Shavuot is on Wednesday. Shavuot is the holiday that celebrates the giving of the Torah (old testament to some of you, but basically, the 5 Books of Moses: Genesis, Exodus, Numbers, Leviticus and Deuteronomy). Or, the Jews' receiving the Torah from G-d, depending on how you want to look at it.
Normally, I'm at a bit of a loss as to how to properly observe Shavuot. There really aren't any rituals associated with this holiday, unlike Passover, with the matzah and bitter herbs and reading of the Haggadah, or Sukkot, where we sit in our little home-made booths and shake our willow branches, or Yom Kippur, where we pray and fast, or even Chanukah, where we light candles for 8 nights. There are traditions, like eating cheesecake, or (trying) to stay up all night learning Torah, but those are just traditions, not mitzvot (commandments) associated with the day.
This year, I have no problem. The Torah was given to us, the soon-to-be Jewish people, at Mt. Sinai, on our way out of Egypt to the land G-d promised us, thousands of years ago. The Torah has been our guide book, our book of laws, our instructions on how to live since then. From the Torah, we learn how to treat guests, we learn to respect our parents, we learn to think about the food we eat, how to treat our animals, even our land. We are told to remember the Sabbath and keep it holy.
From the story of Abraham's circumsion, when he is visited by G-d during his recuperation (Genesis 18:1), we learn of the importance of visiting the sick. This lesson became the life-raft that kept me afloat during this past month. When I found myself in the Emergency Room a month ago, followed by a two-week hospital stay, followed by surgery, not a day went by in the hospital without someone visiting me. And that's not counting Morey and my sister, who spent so much time by my side. My classmates from Nishmat, the seminary where I learn, came and made me laugh, brought me illicit treats and gave me something to look forward to day after day. My cousin and her husband walked on Shabbat and kept me from feeling sorry for myself for spending Shabbat in the hospital. Friends I barely know, and friends I know well came from around the corner and from a 40-minute bus ride away. Some took time out of their holidays to visit. The hospital rabbi employs people to check in on patients and visit with them, and at least 3 different religious men went into each and every room, to every bed to wish the occupant a "r'fuah shlema" (basically, a healing for your soul, but it's shorthand for a prayer for healing that we say in each of our 3-times-a day prayers). Someone came around with free newspapers, and a lovely, oh-so-shy young woman came around with goodie bags. My phone has never been so busy as it was during those two weeks in hospital, with calls from family, friends, acquintances, neighbours who couldn't make it into Jerusalem, even my teachers and Rabbi from Nishmat.
I have been so blessed by all the love and care that was showered on me - and Morey. We say it in our prayers every day, "bikur cholim" (visit the sick), but how many of us actually take it to heart? I know I really didn't. This year, I'm going to focus on this Torah lesson (opens a pdf), and be truly grateful for all the people who do take this mitzvah seriously, and be thankful to Hashem for giving us this commandment. It's not easy to visit someone who is sick, and hospitals are no one's idea of a fun place to hang out. But for those who accept that performing this mitzvah is bigger than their discomfort, from the bottom of my heart, bless you. Chag Sameach
Monday, May 17, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
One Minute
Last year, when the siren went off for one minute in the evening to mark the beginning of Yom HaZikaron יום הזכרון לחללי מערכות ישראל ולנפגעי פעולות האיבה (Memorial Day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror), a time when everyone stops what they are doing and stands in silence, Morey and I were home alone. The following day when the siren went off for a full two minutes (again, standing in silence), we were in Ulpan, Hebrew class. For the majority of us, this was our first Yom HaZikaron as Israelis. There was a sense of solidarity of being a people together on this day, but there was also a distinct separateness. We'd only been in the country, most of us, for a few months. We understood the loss this day memorializes, but we couldn't really feel it.
That was really driven home when we went to the ceremony at the school that hosted the Ulpan class. The students and faculty memorialized their former students and classmates, along with the brothers, fathers, uncles, sons and friends they had lost. To see these normally boisterious teenage boys crumbling into the arms of their teachers, tears shamelessly pouring down their young faces, really made us appreciate the difference between the new kids and the "real" Israelis.
This year, thank God, I'm still a new kid. But this year, because I'm in hospital (that's a different post altogether), when the siren went off in the evening, I was standing with a very mixed group of people. I knew no one, and no one knew me. We were all Israelis standing together in a moment of silence for our fallen soldiers, for those who made the ultimate sacrifice for their countrymates, and for the families who now have a gaping hole where a loved one once stood. An entirely different feeling.
