Disabled for a Day

All right, you got me. The title of this post is a misnomer. I went for the alliteration, but the truth is, I was only "disabled" for about 45 minutes.

When my friend Saadiya asked if anyone was available to ride around the Cornell Store in a wheelchair yesterday afternoon, I responded that I was free and would be glad to do it. I thought it would be fun. I met up with Saadiya, Ross (who would be hobbling around on crutches) and some campus leaders/administrators in the area of accessibility.

Right away, I needed assistance. The handicap accessible entry to the Cornell store is a buzz-in entrance, you have to ring a bell, it's the employee entrance. You can't go in all by yourself. Then, when I sat in the chair, I needed people to hold my things for me. I felt so small as my peers towered over me.

Now, I'm not a very tall person. But I've been told I can have an imposing presence when I want to have one, and I've often taken advantage of my "big personality" to do just that. In a wheelchair, that was taken away from me. In order to interact with anyone, I had to crane my neck to look up at them. People started moving around me with great care. I needed space to maneuver because I was clumsy with the wheels. People were extra polite and patient with me, but not out of respect--out of pity.

My first task was to try to "mail" something at the PostMarket. Fail #1. The stantions (is that what they're called...those things that delineate waiting lines?) were so packed together that there was no way I could get through. A number of people in line shuffled about nervously, trying to move them so I could navigate.

I kept saying, "I'm fine, I'm fine, I got it." I wanted them to know I wasn't actually disabled. And instantly, I felt ashamed. I was embarrassed that people thought I was in a wheelchair because I needed it, and then I was horribly, horribly ashamed that I would be embarrassed of something like that.

My next task was to order something at the cafe. The aisles were wide enough, but I felt very awkward, and again, people were uncomfortable. Then I saw Adina, and she waved, and asked me how it was going. I treated it like a game, and said it was "fun." Wrong. It wasn't fun. It was eye-opening, and in a painful way.

The next failure came when I tried to check out the Cornell ties. Very handsome ties I might add. However, on my way there, I barreled through a few racks of sweatshirts and banged up a few fake mahogany display cases. I tried to turn around and get out the way I came, but there was no space. Someone needed to push me out. Then I got stuck on a little bump in the floor, one of those rubber strips that separates a carpeted area from hardwood flooring. I was sweating by the end of it.

We returned to the employee entrance of the store, from where I took the service elevator down to the first floor. Fortunately I had people with me to push the buttons, because I would have had to strain to reach them.

I wheeled on out of the Cornell Store with a fresh appreciation for what it means to be confined to a wheelchair, both physically and emotionally. I felt that the interactions I had while in the wheelchair were dominated by the fact that I was in a wheelchair and that people were trying really hard to pretend I wasn't, and failing noticeably. I felt that taking a service elevator and using a back entrance made me feel separate and emphasized the words above the elevator: "Assistance Needed."

So I will now do my best to change how I react to people in wheelchairs, and I will try to enact change wherever I am able to make places truly accessible (not just "compliant"). I learned a lot in those 45 minutes, and I hope this blog post has opened your eyes as well. This is an important message, and it is something we can really do something about.

Let's start.

Don't we always wish we had more time

I'm in this class called Acting in Public: Performance in Everyday Life. Once a week, we make a one minute speech. This week was eulogies. I spent all weekend looking for the perfect one--I didn't want to do one that I thought everyone would do (two people in my class ended up reading Karl Marx's) and I didn't want to do one that seemed too real, like for a parent or a grandparent. So I had to look through a lot of eulogies. This was a melancholy process, as I am sure you can imagine. There are some touching ones here: http://connectingdirectors.com/articles/40420-8-of-the-most-amazing-eulogies-of-all-time, especially "For My Mother." So I was a puddle by the time I had selected the perfect eulogy, Cher's eulogy for Sonny Bono. She wrote beautifully and from the heart, but here is the thing that really got to me:

"So the last thing I want to say is, when I was young, there was this section in the Reader's Digest. And it was called "The Most Unforgettable Character I've Ever Met." And for me that person is Sonny Bono. And no matter how long I live or who I meet in my life, that person will always be "Son" for me."

I felt like that summed things up. So I was in this eulogy sort of mood and I started becoming aware of limited time. Not just in the sense of mortality, but in the way things come to an end, or people drift out of our lives, or the world changes irreversibly and we cannot get back to the sweetness of our past.

