Memorials

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

I remember where I was 1 year ago today. Israel turned 60, and we were sweating and walking with 1000 members of the community from CityPlace to the Meyer Amphitheater. There were Israeli dancers, food, and vendors; and I wasn't sure yet if we were actually going to come to Israel or not. I think it was May 8. I didn't know if I passed my hebrew exam, or if we could manage to rent our house, or pack up our life and say goodbye.

But we did. And now I sit at Har Hertzel with 1000 Israelis, soldiers, families and watch the rehearsal for the Yom Hazikaron ceremony commemorating the IDF, the 61st anniversary of the State of Israel, and also the 100th anniversary of the country's oldest city, Tel Aviv. There were soldiers marching, holding flags and twirling into formations representing the different branches of the military. Hundreds of kids dancing and singing, people singing, speaking, torches; it was so formal. We were impressed at the formality and the precision--for all the casual, untucked image of daily soldier sightings on the street--which is all the time, these were so beautiful and proud. It was very moving. We always joke about how disorganized the country is, or seems on the outside. Their precision was beautiful, and in huge contrast with the rumpled kids we see on the streets wearing their uniforms wrinkled, hanging, backpacks, jumping on and off buses, loud, smoking, laughing, one hand always touching their rifles hanging over one shoulder. 

It was freezing as it got later, like every other cemetery in the world, the sun was setting across from us, and a tiny eyelash of the moon was emerging, and I think about the unlikely chance that this little country actually reinvented itself within my parents' lifetime. With the Torah behind them, they have a much deeper sense of history than what just 61 years provides. 

So Coby insisted that we bake a cake for his class for Israel's birthday. They've been practicing all week for their Yorm Haatzmaut ceremony--all the ganim are doing something special. And all the older kids' schools are focusing first on Yom Hazikaron-Memorial Day.

Nancy and I welled up, it really was beautiful. Everyone important was present, singers, kids, politicians. They were also celebrating Tel Aviv's 100th, so were telling the story of different people who were during the founding of the state. They lit 12 torches--for the tribes. I wonder if they celebrate with such seriousness because it such a young country, and so many people remember a time when it wasn't here, or because the military is in everyone's life. We sat and watched, Coby and Ben begging to see the horses that I promised them. I thought again, like at the beginning of last summer, the fact that this country is here is a miracle. No horses, loud fireworks, we had to take the rugrats home.

Tuesday morning I co-led a tefillah with Nancy and Jaclyn for Yom hazikaron, over and over again we felt the power of the day. When we were shaping the service, we decided to connect it to home by talking about Michael Levin, the American-born soldier who emigrated, fought in the second Lebanon war, and was killed in the summer of 2006. A friend of Michael's said that many of them (Americans), joined the Israeli military because they felt Israel was a tiny country, disliked by many sides, and they wanted to help. And then I think about them, in all this grandeur, marching with their flags and torches, and choreography, and amazing music, and it really is amazing, in spite of being disliked on many sides--just look at them. Proud and strong.

Israel has sirens.

They have sirens that blow to signal that Shabbat is here, but also Monday evening, 8pm exactly, the siren blew. And also at 11am on Yom Hazikaron.  Just like everyone says, cars stopped, lights on, and everyone got out of the car, just standing, looking to others, to meet their eyes and share something. When people used to describe this to me, I thought they stopped their cars to see what the siren was, but it's out of solidarity and respect. Such a stillness, for 2 minutes. Haunting. I cried, the first of several times over those 24 hours.

When the siren stops, it seems to spin and cycle like a drill, the pitch sounds like its falling, but it doesn't, it keeps drilling and droning into your core. Its scary and haunting.

After our service on Tuesday morning we went to the Gimnasia High School, which honors its 138 alum who have been lost over the last 100 years in wars and terrorist acts. High School seniors lead this, which is insane, because they are 17 and 18, and they know where they are going next year. Its an awful way to live. yet it is really amazing how they all give themselves permission to cry and be sad with each other, around others; everyone understands and is OK. Everyone is emotional and crying. Its this public display of privacy. And at the end, singing Hatikvah, I've never heard anything like it. It wasn't loud and proud and high; it was intimate and whispered, you couldn't hear any one person's individual voice, we all sang so so quietly. It was painful and very emotional.  I spoke to some teachers that came with us afterward. 10 months ago, the 10 days of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur also stopped traffic, we had just arrived, still getting used to the country and the culture, and now look at us, feeling so much a part of culture that we finally have permission to dislike it, be disgusted by parts of it, and say so. Yet still, who am I to be so emotional next to these people here. These people, including my teachers, have children who fought, who are going to fight; how can I align myself with them and share concern and tears. Who am I, who in 6 weeks, will be going to New York and flit around the east coast, visiting the beach, being oh so busy; but nothing like this.

I felt like I had been beaten up. I had been singing, talking, tearing up for hours, I was exhausted. I went home, we took the kids for ice cream, mellowed out, all the regular TV stations were off until the following day--except for stories of fallen soldiers.

But in the evening, the country turns over, everyone who had been wearing pure white, were now draping themselves in Israeli flags, glow in the dark things, drinking, singing, dancing. We walked through the center of town, listening to music, more ice cream for the kids, then went to Kikar Safron, the municipal square where we registered the kids for school during the summer. It was a huge square with a stage, and they had their famous Shira B'Tziboor--'public singing'. I loved it! This time, I knew so many of the songs and their histories from class, it was so happy. People broke out into spontaneous dancing. Veterans from the Lahakat HaYam--the Navy entertainment troupe were there singing along. Songs from the 'war' movie: HaLahakat. And again, fireworks, which got a bit dangerous when the sparks started to fall around us...as we walked home through Independence Park, the fireworks must have been shot off from the top of the Sheraton Hotel, the sparks were falling literally on the ground around us. We--and everyone around us--ran and hid under trees. Crazy. And beautiful.

Yom Haatzmaut, Israel Independence Day, was one giant BBQ. Everyone cooked meat, you could smell fire everywhere. Music, children, meat. Every 10 feet was a new group of people clumped together for a little party, it was happy, celebration. This is one group of holidays that I am really glad I was here for.The turning from the depths of sadness to heights of happiness in an afternoon is incredible.