The interesting part of experiencing the siren at the hospital, is that everyone is welcome at this hospital, as in every hospital within Israel. That means, standing outside with us were Arabs. Arab Israelis are exempt from serving in the Israeli Defense Forces, yet some choose to. Most are Druze or Bedouin, but some Arab Israeli do serve. For the most part, there's no way to tell if someone is Arab Muslim, Arab Christian, Druze, modernized Bedouin and there's no way to tell if that person is anti-Israel or supportive of Israel.
So here we are, all of us standing together, when the siren goes off that memorializes Israeli soldiers who have died mainly in wars and situations fighting Arab armies and terrorists. The Arabs around me kept talking and ignored the siren, but I noticed they talked quietly. Were they ignoring something they felt didn't apply to them, but being respectful at the same time? Or was it just the environment of being at a hospital? I'll never know, but as I go back to my room and say hello to my lovely Arab nurse, and think about the Arab doctor who was the one who finally figured out what was wrong with me, and the Arab man in the room next to me whose family is gathered around him, never leaving him alone, I realize it's yet another beautiful, crazy dichotomy of living in Israel.
May Hashem bless the souls of the fallen, the families who live with the loss daily, may their memories be for a blessing upon all of us and may the day come when we no longer add any names to the list of those to remember.
That was really driven home when we went to the ceremony at the school that hosted the Ulpan class. The students and faculty memorialized their former students and classmates, along with the brothers, fathers, uncles, sons and friends they had lost. To see these normally boisterious teenage boys crumbling into the arms of their teachers, tears shamelessly pouring down their young faces, really made us appreciate the difference between the new kids and the "real" Israelis.
This year, thank God, I'm still a new kid. But this year, because I'm in hospital (that's a different post altogether), when the siren went off in the evening, I was standing with a very mixed group of people. I knew no one, and no one knew me. We were all Israelis standing together in a moment of silence for our fallen soldiers, for those who made the ultimate sacrifice for their countrymates, and for the families who now have a gaping hole where a loved one once stood. An entirely different feeling.
The interesting part of experiencing the siren at the hospital, is that everyone is welcome at this hospital, as in every hospital within Israel. That means, standing outside with us were Arabs. Arab Israelis are exempt from serving in the Israeli Defense Forces, yet some choose to. Most are Druze or Bedouin, but some Arab Israeli do serve. For the most part, there's no way to tell if someone is Arab Muslim, Arab Christian, Druze, modernized Bedouin and there's no way to tell if that person is anti-Israel or supportive of Israel.
So here we are, all of us standing together, when the siren goes off that memorializes Israeli soldiers who have died mainly in wars and situations fighting Arab armies and terrorists. The Arabs around me kept talking and ignored the siren, but I noticed they talked quietly. Were they ignoring something they felt didn't apply to them, but being respectful at the same time? Or was it just the environment of being at a hospital? I'll never know, but as I go back to my room and say hello to my lovely Arab nurse, and think about the Arab doctor who was the one who finally figured out what was wrong with me, and the Arab man in the room next to me whose family is gathered around him, never leaving him alone, I realize it's yet another beautiful, crazy dichotomy of living in Israel.
May Hashem bless the souls of the fallen, the families who live with the loss daily, may their memories be for a blessing upon all of us and may the day come when we no longer add any names to the list of those to remember.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Just another day in The Land
One of the facts of life of living in Israel is that a lot of our neighbours want to get rid of us. Not very hospitable, I know, but there you have it. No need to recap the terrorist history; every knows about pizza places, cafes, buses and hotels being bombed, and the people who have been killed. I learn at a womens' seminary, Nishmat, in Jerusalem in a program named in honor of Alisa Flatow, a victim of one such attack.
As a result, Israelis have to live with lots of security. Everytime you go into a mall, you show your bags for inspection and go through a metal detector. If you park in a public garage, keep your trunk unlocked for security to check. Nearly every restaurant in Jerusalem has a guard you have to get by. When you go into the train or bus station, your bags will go through an x-ray machine and you will go through yet another metal detector. Just to get into the airport complex, never mind the actual building, you have to go through security. Even when you drop your child off at nursery school, you will pass and say good morning to the armed security guard standing outside his or her booth.
We learn to live with it; we learn to accept seeing armed guards protecting us while we shop for milk and eggs.