I'm graduating at the end of the semester, so I am very sensitive to the fact that I will be leaving Cornell in a few short weeks. I've been instagramming pictures of Cornell like crazy to fight the impermanence of it all. (I'm making a photobook from all my photos with artifactuprising.com, it's a great site). I walk around campus awed by the beauty of the buildings, the trees, the views, the skies...it really is gorgeous here but it seemed to become more so when I realized I only had a few weeks left.

I think when it comes down to it, we all wish we had more time. I'm not saying I don't want to graduate! I am soooo done with problem sets and prelims and classes and even my meetings and much of the day to day here. I have given it my all and I am proud of what I've done. But I do wish I had more time, I do wish that I could stretch out those incredible moments that make me feel or think or act differently, that fill me with joy and wonder...

Can I just go back and infuse the Big Red Bar Mitzvah with a few more hours, so that we could keep dancing a little longer? Could I make the Last Lecture I went to today last until late into the evening? Could I add a few minutes onto the football game on Saturday, which I spent soaking up the warmth with Jesse and Adina? Could I squeeze a few more prayers into the Friday night service last week? A couple of classes extra with Professor David Feldshuh? Another cup of frozen yogurt with my lineage? A few more soy hot chocolates in Libe cafe?

I am sure that I will have a more comprehensive list of the moments I'll miss by the end of the year. But for now I am going to enjoy them, and do my darndest to live in the present. It is taxing to do so! And I know why we start to feel like this at the end of things, or when people die; it's because it would be too draining to appreciate whole heartedly every single minute of your life! So I will take advantage of this surge in sentimentality and do it now, for a month or so, and then I will begin a new adventure, and it will be fresh and exciting. I won't know how perfect and good it is until I start thinking about my next chapter, which will surely bring new challenges and surprises.

In closing, I will leave here the words of one of my favorite Third Eye Blind songs, "My Hit and Run."

Feel the speed through the intersection
Sheets of rain I seek out cars
Hands in gloves grip handlebars

Ride alone to the pub in the dark
I get a little wet but I don't have to park
And the lights start flashing green and red as I ride
A car turns left and I slide
I can't turn back
I make contact
Blinkers smash into mosaic
Then I start flying

Always think we get more time
Now I'm flying through the air
Maybe living maybe dying
In this motor crash it's you who comes to mind 
Don't we always wish had more time 

I'm thrust slow mo through time and space
Details smash and
I protect my face
And then I see yours
And go to a time when we just knew

Come down hard and roll to my feet
And rain washes blood now off concrete
People turn away and I just had to laugh
Cause I'm still flying
Living and dying

And I'd like to thank mister death for what he's done
Cause I got to walk away from my hit and run
Mysteries are not so empty
Cause I saw you
At my hit and run

Know Your Boundaries: Thoughts on J Street 2013

We were playing a get-to-know-you game in the J Street U breakout session, and we were standing up from our chairs whenever a statement applied to us. There were statements like, "This is my first J Street conference" or "I helped to found a chapter at my university." I stood up when appropriate. Then the facilitator said "I am deeply concerned by the Occupation." I sat dumbly and watched as the entire Mid-Atlantic region, a delegation of 130 students, rose to their feet.

It's not that I'm not concerned with the Occupation. I am. But this is all very new and shocking to me. This is the first organized event I've ever been to where I've even heard the word "occupation" being used. This is the first time in my life I ever heard someone suggest altering the Israeli flag to depict more inclusive symbols and changing the words of the Israeli national anthem from "Jewish soul" to "Israeli soul." And this is the first time I've ever put quotes around the word "democracy" when I use the phrase "Jewish 'Democracy,'" because suddenly I'm not sure if what I thought was the only democracy in the Middle East even is one.

I support the 2 State Solution. But I also NEED Israel to exist as a Jewish state, one in which Judaism is institutionalized. I need Judaism to have a physical space in this world. I don't think it's enough to have a lot of Jews living in a country so the country has a Jewish character in its culture and values. I don't want Israel to celebrate the Jewish holidays the way America celebrates Christmas. In America, I appreciate that many people say "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas." Because that's what I signed up for by living in America.

In Israel, I want the bus banners to still switch between the name of their destination and "Chag Channukah Sameach," And I would like the Jewish Sabbath to be recognized in some formal way. And I would like Jews to have a special immigration policy that allows them to become citizens easily and quickly.

