challenging and overwhelming. In truth, we are full of excitement for this coming year, there are a lot of familiarities. Many of the children in his class are the children he went to Gan Hova (kindergarten) with. His first-grade teacher is a parent here in the yishuv that substituted once a week in his kindergarten class. There were school supplies to buy and clothes and sneakers to get ready. All of this, I could handle without blinking an eye.
I miss the details. At the end of the school year, I received an e-mail with information about going up to first-grade. As I understood it, we were supposed to contact the school secretary and schedule a time for a 1:1 meeting at the school. I did this. At our scheduled time Adam and I (newborn in tow) showed up at the school and waited patiently in the lobby. After a couple of minutes, the secretary walked by and asked us if our son had already gone into his meeting. We stared back confused and said no. "Where is your child?" she asked. I responded: "In Gan( kindergarten)." She smiled broadly and explained that the meeting is for the parents with the child and that we had enough time to go back and get him. So we did. Oops.
I sometimes miss the differences. For example, in public school here you either have to purchase your child's books or rent them from the school. I missed the date to rent books because I didn't understand that it even existed. Luckily they still allowed me to rent them late. Oops.
As the years progress, I anticipate that I will learn much more about the way that the Israeli public school system works and after putting 4 kids through it will even become, dare I say, an expert. But right now, sitting in my house looking at a pile of wholly unfamiliar school supplies and reading letters in Hebrew from my son's teacher, I couldn't feel more foreign.
Good luck to everyone embarking on a new school year. May it be a year filled with fun, success, and learning. (And hopefully no more Oops).
We found a home, a community, friends and jobs before we were even here 6 months.
Our children have adjusted to the language, culture, schools, food and friends quicker than I ever could have hoped. I marvel at how carefree, independent, and happy they are on a daily basis. I mean my almost 5 year old walks himself to school!
All of that being said, there are moments when the weight of what we have sacrificed can feel suffocating. I know that's not what you all want to hear. What I can tell you is that these moments have been few and far between, but know they are there.
I think about the relationships that have changed and the people that I miss and my heart breaks. I know we all do our best and technology is a wonderful thing, but it can never take the place of real live interaction.
We say we'll call, but days go by then weeks and nothing. I'm probably the most guilty of this, the time difference is hard. Talking on the phone or computer with 3 kids under 5 is HARD.
Sometimes to bring myself to call is just plain hard. It brings into focus all that we are missing there and all the things people are missing here. In the moment its just easier to keep going and skip the call.
When I do finally call, or answer the phone when it rings, I am happy that I did. I'm always happy to hear the familiar voice and/or see the familiar face of the people we love.
So I'd like to say this as we are beginning a new year: I'll try harder.
|The Kotel, Motzei Shabbos right before Rosh Hashanah|
The Second of Tishrei has just come to a close here in Eretz Yisrael, and Rosh Hashanah is past. This year, during the 10 Days of Awe, I actually feel that awe.
A friend of mine asked me today: "How was it?" "What?" I responded. "The last several days. How have they compared?" I thought about it, and I told him that I felt like I was actually inside the liturgy.
|The tunnel right next to the Kotel|
Right after Shabbos, I went with a friend to Jerusalem. We went to the Kotel just after midnight to join many others in saying Selichot. It was an experience for sure.
But, let me backup just one more step even further to earlier in that same day. I was called up for the 4th aliyah on Shabbos. The parshah of the week was Vayelech. Here is a translation of the text I was called up for:
Then, Moses commanded them, saying, "At the end of [every] seven years, at an appointed time, in the Festival of Succoth, [after] the year of release, When all Israel comes to appear before the Lord, your God, in the place He will choose, you shall read this Torah before all Israel, in their ears. Assemble the people: the men, the women, and the children, and your stranger in your cities, in order that they hear, and in order that they learn and fear the Lord, your God, and they will observe to do all the words of this Torah. And their children, who did not know, will hear and learn to fear the Lord, your God, all the days that you live on the land, to which you are crossing the Jordan, to possess.
|The view of the Kotel I saw as |
I entered the plaza just after midnight
I was thinking about this as I went with my friend to the Kotel that night. What better example can there be of Jews possessing "the land" than seeing them congregate in Jerusalem. That night, the streets were packed. Stores and restaurants were open. It could just have easily been 7pm as it was 12am. There was an energy in the city that I felt. And when we finally made it to the Western Wall Plaza, all I could think about was the miracle that this was even possible. That I was in Israel. That Israel existed. That the Jews--a people in exile for 2000 years--existed. I was standing among people that all had a story to tell about how they got there in that moment.
I prayed for a lot that night, and of course my children were a large focus of my attention. And it is the focus on children that helps Judaism survive. More than anything else, we learn that children must come first. To paraphrase a piece of commentary I read today (I will come back with a more exact cite later):
A man looking forward to next year will plant crops.
A man looking forward to the next 10 years will plant trees.
A man looking forward to the next 100 years will educate children.
How true is that!
Which brings me back to what I was feeling that last couple days in shul: complete connection with the liturgy. For anyone that knows me, my Hebrew is so so. Generally when I daven, I read only the Hebrew. From past experience I know enough about what I am saying that I rarely reference the English page for a translation. But I felt that the people around me this year on Rosh Hashanah were so deeply connected to their prayers, I had to know exactly what each line meant. I davened just about the whole service twice. Once in Hebrew, and then again in English. I was struck.
And then I thought about it. About my own disconnections, and those of English-speaking Jews such as myself. Perhaps, just perhaps, one way to solve the future generation's apathy towards religion is to let them experience what I did this past Rosh Hashanah. And how can we do that? By letting them hear the prayers in Hebrew.