Still, it gets our attention when, while driving to one our local shopping centres to go to lunch with Morey's visiting mother on her last day here, we get waved away from the main entrance. Idle curiousity makes us wonder why there are more-armed-than-usual police officers in the street, while we sit in the restaurant watching, speculating on what's going on. We guess that it's a חפץ חשוד - suspicious object - and we continue to watch as the police block off the road, and the Moked (I don't know how to translate that - they're city staff) arrive. It's all an interesting distraction, until the police come into the restaurant and evacuate us.
Until that point, everything was kind of casual. "Oh neat, they'll bring in the sappers. I want to see the robot." Once you get evacuated, it kind of occurs to you that there's a chance this one might be more than someone's forgotten backpack.
It's interesting to note that we all were quite lackadaisical about clearing out. We did it, but there was no panic, no rush. The people next to us took the time to pay their bill, rather than come back afterwards. Most of us went to the back of the centre and started browsing in the stores there, or made phone calls. But still, everyone who was close enough, watched. It may be a fact of life, but we still want to know for sure.
After two controlled explosions and some gunfire, we were given the all-clear. We went back to the restaurant, got our food, drank our now-cold coffee, and went on with our day as if nothing happened.
Just another day in the Land. For the reasons why we have to blow up every carelessly left-behind suitcase, backpack, cardboard box or package, and why we have to have guards at malls, grocery stores, restaurants and schools, please read this beautiful tribute by Paul Stern.
As a result, Israelis have to live with lots of security. Everytime you go into a mall, you show your bags for inspection and go through a metal detector. If you park in a public garage, keep your trunk unlocked for security to check. Nearly every restaurant in Jerusalem has a guard you have to get by. When you go into the train or bus station, your bags will go through an x-ray machine and you will go through yet another metal detector. Just to get into the airport complex, never mind the actual building, you have to go through security. Even when you drop your child off at nursery school, you will pass and say good morning to the armed security guard standing outside his or her booth.
www.paulasays.com
We learn to live with it; we learn to accept seeing armed guards protecting us while we shop for milk and eggs.
Still, it gets our attention when, while driving to one our local shopping centres to go to lunch with Morey's visiting mother on her last day here, we get waved away from the main entrance. Idle curiousity makes us wonder why there are more-armed-than-usual police officers in the street, while we sit in the restaurant watching, speculating on what's going on. We guess that it's a חפץ חשוד - suspicious object - and we continue to watch as the police block off the road, and the Moked (I don't know how to translate that - they're city staff) arrive. It's all an interesting distraction, until the police come into the restaurant and evacuate us.
Until that point, everything was kind of casual. "Oh neat, they'll bring in the sappers. I want to see the robot." Once you get evacuated, it kind of occurs to you that there's a chance this one might be more than someone's forgotten backpack.
It's interesting to note that we all were quite lackadaisical about clearing out. We did it, but there was no panic, no rush. The people next to us took the time to pay their bill, rather than come back afterwards. Most of us went to the back of the centre and started browsing in the stores there, or made phone calls. But still, everyone who was close enough, watched. It may be a fact of life, but we still want to know for sure.
After two controlled explosions and some gunfire, we were given the all-clear. We went back to the restaurant, got our food, drank our now-cold coffee, and went on with our day as if nothing happened.
Just another day in the Land. For the reasons why we have to blow up every carelessly left-behind suitcase, backpack, cardboard box or package, and why we have to have guards at malls, grocery stores, restaurants and schools, please read this beautiful tribute by Paul Stern.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Don't Passover the details
The Seventh Plague, John Martin, 1823
There are many aspects of the Biblical record that are disturbing. But, Torah is not a simple collection of sweet children's stories and morality plays; it's a record of a people's relationship with their G-d, and as such, both good and bad are depicted. In other words, the nasty stuff could have been excised to make us look better, but morally, it made more sense to leave in abhorrent behaviour so that later generations could discuss and learn. These discussions make up the Talmud, and other texts.
The depiction of the Exodus includes a number of actions that depict both G-d and the Hebrews in a disturbing light. Why did G-d harden Pharaoh's heart so that more plagues could be unleashed? Why did the Hebrews need to liberate a fortune in silver and gold from the emotionally-broken Egyptians when they fled?
And why celebrate a festival in which multitudes of innocent Egyptians perished so that we could be free?