BUT. I want Israel to provide work permits to asylum seekers living in South Tel Aviv. I want Bedouins living in unrecognized villages to not fear the destruction of their homes at any moment. I want Palestinians in refugee camps to expect clean running water. I want Druze villages to receive the same funding for their schools as their Jewish neighbors. 

I also feel strongly that Jews need to address the problem of pluralism in a way that enriches Judaism without forcing everyone to adhere to the strictest possible observance. To me, this means creating a system in which everyone has the freedom to practice in the way that they please while respecting other approaches. This will require some major creativity and breaking away from the status quo. 

--A day later--

Another challenging day at the J Street Conference. We had a session to plan our advocacy work tomorrow and I met some nice people and I met some people who didn't make it too hard to dislike them. Then I got in line for a long time to listen to Biden speak, who was very late because Bibi is visiting and the government is shutting down. 

Biden made a lovely speech. He was charming and funny and made it unequivocally clear that the US supports Israel and that a two state solution is an absolute requirement. 

I am glad that I heard Biden speak today, because he left me with hope for the situation, and he diverted some of my attention away from the horrifying fact that I am much more right wing than I had originally thought. He closed with a quote from this poem:

“Human beings suffer,

They torture one another,

They get hurt and get hard.

No poem or play or song

Can fully right a wrong

Inflicted and endured.

History says, don't hope

On this side of the grave.

But then, once in a lifetime

The longed-for tidal wave

Of justice can rise up,

And hope and history rhyme.

So hope for a great sea-change

On the far side of revenge.

Believe that further shore

Is reachable from here.

Believe in miracles

And cures and healing wells.

Call miracle self-healing:

The utter, self-revealing

Double-take of feeling.

If there's fire on the mountain

Or lightning and storm

And a god speaks from the sky

That means someone is hearing

The outcry and the birth-cry

Of new life at its term.” 

― Seamus Heaney

Reflections at Reagan National

I was waiting in the airport, applying to medical school, and AMCAS asked me a very good question:

"What is the significance of your experience?"

The experience he was referring to, of course, was my volunteer work this summer at the women's shelter in Israel.

I tried clumsily to sum it up for the application:


Seeing the reality on domestic abuse on a daily basis completely changed the way I see the world. I began to see these "victims" of domestic abuse as victims of societies that prioritize honor over everything--including life itself. I saw how common domestic abuse is and how powerless I was to change that while working at the women's shelter.
I befriended many of the women and I adored the children. Because of the nature of the shelter, though, the families came and left unexpectedly. I never knew if my favorite women would be there the next day. I began to understand what it must be like for the ~40 children who spend months of their lives in that shelter.
Working with the three 15 year old girls had the biggest impact on me, however. We talked about race, racism, Ethiopia, Israel, President Obama, relationships, and regular teenage girl things like The Vampire Diaries. These young women taught me so much about strength and overcoming adversity. Their mothers were victims of domestic abuse, and that is why they were living in the shelter. However, they were determined to not experience the same cycle of abuse. They worked diligently on their English and other skills so they would be able to be financially independent as adults. It was an honor for me to know them and for me to help them for a summer.

But that isn't it.. is it? I couldn't tell AMCAS the true significance of this experience. I couldn't send this message to faceless people on the other end of the internet, flipping through thousands of medical school applications. I couldn't tell them how angry I feel when I think about the suffering I witnessed. I couldn't tell them that there was a Bedouin women who came to the shelter the last week I was there and she wouldn't look at anyone or speak to anyone, and then one day I asked her in broken Arabic "What's up?" and she cracked a smile. I couldn't tell them that the Ethiopian girls I worked with were the most beautiful people I've ever met, that they handled being 15 in a women's shelter in the middle of nowhere Israel better than I handled being 15 in picture-perfect suburban America in a loving, safe home.

I couldn't tell AMCAS that the reason I want to be a doctor is because I want to be alone in a room with a woman and recognize signs of abuse and be able to shut the door and speak with some authority and do something about it. I want to be able to perform reconstructive surgery on someone who has been forced to undergo FGM. I want to be able to give back some health autonomy to women who have never been allowed to make a choice for themselves. I want to give women CHOICES. I want to sit across from my patient and listen to her and have some expertise to be able to deal with what she is going through.

