Welcome to Israel

    As the plane lifted off, I began to think: What does Israel mean to me?  I'm a Jewish woman who is mostly secular, but who has committed her life to education and peace activism. My family's Judaism is matzahs and menorahs, and a strong sense of helping repair the world. (That last bit, though, isn't because we are Jewish. It's because we are humans.)  Grandma went to Israel once and loved it, but I promised my Mom I wouldn't travel to Israel.  Most people aim to make Aliyah after their bat mitzvah; my bat mitzvah promise was to stay away!  And now, I'm breaking that promise (there has to be a statute of limitations on promises made when you are twelve) and heading to Israel.  What does Israel mean to me?

    On one level, I thought, it meant a place I could always go to. As a kid, I was so afraid of what would happen if there were another Holocaust. Who would hide me?  Where could I run to?  Israel would always be there.  However, I have a friend in Abu Dhabi who is of Palestinian heritage, and he can't easily go back to his homeland.  I'm conflicted about this.  We are all connected, and yet we don't all have the same ability to travel.  If Israel means a welcoming place for me, I am uncomfortable with it being less welcoming to my counterpart in the UAE who is just as loving and passionate about his students as I am about mine.

     On another level, Israel is a place where Hebrew is spoken.  From my youngest days learning the Aleph Bet out of the pink phonics book by Nana's side, I wanted to learn the REAL language, the living language.  Yiddish made me curious because of the stories and theater and hilarious curses.  But Hebrew is a living language now. It was brought back from the dead. On the plane, I heard so many children speaking this language that previously was used just for prayer.  The language is alive, and going to Israel meant I could be in a place where I hear the language and see the language and find that all my hours practicing it before bed were useful!

    When I arrive, though,  I realized another meaning for Israel, a powerful one for me:  Israel means an OLD, OLD place.  My friend from Germany, Dorothee, used to affectionately giggle at all the cemeteries in the US that bragged about being the oldest in the nation--at a mere 400 years in existence.  I think about Amy Grant's song "If These Walls Could Speak" and  all the stones and years and people and stories and candles that have been lit here.

     Tonight, I saw the old walls. Some of the outside walls of the Old City were lit up with a special event for the Maccabee Games.  I realized, that Israel means a mix of Old and New for me.   Music played in the background--Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen, and later some Israeli song that had a haunting old melody and a modern beat.  My heart felt and still feels so alive!

     I made it to the Wailing Wall.  Here's what stuck with me about the famous western wall of the old temple: the walls are alive.  It is not the paper prayers or the tears of the faithful that made me feel this way. (I respect them, but I don't feel what they do.  The full moon gave me a spiritual buzz, not the stones.)    Instead, it is the life in the walls that hit my heart.  Crawling in the crevices along with the wishes are little ants.  Resting above the praying folks are pigeons (doves?) resting peacefully.  I never thought about that before: life in stone.

See the papers? In those same crevices crawl little insects, making a life for themselves.

     I am one of many people to come here. But I am here now. "Ani Po." I am here. I can't believe it. Welcome to Israel!