The answer is, we don't. During the seder, we dip wine in remembrance of the plagues and the Egyptians killed. As well, there's a significant Midrash (interpretive teaching) which is often discussed during the Passover season, in which the angels are chastised by G-d for celebrating the deaths of Egyptians:
"The Egyptians were drowning in the sea. At the same time, the angels wanted to sing before God, and the Lord, God, said to them: 'My creations are drowning and you are singing before me?'" (Sanhedrin 39a)
It would be a mistake to deny ourselves an opportunity to celebrate on the grounds that others suffered. This is generally the outcome of any conflict. We can both celebrate and memorialize at the same time; they're not mutually exclusive conditions. It would also be a mistake to whitewash history - even religious history - when we can learn from the past. Passover is not an exercise in self-congratulations; it's an annual reminder of human suffering, an opportunity for improvement on a spiritual level, and a catalyst for action in a world in which man-made adversity continues.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
people who need people
Our friend Rachel and her brother Ben have created a really cool app called sleeQo. One of these days, Rachel will post how to pronounce that. We've been having fun with it on Facebook, when it occurred to me, I should try it out where it's actually intended to be used - on the blog! I made it applicable to our blog by using the "5 Things New Olim Should Know" meme (which, thanks to Rachel, I just learned is pronounced "meem." I've been totally uncool by calling it a "meemee" all these years).
Try it out! I'm resisting the temptation to go fill them all in right now. The way things are going lately, I'm going to need "filler"!
Try it out! I'm resisting the temptation to go fill them all in right now. The way things are going lately, I'm going to need "filler"!
5 Things New Olim Should Know
Rules: Post 5 things that a new immigrant to Israel needs to know. No politics!- You pay for everything at the post office. Health care, driver's license, bills, you name it.
- Whatever time your appointment is, expect it to start half an hour later. But you're still expected to be on time.
- Kosher food is everywhere!
- No matter how hot you think it is, it will get hotter.
- You will never find more people willing to help you do whatever you need to do. Most will offer, but don't be afraid to ask. The answer will always be either "yes" or "I can't, but I know someone who can"
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Dig, people, dig!
One of the amazingly cool things about living in Israel is construction. Yes, construction. Or rather, they byproducts of construction. When someone tears down the house right next door to you to build a new one in, say, Vancouver, and you spend day after day listening to the aural equivalent of a landslide and feeling your own house vibrate as if you were in the middle of one, the only thing they're likely to dig up is - well, nothing. Chances are this is the 4th or 5th house built on this location, and if there were anything to find, it's long gone by now. And it's more likely there wasn't anything to find in the first place.
In Israel, when construction starts on apartment buildings, it's almost always on land that hasn't been touched. At least, not touched for hundreds of years. And many times, in the course of construction, they find something. And that something is protected by the government, and must be reported and explored.
Which means, if you live in a construction zone, you can wind up with an archeological dig right across the street. Cool! Wonder if they'll take volunteers?
View from our balcony
In Israel, when construction starts on apartment buildings, it's almost always on land that hasn't been touched. At least, not touched for hundreds of years. And many times, in the course of construction, they find something. And that something is protected by the government, and must be reported and explored.
Which means, if you live in a construction zone, you can wind up with an archeological dig right across the street. Cool! Wonder if they'll take volunteers?
View from our balconyThursday, February 11, 2010
Israsick
Being sick in Israel stinks. Not for lack of quality healthcare, and certainly not for lack of affordable drugs.
As we've mentioned here before, there's a wordplay on new immigrants and the fact that new immigrants get sick. A lot. The word for "immigrants" is olim and "new," plural, is chadashim (that's "ch" as in throat-clearing, not "ch" as in Charlie). So, "new olim" are olim chadashim (in Hebrew the adjective goes after the noun).
The word for "sick people" is cholim (again, that throat-clearing "ch").
So, olim chadashim - new immigrants - becomes cholim chadashim - new sick people. Ha ha.
However, the longer I'm here, the more I realize everybody gets sick a lot here, whether you've been here 6 months, 6 years or 6 decades. Everytime I turn around, somebody's sick. And not that "I don't feel like going to school/work/meeting with my boss" sick. Or the, "I'm not feeling well today so I won't go in, but I'll work tomorrow" sick, either. No, here, people get mamash (really really) sick. Head-throbbing, can't breathe, sinuses clogged up like a camel in a sandstorm (see how I did that? How Israeli am I?) sick. A lot.
I blame children.
Israel is blessed with a lot of children. Children who play together in maon and gan (daycare and nursery school). Children who wipe their noses and then share their toys with their mates. Children who so adorably hold hands when playing. Then go home and kiss their Emas (moms)or their little siblings. Then the Emas hand the toys to the Abas (dads), who, while out for a walk, shake hands with their neighbour. Who then grabs his child's hand... and so it goes.
