By Rabbi Ben Kamin
TEL AVIV –Coming upon the final hours of my journey and renewal here, it is impossible for me not to offer thanks and reflections to and for my churning birth-land.
Israel, you remain, in all your national schizophrenia and commotion, decidedly yourself. A thorny Hebraic cacophony of compassion and self-righteousness, a land of both outrageous wit and unrelenting wariness, a society of profound passions conveyed on postmodern technology, a place of dark religious cabals and wildly liberated secular nihilists, Israel IS REAL.
You simply cannot spend time here, native-born or not, without feeling the sizzling imprint of an emotional and psychological visa emblazoned across your heart. This is not a normal people nor are they dealing with normal modalities from day to day. The love is on cue while the mind is on guard. Tomorrow is not certain; today is a blessing.
And yet: listen to the conversations between everyday people here, strangers and intimates alike. There is a melody of sorts in the discourse: Greetings of “Shalom!” and “ma-koreh?” [“What’s happening?”] are systemic and rhythmic. People actually pass through the doorway singing the greetings. Truly, everyone else’s life and presence are a consecration, an affirmation, a song to creation.
But then try to walk down a crowded hotel hallway here or across the aisle of a busy supermarket. The courtesy of a stranger allowing you space is unknown. If you wish to get by the two long-limbed young women simultaneously texting their boyfriends while chortling with each other about the latest hair conditioner from America; if you wish to maneuver towards the protein bars’ shelf just behind the two black-coated, hirsute Orthodox men in intense Talmudic discourse, you can forget about it.
Neither the young nor the old will give way—there is a territorial obsession in Israel that is neither subtle nor surprising. And a lot of folks here are just rude.
Israel, where long ago a national water pipeline from the north refreshed the desert south, is now a land of immaculate freeways and an exemplary bus and rail system. But street traffic is the vehicular equivalent of war. One can attribute the road fury to some kind of manifestation of the transferred aggression endemic to the nation’s long-running existential situation. In Israel, a red light is a comma, not a period.
But in Israel, one’s family is not a biological development. It is a profound, uncompromising emotional axiom, a moral proposition that precedes every possibility. It is God’s work on earth.
This is where the Israeli people transcend their bitter blend of loneliness and their lust for acknowledgment.
Children here are—to paraphrase the rabbinic tradition—the breath of heaven. Every encounter among parents begins, continues, and ends with inquiries about the children, the grandchildren, the curriculum at school, the fast food they shouldn’t be eating, what books they should be reading.
Did they visit their grandmother? Did they hear something inspiring? Did they receive proper care at the doctor’s? Are they okay? Shouldn’t we have a family dinner? We haven’t for more than a week! And that family dinner is not just about parents and children. It’s three or four generations gathered around a table, sharing stories, sometimes bickering, given to judging one another, and completely submitting to absolute accountability for one another.
When Israeli families sit and eat together, their souls mingle, and the angels take notes. Maybe that’s why Israel will always be here—in spite of the incomprehensible cruelty and self-destructiveness of its neighbor countries. The Israelis, irascible, stubborn, tender, sentimental, yearning for peace, know that the life of any one child is worth the whole universe.
I began this journey home at the graves of my parents. I fly off now on the breath of their grandchildren.
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Kamin is an author and freelance writer. He may be contacted via ben.kamin@sdjewishworld.com. Comments intended for publication in the space below must be accompanied by the letter writer’s first and last name and by his/ her city and state of residence (city and country for those outside the U.S.)