Just like the Torah says: by letting them hear. Not in English. In Hebrew. And, if we want them to hear, they need to know Hebrew. Let's all teach our children not just how to read and write Hebrew. Maybe even conversing in Hebrew is not the key. But maybe letting them hear in Hebrew is the answer.
I think just about everybody has told me that kids pick up the language fast. I know it, I get it. But seeing it actually unfold before my eyes is nothing short of miraculous to me. My kids are like sponges that have picked up an Israeli cadence and speech tone that I cannot even come close to approximating. How do they do it?
Since being in Israel, I have been engaged in a lot of conversations with my oldest son that go something like this:
Question: "How do you say [insert English word here] in Hebrew?"And with that, I notice the new Hebrew word popping up in conversation and usage left and write. Whenever a new word is learned, the kids try it out at every opportunity as if to wear a proud badge on their chest saying: I learned a new word today.
Answer: "[insert Hebrew response]"
My middle child (being just shy of 3) will undoubtedly be the most fluent in both languages. I think she already has an ear that far surpasses mine or my wife's in listening and comprehending Hebrew.
Which brings me to my biggest problem. Listening. When someone speaks to me in Hebrew, often times I fully know (or should at least) what they are saying. But the quick-tongue, and my still slow processing time leaves me in the dust every time. While I am still grappling with the beginning of the conversation, the speaker has already moved on to a new topic. And then ... I am lost.
In Ulpan, conversations were generally at a slower pace, making my ability to follow easier. Couple that with my grasp of what was going on, I felt quite comfortable.
Part of our decision to live in the South, and Retamim in particular, was because we wanted to be immersed in the language. We wanted to be forced to learn it and not live in a community where English could be a crutch. Perhaps more for the sake of the kids than ourselves.
That part of the plan has worked out well.
Let's revisit the question and answer from above.
Question: "How do you say [insert English word here] in Hebrew?"The issue here is that in recent weeks, the Questioner has gone from being my son, to being me. I have experienced many new firsts in the months we have been here. Asking my 4 year old son for a definition of a word ... definitely a first.
Answer: "[insert Hebrew response]"
Maybe I am cutting myself a little short. In the last few months I have noticed that Hebrew has started coming to me much more quickly. When I am engaged in conversation (whether it be in my head or merely myself imagining what I could say in a conversation), the thought process of how to say what I want seems more fluid.
But the real fluidity that amazes me comes from the kids. Their ability to travel back and forth baffles me. I know plenty of people that converse well in both languages, and have for years. None of them seem to code-switch as effortlessly as the children who knew not a lick of Hebrew just a few short months ago.
This is amazing to me. Simply baffling.
Yesterday was Yom HaShoa (Holocaust Remembrance Day). The entire nation observes this day together. At 10 AM there is a siren and everyone stops what they are doing stands and remembers the 6 million Jews and 5 million others who perished at the hands of the Nazis and their helpers. Hitler hated the Jews and wanted our extermination for no other reason than the fact that we are Jewish. Throughout Israel on Yom HaShoa, there are ceremonies commemorating the horrific event. In our Ulpan it was no different. After the completion of the siren and moment of silence we had a small ceremony.
Six of us lit candles and said a short description of who we were lighting them for:
1. In memory of the mothers that died in the Holocaust. In memory of the young women that tried to guard and to protect their children. That were taken to their deaths and didn't return to their families.
2. In memory of the fathers that were killed in the Holocaust. In memory of the young men that saw their loves--their children and their wife taken to their deaths and they couldn't help.
3. (I lit this one) In memory of the million and a half children and babies that found themselves without father and mother, without bread and clothes, cold and frightened. They died before they started to live.
4. In memory of the young people that just wanted to continue to live but found their deaths at the hands of the Nazis and their helpers.
5. In memory of the elderly and in memory of the sick and disabled that according to the Nazis had no right to live, and therefore they sent to die in cruelty.
6. In memory of the warriors that gave their lives in order to foil the work of the Nazi's. In memory of the heroes that guarded their humanity in the hell of the Holocaust. May their memories be a blessing.
There were a couple of songs and quotes after, but the candles and descriptions were the most powerful part for me. I found myself getting teary eyed. This surprised me not because I am not emotional about the Holocaust, because I am, but because I was getting teary eyed at something in Hebrew. Amazing that my linguistic ability has progressed to the point where I can understand something on that level. (By the way, I just translated that whole candle ceremony into English).
It occurred to me as I was crying through the ceremony that THIS is why we are here. One of the big reasons we have uprooted our lives and started fresh here in Israel is because we believe in this land.
We believe in a need for a Jewish state and this day of remembrance commemorates the reason why.
We believe that both Jewish people like us, and Jewish people different from us need to take the leap and live here, work here, love here, dream here, and just be here to keep making this Land the home it needs to be for the Jewish people. The State of Israel, the Jewish Homeland, needs to stay strong in order to prevent such an atrocity from happening again.
"It all happened so fast. The ghetto. The deportation. The sealed cattle car. The fiery altar upon which the history of our people and the future of mankind were meant to be sacrificed."
Never Forget - עם ישראל חי (Am Yisrael Chai)
|Image from JoyOfKosher|
Things change. We grow up, have our own children, move away, and host our own seder. But things also stay the same. I will sit at the table with my grandmother as I have done every year for the past 31 years. I will drink kosher for Pesach coke (which is no different than coke any other time of year here) out of a glass with a blue old fashioned car on it. And I will eat a hard boiled egg with salt water that was cooked in a beat up pot with a copper lid.
חג פסח כשר ושמח (Happy and Kosher Pesach)!
If you are interested in photos of our adventure, and some short stories about daily life, check me out on Google+.
I share privately with only certain people. So add me to a circle first, or send me an email and I will add you.
A mother, a wife, a behavior analyst.
A strong Israeli.
A kind and loving soul.