Because I felt fucking powerless at that shelter this summer.

I wasn't a social worker. I wasn't a director. I wasn't a volunteer coordinator. I wasn't anything!! I was a friend--and that meant something. But it wasn't enough and I need to be enough. That's why I need to be a doctor. It is selfish!! I can't help it. I need to be enough for someone.

I couldn't tell AMCAS that.

Losing a Limb

"The relation of the individual is as the relation of the single limb to the body. Should the arm, in case bleeding is required, refuse its blood, the whole body, the arm included, would suffer. It is, however, the duty of the individual to bear hardships, or even death, for the sake of the welfare of the commonwealth. He must particularly be careful to contribute his 'portion of the whole,' without fail."

--Rabbi Yehuda Halevi, Kitab al Khazari, Part Three, 19

Tonight is my friend Ariel's last night in Israel. She has to go back to school early for RA training (where have I heard that before??) and so she is leaving Be'er Sheva and me tomorrow morning.

Ariel is not a typical 6-week summer program type of friend. I have many of those, and they are extremely special to me. But Ariel is different because we have worked together every single day of volunteering, from morning to night. Together, we completed two 30 page research papers about domestic violence and shelters worldwide and we created a beautiful community with three teenage girls from the shelter.

Most of my close friends here are super supportive, funny, interesting, motivated people. I am lucky to know them. My friendship with Ariel is different because of the challenges we have faced together. We have not always agreed on how to conduct the research, we have struggled with computer frustrations, we have been stressed by deadlines and expectations from a somewhat intimidating (though also inspiring!) director at the shelter. Our time with "the girls" has been marked by impossible days when the twins can't stand to be in the same room as one another and no one will talk to us and, despite elaborate lesson plans, the girls don't want to do anything.

Our friendship has put us to the test, and we passed! Despite these potential sources of tension, we have spent every day with each other in a spirit of tenderness and love. We have learned from each other at every crossroads, we have collaborated on decisions in productive ways, we have shared incredible moments of inspiration together. If you know me, then you know I am averse to group work. I am highly individualistic and I prefer to operate on my own, even if it means more work for me. I also love to hang out by myself, wander the streets of a strange city on my own, and rub my independence in the world's face.

Being with Ariel is like being with myself, but better. Her humor, knowledge, interests, and feelings vibe so well with me. We have a rhythm together--when to be funny, when to play song-association games, when to talk politics, when to admit we know nothing about politics, when to push, when to pull back. We jive. And she shares my love of R Kelly, even though she's embarrassed to admit it.

Tonight in our group discussion, she shared this idea that it is difficult to have both truth and happiness. This is true. It is also the perfect way to describe my friendship with Ariel. We know the faults, the truth--what her wagging foot means when her legs are crossed, what her tired face looks like, the frustration when her computer is not cooperating, the sigh of complete exasperation with all living beings. And we know the joy, the happiness--laughing so hard our sides hurt, piecing together the dirty words of an Akon song, crashing a birthday party, spontaneous clubbing, taking on the town together. We share our families with each other, through stories, facebook, and even in person (whaddup Aliza!). We share what is meaningful to us, and it becomes meaningful to the other.

The quote at the top of this post is something from my group's source book, which we read during a program at the beginning of the summer. Tonight, we lose a limb. We will survive and go on to function as a group for the remaining few days, but we will always feel that absence. Ariel embodied the other half of that quote as well, because she contributed her portion of the whole without fail. She bore hardships, she gave willingly. We were better for having her.

And I am better because I have her--as a friend, a co-worker, a teacher, a soul sister.

Black and White

I was always taught not to see things in terms of black and white. (I hesitate to use the expression now, but:) the "right" way to take in experiences and observations was to remember that everything comes in shades of grey. I was taught that the world is "complex," and that my linear mind needed to bend and weave in order to fully appreciate the many perspectives that combine to create this thing called reality. I was reminded that there are many truths.

But this past Thursday, my world turned black and white.

On Thursday, I took a trip to Tel Aviv with my program. First, we met with the founder of Microfy, a micro-finance NGO that gives small loans to asylum seekers in Israel. These people are not granted refugee status--they are fleeing their homes in Eritrea, Sudan, and some other countries in Africa. They travel through Egypt and the Sinai at great risk to their personal safety to arrive in Israel.

