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Israeli View from an Ex-Pat
By Andrea Simantov
Whenever
there is a renewed spate of terror, it is not unusual for the
ex-pats among us in Israel to receive notes of concern from
well-meaning friends from overseas. Most people I know have
formulated a simple plan to let others know immediately that we
and our loved ones are safe via a simple group e-mail with a
subject line that reads, "We are all okay."
But
what constitutes okay? If having the same number of fingers,
toes or limbs at night that you left the house with that morning
adds up to 'okay', then almost everyone I know is doing just
dandy. But if okay means returning home with the same matzav
ruach - spiritual
countenance - that one began the day with, we are in need of an
infusion ASAP.
A
woman in my office who has lived here for less than two years
began to sob at the news that a bomb exploded at the entrance to
the city, injuring many. At the time of the initial reports, there
were thought to be casualties and only later would we would learn
that an evangelical Christian woman - bible translator Mary Jane
Gardner - died from her massive injuries. The rest of
us listened to various information channels with stoic
expressions, holding our reactions in check in the event they were
needed later. This is the Israeli way. After all, how
much can one scream when there is so much to scream for?
Dodging katyushas, detecting bus bombs and watching for terrorists
does, indeed, require a particular sort of 'vigilance rationing,'
and the horrors to which we react tend to fall on an 'intensity
scale' that has no known precedence.
Awhile
back there was a deadly rocket attack, targeting a school bus.
Miraculously, all of the children except for one boy had just
gotten off the vehicle - miraculous for everyone except for a
16-year-old boy and the driver. Ten days after the carnage,
the aforementioned boy, Daniel Viflic, succumbed to his wounds.
One had to scour the western papers to read about this bombing,
because the headlines that seemed to have "made it" were
the broadcasts of Israeli attacks. What none of the
screaming bold print managed to mention was that the Israeli
attacks - ALL OF THEM - were retaliatory! We were forced to
respond after week-upon-week of unanswered assaults against quiet
cities and their residents who have not been permitted a moment of
deserved quiet.
"Palestinian
mother and child killed in early morning Israeli raid."
Sad?
Of course. But it is beside the point when Hamas deliberately
hides behind the skirts of a collective Palestinian population
that can dish it out but not take it. What can be expected
when a moral, achingly-restrained army is forced to protect its
"What about us?" populace? Those who harbor
murderers should, typically, understand that they are sitting in
the line of fire and will undoubtedly become caught in the
crosshairs should our leaders own up to their ethical obligations
and retaliate.
The
sense of communal frustration felt in Israel is difficult to
describe as we, too, read reports that emanate via international
news outlets. Scratching our collective head, it behooves
one to consider that if we did not live with the boys in uniform,
farm on the periphery of Arab countries, compassionately equip our
bomb shelters with video games and Legos and spend valuable tax
revenue on cutting-edge security systems for shopping centers and
hospitals, we might also believe the headlines that detail our
heinous characters and bestial natures. Thanks to God, we
know better.
What
do we know?
We
know that we want peace like nobody's business. We want to
promise our children futures that are rife with choice: choice of
livelihood, choice of community, choice of where to travel, choice
of how to be Jewish. But we live in a neighborhood where the
neighbors have determined the agenda and, consequently,
compromised our freedoms. While Arab leaders robotically
spew slogans about self-determination, I feel compelled to ask,
"What about our
self-determination to live quietly and attend to the business of
life?" After five thousand, seven hundred and seventy one
years of peoplehood, including the last 63 years of modern Israel,
we zany-Jews still haven't figured out that gratitude is
subjective: offering Arab-Israelis ample education options in the
finest halls of learning in the Middle East, unprecedented
employment and career opportunities and superior free health care
does not necessarily result in gratitude or even - Heaven forbid!
- cessation of hostilities.
I
received a note via Facebook from a Christian minister who had
been to my house for Shabbat supper during a "fact-finding"
tour with several other well-intentioned folks from a Washington
think tank. They visit frequently and try to talk with the
common man - both Jew and Arab - to get a grasp of what is really
going on. When asked by a few skeptical friends why I would
host such a group, I'm able to answer without hesitation.
'They are being invited into Palestinian homes all of the time and
if we don't let them hear our voices, they will creatively fill-in
the missing pieces.'
Part
of Paul's note read: “Good
morning Andrea. I've wanted to send this for a few weeks, so
I'm sorry that I've just gotten around to it. You have been
in my thoughts since I read about the bombing in Jerusalem.
My prayers for safety and provision are with you and your people.
May God's peace be with you”.
It
was a nice note. Still, I felt a churning unrest and,
unencumbered by the niceties of the Sabbath table, I asked him if
he had heard about the slaughter, the butchering of the Fogel
family the previous month. He hadn't.
Replying
that while his note was appreciated, he must forgive me for
harboring more than a little distrust of 'spiritual missions' that
are being fed only bits and pieces of the story and believe that
the Palestinian/Israeli narrative is one of 'parity.'
'With
whom can we negotiate, Paul? There is no one in charge.
There is no one with the trust of the people; no one who carries a
moral compass and can iron out an agreement that will not lead to
our annihilation. Tell me; what more can Israel offer that
would leave her with a viable country and peace on our borders?'
To
date, I have not heard back from him.
At
5:30 this morning I shared a cup of coffee with my soldier son,
making certain that his laundry was done and he had four of his
favorite sandwiches on hand for the long ride back to the base.
I teased him that he would always think of home when he smelled
the rose-petal softener I used in the final rinse cycle. His
hair was almost completely shorn, and the small black skullcap he
wears sat neatly atop the bristles. Although he is a man, I
could see beneath the resolute jaw and mile-wide shoulders that he
is still my baby boy, sprouting teeth while toddling across a
freshly-mowed American lawn.
Finishing
my cup of coffee on the living room patio, I watched him cross the
six lane avenue to catch his ride to the station. He is my
son, but, from this distance, he is clearly a son of Israel.
As he
drove away, I mentally typed the subject line for my day.
It read, "We are all okay."
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* * * *
Reprinted
with permission of Orange County Jewish Life Magazine, May 2011
~~~~~~~
from the June 2011 Edition of the Jewish Magazine
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