Global Jewish Voice

I had many reasons for wanting to spend a year in Israel; a chance to improve my Hebrew, create a deep personal connection with my people’s land, and to experience all the Jewish holidays and festivals in the Jewish state. I thought I would be celebrating at most maybe five holidays during my year, but so far it’s felt like a holiday every other week!

The most recent festival was Lag B’omer, which supposedly marks both a victory during the Bar Kochba revolt against the Romans in the early 2^nd century, and the death of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai, the great Jewish mysticist. What that means to the average Israeli is what is known as a “Siba le Mesiba”, which means “a reason to party”! The whole country celebrates by lighting bonfires and barbecuing the night away, to an extent that I have never seen anywhere else. As I walked around with my friends, almost every single patch of gravel had a group of kids surrounding a bonfire, or a family firing up a grill. It was a rough night for Israel’s fire department, but everyone else was enjoying the festivities.

As a part of my mission to immerse myself in Israeli culture, and not just manufactured tourist experiences, my friends and I set out on Lag B’omer to have a typical Israeli night. We walked through the smoky haze of Acco, looking for the publicized community wide celebration. After walking past about thirty bonfires, we found our way onto the basketball court where the main festivities were happening. I had no idea what to expect, but what I found was true Israeli hospitality.

View of bonfires from my apartment window

Spending this year volunteering with various organizations in Acco has helped me meet many people in the community, and before I could even join the buffet line at the barbecue, I had already bumped into three people that I knew. I thought to myself: “How many tourists could say that?” Then later while my friends and I were munching on our hot-off-the-grill hamburgers, a little girl came up to me and held out a stick with a marshmallow on it. She said to me in Hebrew, “I’m scared of the fire, can you roast this for me?”. I answered in my American-accented Hebrew, “Of course, do you like it brown or burnt?”. She seemed confused and asked me where I was from. “I’m from America!” I told her. How many Americans have ever roasted marshmallows on Lag B’omer in Acco?!

The phrase that stuck with me through the night was Lag Sameach, which is a pun and a combination of the name of the holiday (Lag B’omer), and the traditional Israeli holiday greeting, Hag Sameach. Walking to and from the barbecue, and while at the celebration, countless people wished me a Lag Sameach. In America you could never wish a random stranger a Lag Sameach, but here in Israel, everyone acts like family. There are downsides- there is no such thing as private information- but the upside is that no one feels like a stranger. I felt completely welcome at the barbecue; eating free food, helping roast marshmallows, saying hi to friends, and all this in a city where I was living as a foreign volunteer. Even without the bonfires, I still would have left the evening with a warm feeling.

Facebook Hasbarah from the IDF Facebook page

There is a somewhat sarcastic term used in Israel to refer to the city of Tel Aviv: “Medinat Tel Aviv” (The State of Tel Aviv). Located in the center of the country, out of range of the vast majority of both Hamas’ and Hezbollah’s missiles, residents of Tel Aviv are described as living in their own little “state,” unaffected by the woes of their brothers and sisters in the north and south.

This status quo ended last week, as Tel Aviv’s sirens were sounded, in earnest, for the first time since the Gulf War. My fellow Tel Avivians were not going to let such an opportunity pass easily, and the newsfeed on my Facebook page soon featured a barrage of videos, pictures and posts all about the four rockets which have (thus far) landed in Israel’s central region.

This is one of those rare times, I believe, that we are in danger of confusing a possible virtue—hasbarah—with the desire to vent, moan and generally be the center of attention. In the process of deciding how much complaining to which one is entitled, it is necessary for each Israeli and Israel-focused Jew to carefully decide—on an individual basis—precisely their attitude toward The World at Large.

I say “on an individual basis” because I have no illusions about reaching a general consensus on this matter. As the old adage goes, “Discuss a matter with four Jews and you will end up with five separate opinions.” Even during the generally unified effort of Israel’s establishment, views on the precise role of the state varied massively. Some believed that statehood would allow the Jews to at last gain world acceptance. At the other end of the spectrum were those who believed that acceptance was impossible; Jews needed military sovereignty to protect them.

The depressing evidence of the last sixty years would seem to lend weight to the latter opinion. In effect, it seems like nothing more than naivety has turned my entire Facebook newsfeed into a pro-Israel social media campaign. My Israeli friends tell me, “We need to provide alternative information to our friends abroad who only  experience the anti-Israel media.” Ironically, it’s only their friends who will see their posts. Mainstream culture will continue its sentiment against the Jewish State. If the media weren’t anti-Israel, there would be no need for Israel.