I know this happens everywhere. But people are a little moreparanoid conscious of antibiotic soaps and liquid sanitizers and washing hands every 5 minutes in the US and Canada. We also have a load more kids per square inch in Israel. We're also a very huggy, touchy-feely group over here.
Frankly, I love it. I love the kids, I love the contact and I wouldn't trade the hugs and kisses for anything. But I suspect this is the cause of our constant illnesses. That and our collective sinus conditions.
But I digress. This is not why I gripe. No, my gripe is that when I do get sick, I get sick bad. I don't necessarily mind being sick, what is getting to me is I don't know the drugs here! I want DayQuil! I want NyQuil! When my sister got married last year and was fighting a bad cold that would not quit, her most urgent request to my soon-to-be arriving mother (along with sneakers, q-tips and ziplock bags) was NyQuil.
I've tried different drugs, but I never cared about the ingredients; I just wanted to feel better and Day/NyQuil worked. So far, nothing here works. And don't even get me started on the cough syrup here. Every single one on the market (and my doctor checked!) contains Sorbitol, which I cannot take. I know this because I took some before I knew I couldn't. Trust me on this one. So I'm stuck taking cough drops which contain loads of sugar, which means my choice is either stay up coughing all night, or don't cough, but stay up because I'm wired on a sugar high. Tough call.
I just want my DayQuil and my NyQuil. Or something exactly like them. I want the security of knowing I'm taking something that will make me feel better. Or, in the case of NyQuil, not care if I'm not feeling better.
Oh, and my over-the-counter cough syrup with codeine. Sometimes I really miss Canada.
As we've mentioned here before, there's a wordplay on new immigrants and the fact that new immigrants get sick. A lot. The word for "immigrants" is olim and "new," plural, is chadashim (that's "ch" as in throat-clearing, not "ch" as in Charlie). So, "new olim" are olim chadashim (in Hebrew the adjective goes after the noun).
The word for "sick people" is cholim (again, that throat-clearing "ch").
So, olim chadashim - new immigrants - becomes cholim chadashim - new sick people. Ha ha.
However, the longer I'm here, the more I realize everybody gets sick a lot here, whether you've been here 6 months, 6 years or 6 decades. Everytime I turn around, somebody's sick. And not that "I don't feel like going to school/work/meeting with my boss" sick. Or the, "I'm not feeling well today so I won't go in, but I'll work tomorrow" sick, either. No, here, people get mamash (really really) sick. Head-throbbing, can't breathe, sinuses clogged up like a camel in a sandstorm (see how I did that? How Israeli am I?) sick. A lot.
I blame children.
Israel is blessed with a lot of children. Children who play together in maon and gan (daycare and nursery school). Children who wipe their noses and then share their toys with their mates. Children who so adorably hold hands when playing. Then go home and kiss their Emas (moms)or their little siblings. Then the Emas hand the toys to the Abas (dads), who, while out for a walk, shake hands with their neighbour. Who then grabs his child's hand... and so it goes.
I know this happens everywhere. But people are a little more
Frankly, I love it. I love the kids, I love the contact and I wouldn't trade the hugs and kisses for anything. But I suspect this is the cause of our constant illnesses. That and our collective sinus conditions.
But I digress. This is not why I gripe. No, my gripe is that when I do get sick, I get sick bad. I don't necessarily mind being sick, what is getting to me is I don't know the drugs here! I want DayQuil! I want NyQuil! When my sister got married last year and was fighting a bad cold that would not quit, her most urgent request to my soon-to-be arriving mother (along with sneakers, q-tips and ziplock bags) was NyQuil.
I've tried different drugs, but I never cared about the ingredients; I just wanted to feel better and Day/NyQuil worked. So far, nothing here works. And don't even get me started on the cough syrup here. Every single one on the market (and my doctor checked!) contains Sorbitol, which I cannot take. I know this because I took some before I knew I couldn't. Trust me on this one. So I'm stuck taking cough drops which contain loads of sugar, which means my choice is either stay up coughing all night, or don't cough, but stay up because I'm wired on a sugar high. Tough call.
I just want my DayQuil and my NyQuil. Or something exactly like them. I want the security of knowing I'm taking something that will make me feel better. Or, in the case of NyQuil, not care if I'm not feeling better.
Oh, and my over-the-counter cough syrup with codeine. Sometimes I really miss Canada.
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