There are currently about 60,000 asylum seekers living in Israel, mainly in South Tel Aviv. Most are men.

I have been to South Tel Aviv a few times before because that's where the central bus station is located. I had always been told that it's "a bad area" and that I should go straight to my bus. So that's what I did. On Thursday, though, we weren't there to go somewhere else. We were there to see South Tel Aviv, the Black City.

Our visit to Microfy was inspiring. I was feeling pretty good about the situation. The founder is an incredibly engaging and powerful woman from Uruguay. She said she was overwhelmed by the poverty in Uruguay but felt empowered to make a change here in Israel, and she made alliyah several years ago and hasn't stopped changing the world since. They have given out 120 micro loans, all of which have been repaid in full, with 10% interest. 120 isn't many out of 60,000, but you have to start somewhere, right?

After Microfy and lunch on Florentine, an "up and coming" area of South Tel Aviv, we met with a Mizrachi feminist woman, founder of Achoti. This NGO focuses on bringing Mizrachi feminist issues into the spotlight. We often talk about the minorities in Israel: Palestinians, Bedouins, Druze, and other non-Jewish groups. There is a forgotten group though, the Mizrachi Jews. They are invisible to the "Ashkenaz Smol," or the "White Left" (this phrase also doubles to mean "White Small" to highlight the close mindedness of proud left-wing Ashkenazic Jews who refuse to acknowledge the plight of the Mizrachi population). The Mizrachi Jews mainly live in South Tel Aviv and the periphery of Israel. It was a little awkward for me to hear about this woman's life and her fight for equality: I am Ashkenazic, I am left-wing, and until this past Thursday, I did not understand the difficulties facing Mizrachi women.

From Achoti, we stopped outside the Bialik School, a school that serves Jews of all colors, Philipinos, Thai students, Palestinians (if their parents were accused of being Israeli collaborators, they were forced out of their Arab communities), and refugees. There is an amazing documentary (apparently) about this school. Looking forward to checking it out: http://www.strangersnomoremovie.com/

At this point, things were still under control. We had met with strong, capable women who had founded successful NGOs that were helping the community. We were exploring the Black City, and it was diverse, it was exotic. We even walked through one neighborhood whose streets are shaped like a menorah (Neve She'anan).

But then it was sad. We toured the lower floors of the Central Bus Station, the floors where I would never venture on my own. There is a market on these floors, crowded with cheap items and somewhat deserted of potential buyers. We traipsed through this scene as a group of 18 white American young adults. We didn't belong. It was obvious and embarrassing.

The bus station led us to Levinsky Park. From far away, it looks like a colorful children's playground. As you get closer, you notice that there are blankets and cardboard boxes in the slide entrance. There are people living in the red plastic tunnel that connects the monkey bars to the fireman's pole. And what at first seems like people sunning themselves on a grassy lawn turns out to be about 50 young African men, asylum seekers (or "infiltrators" as they are often called in Israel), living on the ground. They were using boots as pillows.

We spoke to a man from Eritrea who escaped about 2 years ago. The program had arranged this for us, and he met us at the park. He was featured on the cover of a magazine in Israel, Eretz Acheret ("a different country"--the magazine article is about South Tel Aviv, which is a whole other country from what most Israelis know and love). He told us of his journey through Sudan and the Sinai. He was lucky to not be kidnapped and held for ransom by Bedouins. He told us that in Eritrea, he's not allowed to express his political opinions. He risked his life time and again to come to Israel, where he has no working permit, no official status. Now he works in a hotel. He's one of the lucky ones.

Israel only has an immigration policy for Jews. There is literally no immigration policy whatsoever for non-Jews.

After this, we spent the next hour and a half in a nearly abandoned, dark hallway of the Central Bus Station unpacking what we had seen that day. My roommate and dear friend is making alliyah this coming year. She went on Nativ a few years after I did and she has decided to come to Israel as a lone soldier. She grew up attending a socialist Zionist summer camp. She is one of the smartest people I know, and she loves Israel with everything that she is. But Thursday tested her faith and her love. She broke down in that horrible hallway of the bus station. She said that she finally saw what people were talking about when they equated Zionism with racism. She said that she couldn't believe that people were living this way in this beautiful country.

Her pain was my pain. This was the hardest moment of the entire trip.