This is not to say, of course, that Israel should reject any attempt to gain friends abroad. I once worked with a Member of the Knesset who spends most of her time telling Israelis to stop trying to pander to the Americans and to put their own security first. In a quiet moment, she admitted to me what I already knew: without American support, Israel might well not be here today. But is social media a useful way of gaining that support? The jury is still out on this one, but personally I don’t think so.

Facebook content from the Kony 2012 campaign

How many of us, during the viral online campaigns in support of the Sudanese, Iranians, Syrians, did anything more than post a “supportive” status or change our profile pictures? How many did anything to change actual lives? I met one girl who bothered buying a Kony 2012 wristband. That is as much as I ever saw come out of that particular campaign to raise awareness about the Ugandan warlord and Holy Spirit Movement religious leader.

Of course, it is hard to reject all the hasbarah that I see online, however self-serving and ineffectual it often turns out to be. As Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi put it, “even a little light dispels a lot of darkness.” You never know who sees something you post online, and just how much that might change things. But I think that the phrase “even a little light” is significant. When we post on Facebook, we should never kid ourselves that we are doing anything more than shining “a little light” (a very little light). We are clicking a mouse, writing a status, and that is all.

If there is one thing we can all look forward to, it’s the end of the insufferable pomposity of the online campaign. It is up to each individual to choose how much hasbarah they plan to do, but please remember: Netanyahu, Obama and Merkel aren’t reading your Facebook posts. Stay humble and stay dignified. And to all my friends in the south (where the real danger is): stay safe.

Almost every day in Israel, complete strangers hear me speaking English and say, “Welcome home! Are you staying?”

Last week, it happened in the local coffee shop.  The other day, I was welcomed home on the bus.

This is not my first time traveling overseas, but it is surely the first time that someone else has tried to dictate to me where my home is and where I should live. Israel is the homeland of the Jewish people.  It is an essential place where Jews all over the world can go and feel accepted.

But, history and religion aside, what makes it my home?  I didn’t grow up here, I don’t have family here, I don’t speak the language and, to be perfectly honest, I don’t feel like I mesh very well with the culture so far.

With everyone welcoming me “home”, I wonder what “home” even means. Is Israel my home? Is America my home? Where do I feel “at home”?  What is a “home” anyway?

I used to have two definitions of “home.”

1) Home is with your loved ones.  Family and friends give you that sense of belonging and security that we all need to feel comfortable.

2) Home is a physical place.  It is developed over time and through the lasting memories that attach emotion to a location.

The more time I spend in Israel, however, the less I believe in these definitions.  Homesickness occasionally leads me to think, “I just want to go home”.  But where is this?  One option is the house in the U.S. where my family lives and where I grew up.  The other is my university, also in the U.S., where I rooted myself over the past four years.

Let’s face reality.  I’m not moving back in with Mom and Dad after my year in Israel, and that little thing I have called a diploma reminds me that I’m not welcome in my old college apartment.  My friends are scattered around the U.S.  I haven’t yet established the close relationships, the memories, or the general level of comfort to be able to consider Israel my home.

When I analyze it this way, I realize I’m homeless. It’s a scary feeling.

The good news is that being thrown into limbo forces you to grab hold of any ounce of stability that can be found.  That stability doesn’t come from the outside.  It comes in little epiphanies when you are stranded, lost, and dehydrated on the side of a desert road after missing the last bus home before Shabbat.  You start walking, and keep walking until dark in order to get back to your apartment.  It comes when, in this dire moment, your feet amazingly keep moving, you smile, and you laugh out loud because no one can hear and because you realize that you are strong.  You got yourself into this, you’ll get yourself out, and even though the predicament is absurdly out of control, you are in control.

It was in this moment when I realized that home isn’t attached to any place or person but myself.  Home is when nothing around you makes any sense, when you feel more lost and displaced than you have ever felt, and yet you can retreat into a corner of your soul and feel at ease.  That power to reach within and find something to be happy about – that is home.  It’s the only one I have right now, and it doesn’t matter where I am.

I’m American.  I’m Jewish.  I’m living in Israel.  I’m not staying, thank you.  I don’t know where I’m going either.  That’s okay.  I’m finding my way home.