It has been a while since I’ve written a blog post. November 2nd was my last post, right before the election. It’s probably the longest I’ve gone without writing in a year. That’s ironic for someone who wrote a book during the pandemic. Writing is therapeutic, it is healing, it is revealing.
During the past few months, so much has happened in both Israel and America. The Capitol insurrection, Inauguration, the winter COVID crisis, vaccination campaigns, and in between all of those major events, I held a dozen different virtual book events. These events took place in order to engage the community around my book, More Than Just Hummus: A Gay Jew Discovers Israel in Arabic.
What I found was that during the darkest hours, staying connected to these stories and to Israel itself gave me a sort of calm, a deep happiness, a smile on my face. “Despite it all” as Israelis say. There are a number of reasons why I choose to live in the U.S. and not Israel. And a lot of reasons why I miss Israel and wish I could be visiting there right now.
What’s consistent, then, is that I can’t live without either place. And at a time when Israel’s skies are closed and I haven’t been vaccinated yet, I just can’t go there. It breaks my heart. I have friends I haven’t seen in a year and half, I have foods I miss, I have views I want to gaze upon. Yes, despite the title of my book, I miss the hummus!
I yearn to tell new stories from Israel, not the ones I’ve already written about. I want to explore, to meet new people from this gorgeous land across the sea. To have new adventures.
And yet we can’t. A number of famous rabbis are quoted as saying: “A Jew doesn’t despair”. So if I’m a Jew, where does that leave me? How do I accept the limits of my connection to Israel right now while keeping the flame burning for when I can go back?
I’m not sure. And in that answer, I feel thoroughly Israeli. Because one thing I learned from my experience there is that Israelis live in – and are rather brilliant in accepting – uncertainty.
I’m reminded of the time I visited Kibbutz Nir Am and Sderot. These are two areas that had been hit rather viciously with Hamas rocket fire and flaming kites that burned nearby forests to a crisp. I walked from the train to Kibbutz Nir Am and simply walked around. The place was almost silent. The crops nearby completely burnt to a crisp. And more kites were falling that day. I was a little scared, but I felt it was my duty to understand what these people were going through.
I finally came across a father with a 5-year-old daughter. I asked him how they were faring. He was honest – his daughter was scared and confused. He had to take her to school each day with fields burning and sometimes she had to hide in the bomb shelter. Not long ago, they discovered a Hamas tunnel going right underneath the kibbutz.
When I asked him how they cope with all the stress, he said with a mix of resignation and determination: “anachnu sordim”. We are surviving.
That is what it means to be a Jew. It is, against all odds, to survive. To do it in the face of deep uncertainty. Sometimes we truly manage to thrive. But we can’t always. Sometimes it’s simply enough to be. That is what sometimes defines success. Just like the Purim story we celebrate today.
On a day when I woke up early to try the completely defunct and backwards DC vaccination site – and failed to get an appointment – I suppose this man from Nir Am has a lesson for me.
I’m alive. Yes, some days are quite hard. And I think we’re all thoroughly sick of COVID. What a nightmare. And I can find gratitude in the fact that I’m healthy, I’m safe, I have a bed to sleep in, I have food, I have friends and family who love me.
So how do I stay connected to Israel during this time? I’m not sure. I talk to friends, I listen to music, I watch TV shows. And it’ll never be like being there itself. I’ll have to wait.
Because what our job is now is not to travel, is not to explore- it’s to survive for the day when we can do that again. It’s to care for each other. And in doing so, to find a sense of purpose amidst the chaos.
Shabbat shalom and chag sameach – have a hope-filled holiday. We survived in ancient Persia and we’ll do it again.