Nothing much was resolved, but the schedule for the day was over, and we were let out into the wild of South Tel Aviv. Our first independent action of the day was to get on a bus headed to North Tel Aviv, the White City.

It took us a lot of time to wind down from what we had experienced. We powwowed over dinner at a lovely Italian place by the Carmelit market. Our critiques and our commitments were intertwined. We agreed in a general sense that what we had seen that day would inspire us to action. Either we would take the opposite route of the Uruguayan goddess and combat these issues in our own home country, or we would commit to returning to Israel in some capacity to be part of a sustainable change to help here. We shopped a bit and met up with friends. After a bit of walking and waiting, we hopped on a bus to take us to Herzliya, where we would stay for the next 48 hours.

We were welcomed with open arms by one of the founding families of Herzliya. We stayed in a gorgeous house in a perfect neighborhood. There was a stocked refrigerator and air conditioning and even a mommy ready and waiting to help us with anything we needed.

The next day, I went into Tel Aviv again with Ariel to check out the shuk, stroll through Nachalat Binyamin (an artist's market), walk on the beach, and shop on Dizengoff. We watched beautiful people walk the streets in skimpy bathing suits. Couples kissed passionately on sidewalks. Music and the faint, sweet smell of hash drifted in and out. People greeted each other with a secular cry of "Shabbat Shalom!" Shiny happy Jews holding hands.

When I told my mom my location, she texted me back: "What's up in the White City!?" She had no idea what that statement would mean for me; it affirmed my position in Israeli society and reminded me of the inhabitants of the Black City, just a short city bus ride south of where I was eating falafel and taking in the sites and sounds of the lively White City.

Our Shabbat in Herzliya was magical...we had a delicious dinner at home, got dolled up and crashed a birthday party, hung out at an American sports bar with live music, and went to a nearby club. The club was our taste of diversity for the evening: there was a wide variety of colors and sexualities represented there. A friendly (probably) Ethiopian (definitely) lesbian woman made sure I didn't forget that.

Saturday was pure luxury: sleeping in, playing at the beach, and an easy bus ride back home to Be'er Sheva. I needed the relaxation, but every time I thought about "deserving a break" I was nearly eaten alive by privilege guilt.


Tonight on my run, I thought about the picture on the magazine of this man we met in Levinsky Park, and I thought about the first time I had ever heard the phrase "Eretz Acheret:" it was in the summer of 2008, my first trip to Israel. My favorite staff member taught us all how to sing a beautiful song:

אין לי ארץ אחרת 
גם אם אדמתי בוערת 
רק מילה בעברית חודרת 
אל עורקיי, אל נשמתי 
בגוף כואב, בלב רעב 
כאן הוא ביתי 

לא אשתוק, כי ארצי 
שינתה את פניה 
לא אוותר לה, 
להזכיר לה, 
ואשיר כאן באוזניה 
עד שתפקח את עיניה 

I have no other country
even if my land is aflame
Just a word in Hebrew
pierces my veins and my soul - 
With a painful body, with a hungry heart,
Here is my home.

I will not stay silent 
because my country changed her face

I will not give up reminding her 
And sing in her ears 
until she will open her eyes

The words and melody of this song came back to me, though I haven't thought about this song in years. In 2008, I didn't "agree" with this song. I have another country. It's called America.

As of today, five years later, I have spent three summers and one school year in Israel. I have learned to love this country in ways I never thought it was possible to love a country. I have also struggled deeply with the problems here. I have defended Israel and I have been painfully disappointed by Israel. My experiences are layered like a tel--a hill created by many generations of people living and rebuilding on the same spot. Each new visit adds on top of the old ones, pushing them deeper into the ground but not erasing them. It takes some disturbance or digging to bring these old feelings and memories to the surface, but it's all still there. My 17 year old self is walking the streets of Jerusalem just as my 22 year old present self is crying on the floor of the South Tel Aviv central bus station, just as my 19 year old self is taking a shower in a moldy bathroom in Yerucham. 

America is my country, that is certain. I am excited to be returning there for so many reasons. But through the pain and the confusion, I feel a passionate love for this land, this homeland. A word of Hebrew heard on the street in New York City pierces my soul. With a painful body and a hungry heart, here is my home.

