This past summer I went on the quintessential Jewish trip: Birthright. Although it was my second time in Israel, I still thoroughly enjoyed the usual, touristy activities, which I participated in across the country: hiking the Golan, stargazing by Bedouin tents, and floating in Yam HaMelach. I returned home raving to my friends about the friendships I made and the immediacy I felt to make Aliyah. Some friends of mine named these feelings of spirituality and a changed self “The Birthright Bug.” This “bug” has weakened over time, but I still have a lesson to share.
This past summer I went on the quintessential Jewish trip: Birthright. Although it was my second time in Israel, I still thoroughly enjoyed the usual, touristy activities, which I participated in across the country: hiking the Golan, stargazing by Bedouin tents, and floating in On the days in which we were bussed to the Lebanon border, Gaza Strip, and Sderot, we learned of the enemies of Israel, and their impact on Israel’s culture, defense, and day-to-day life. Yet the locals I met were such bright, delightful people. They didn’t seem affected by the experiences of war and terror that comprise their reality. As we saw more and more of the country, this question burned stronger in my mind.
On day eight of the trip, our group visited Mount Herzl, Israel’s national cemetery. We navigated through the cobblestone path, walking among the cement graves of fallen soldiers. Halfway through the tour, I pulled aside one of the soldiers on our trip and said, “If you don’t mind me asking, how do you live with the fact that at any moment you could lose a friend?” At first, she paused, taken aback by the question. But after a moment, she sighed and said, “It’s reality. It’s just how it is.” The soldier wasn’t telling me that she coped well with the potential losses of her individual friends. She had accepted the potential for loss as a part of her life and lived normally, understanding the reality of being a Jew fighting for the Jewish land. She understood that she would not cease fighting because of that reality. In spite of her answer, the question continued to gnaw at me. It was not enough for me that this predicament was an accepted reality.
It was the closing story of the tour that gave me the chills. Our Israeli staff leader stood up, holding a printed picture of a smiling middle-aged man. Yaakov Don was a devoted family man and educator who drove to Maaleh Adumim every Thursday afternoon to study Torah with his two sons Aviad and Maor, at their Yeshiva. Nothing could stop Yaakov from the travel; it was the highlight of his week. One Thursday morning, he left to study and never returned. A Palestinian terrorist had shot fire at cars in a traffic jam and Yaakov was one of the three killed, along with American student Ezra Schwartz and Palestinian Shadi Arafa. Yaakov’s family plunged into horrific sorrow. He was cherished by many people and his death destroyed a piece of their world. One of his students had described him as “a living breathing example of “Simchat Hachaim,” or love of life. She said that his bright disposition was sincere and infectious.
The staff leader then told us that the reason she shared this story was to show that what happens after these tragedies shows the true beauty of Israel. After an attack, the country mourns, but not for too long. This is because people don’t give in to the hate. Israelis don’t get bogged down in the horrors, but instead rise up against them and continue to practice Jewish tradition. People joyously sing Lecha Dodi and hang their mezuzot to show strength.
My mind wandered back to two days before when, while visiting the city hall in Tel Aviv, my staff leader recited the translated verses of Hatikvah
| As long as the Jewish spirit is yearning deep in the heart,With eyes turned toward the East, looking toward Zion,
Then our hope – the two-thousand-year-old hope – will not be lost: To be a free people in our land, The land of Zion and Jerusalem. |
I realized that in these words lies the ultimate message of living in Israel. Hope. It is only by hope that the Jewish people can continue to be prosperous and free. After hearing those stories on Mount Herzl, I understand that the answer to these questions is something that transcends the material, something that can only be felt deeply within ourselves. The fact that hope, a feeling which is untethered to logical understanding, can carry a nation through millennia of repression, is something truly impressive to me.
Alas, the ten day trip came to an end, and I had to adjust to my regular summer life. I came back to work at my day camp job just after I returned home. That first morning, after the bus came and the campers had arrived, we did our usual morning song ritual. They held up the Israeli flag and we sang the Hatikvah. I smiled while singing, remembering the message I had learned.