"...It is a dual relationship: the reality and the dream. But nevertheless, I am happy at the contrast." 
(Nitzan Horowitz, Eretz Acheret, vol. 24)

Broken Hearted in Be'er Sheva

I went in to volunteering an hour early today, so I was sitting alone at the bus stop. An older man walked by and stopped to ask me if everything was all right. I felt fine, but my face must have looked somber or distressed. I thanked him and assured him I was all right.

This is not the first time that a random stranger has expressed concern about my well being while I waited at a bus stop in Israel. It happened for the first time at the Be'er Sheva bus station three years ago. It is one of the more touching aspects of Israeli society.

That was where the touching aspects ended today, however. I waited for the bus for about a half hour, and the whole time, there were a few boys climbing on top of the little bus stop structure, making a ruckus and frightening me.

The reality of the place hit me as I watched the world pass by from the bus window. The apartment buildings here are raised, so as to let air circulate underneath. People congregate under the buildings sometimes. Today I saw an old woman sitting alone there, her walker set out in front of her. She was just gazing ahead. I have no idea if she was content or if she was lonely. I have no idea about her life whatsoever. But that image cut through me.

I even had a thought that the women at the shelter where I work are happier than that woman, because they have things to do and people to hang out with them. And then I felt guilty about trying to put an order on sadness, or trying to organize what's worse and what's better.

The whole horrible reality of everything hit me today. During my research on women's shelters in the US, I found a shelter that has kennel services on site. "Nearly half of the women entering the shelter say their pets have been threatened, injured, or killed by their abusive partner." Somehow, I had been putting information into boxes in my mind and making sense of domestic abuse, however difficult that was. Women can walk out, they can call hotlines, they can come to shelters. But when I thought about the animals, I hit a wall. I couldn't fit this into a box. I couldn't make sense out of the cruelty.

Last night, the volunteers from the women's shelter went to a pub with our volunteer coordinator, a 28 year old angel on earth, Shiran. We had maintained distance at the shelter and it was important to everyone to break down some barriers so we could connect on a more personal level. After gossiping a bit, exposing everyone's love lives, and battling an enormous caterpillar, the conversation turned to politics. Shiran is very left wing. She absolutely hated the army, where she served as a sort of social worker for soldiers (she had to do house visits to determine financial need and she visited the homes of some very poor, very disadvantaged people). She spoke openly about her opinions about the army in general, how wrong it is that the army is glorified and how terrible it is to make 18 year olds guard borders and jump out of planes, and that the army is not a great equalizer, because the rich Ashkenazi (white) Jews enter certain elite units, and everyone else goes into other units. And she spoke about racism in Israeli society, and how she views Zionism as being connected inextricably with racism.

I had always been so proud to call myself a Zionist, but I had never heard Zionism described like this. She told us gently and without a tone of debate, she was just expressing her own opinion and telling us about her personal experiences. I really valued this conversation because I realized I had mostly come into contact with right wing, privileged Israelis.

Shiran told us that when she was a senior in high school, one of her teachers was killed as a result of the Second Intifada. Instead of becoming vengeful and right wing in response, she went in the other direction. She felt that people said meaningless things to her for comfort ("Everything happens for a reason," and, "Only the best die young," and other silly things that don't respect the trauma or depth of this death). And she began to see systematic oppression and racism in Israeli society.

In no way is this post a declaration of "anti Israel" sentiments (I still consider myself a Zionist, even though I have a deeper understanding of what that term means to some people now). Rather, it is a declaration of reality. In some ways, it is a submission. I have known that these issues exist in Israeli society but I have chosen to not give them the weight they deserve. Today, I cannot ignore them any longer.

I am in a safe place this summer in terms of my relationship with Israel. I have my feet on the ground here, and I know that the country isn't going anywhere. I am not surrounded by potential detractors at school. I do not have to constantly be on the defensive. I do not have to counter every allegation of racism or terrorism with a bright, sunny statistic about democracy or technology or gay tourism. I have the space and the time to take in these criticisms, view the oppression with my own eyes, speak with Israeli Arabs, Druze, Ethiopians, and other populations that are discriminated against, and make my own conclusions.

These conclusions are still in the works. The process is painful, though, and I feel as though my heart has been laid open on an operating table and the surgeon has forgotten about me. I am exposed, I am open, I am vulnerable. I have not felt this way in a long time, and I know that ultimately, it is a good position to be in when forming opinions. But it's not easy. It feels the same as a broken heart.