Hebrew - Moi?

Long-time residents of Israel are often asked by new immigrants what is the hardest part of integration. People have reported various difficulties they have encountered in their move to Israel. One woman recounted that the hardest aspect of her move from the West was figuring out what to serve her kids for supper.  “Food here”, she said, “was just not the same as food there.  And the shopping isn’t the same either. Come to think of it, neither are the prices.”  Many people lament the distance from their family (though email, Facebook, Skype etc. has alleviated part of that problem). Others admit that the weather gets them down (too hot or too cold). My British friends have trouble driving on the ‘wrong’ side of the road. Finding a job scores quite high on the ‘problem’ list too. But none of those obstacles were ever on my list. Whenever I’m asked what my biggest problem was (and I am frequently asked) I unhesitatingly answer: language. Despite twelve expensive years of private Jewish school, when I came to Israel I became – in one moment – illiterate and silenced.

Speaking Hebrew has always been a problem for me. Even back in that expensive Jewish Day School, I never seemed to get the hang of the language. I couldn’t remember vocabulary and my grammar was terrible. Disregarding my handicap, however, I came to Israel at age 18 figuring I would soak up the language in weeks. Alas, that was not to be. For the first few years I was here, anytime I was required to speak Hebrew – whether to ask directions or to request something in a store or answer somebody else’s question – I would first practice what I wanted to say. I would decide which words were necessary (should I say ‘go’ or ‘travel’?), figure out tense, person, gender, and then after several minutes of muttering under my breath, I would come out with some garbled gibberish.  Instead of saying ‘Which bus goes to Petach Tikvah,’ it would come out ‘Do the bus going until Ra’anana.’ It never failed. The more I practiced the more lost I got.  

Growing up in Canada, I learned a great deal of French from reading food labels. Gratis was free, and maize was corn. Of course I couldn’t actually pronounce any of those words properly, but to this day when I see the words beurre d’arachide, I immediately think of Skippy. So I decided to apply the same principle to Hebrew. I began to read labels. I soon learned how to say important words, like ‘ingredients’ and ‘food coloring’. Then I moved on to recipes. I began to buy Hebrew cook books. I learned new verbs; mix, knead, bake. However none of that helped me get to Petach Tikvah, so I continued practicing under my breath whenever I got near the Central Bus Station.

Marrying a guy who was almost completely fluent in the lingo was a help, but also a huge hindrance. Yes, he could always tell me what a word meant, or how to say something I needed, but I was often too embarrassed to ask him. I was deathly afraid that he would might detect that his otherwise intelligent, educated, well-read, and amusing wife was completely brainless when it came to Hebrew. From the very beginning, he insisted we buy only a Hebrew paper. “If you want to be Israeli, we have to read the paper in Hebrew!” Egad. I bravely made my way through the headlines, but only when he wasn’t looking. Once I had the front page headlines down, I tackled the inside page headlines. Eventually – and by eventually I mean not weeks or months, but years – I could not only get through the headlines, but I could read whole articles, understanding more than one out of every five words.

Over the years, I did manage to learn Hebrew, to the point where I could understand the news on TV, have conversations with non-English speaking people, and even get to Petach Tikvah without mishap. But it was never easy, and I still come out with nonsense especially when I am nervous or my husband and kids! are listening to me.

It was only after I had kids that my Hebrew really picked up. First, I had to learn all the necessary nursery/kindergarten words; pastel crayons, regular crayons, felt pens. And the verbs – cut, fold, copy. There were always opportunities to learn new words. One time, the teacher told me my child had been coughing (mishto’elet) a lot, and I thought she had said that she had been acting up (mishtolelet). I lectured my daughter all the way home about her behavior before a coughing fit (hers, not mine) stopped me in my tracks. I learned to pay more attention to the teachers.

When my oldest started Grade One, we were given a type-written list of supplies that were needed. Heading the list was the word ‘kalmar’. What was a kalmar? I asked my husband in a panic (by this time he suspected that I wasn’t exactly highly-skilled in languages), but even he didn’t know. My kid hasn’t even started school, I thought, and already her parents have flunked out. Hurrying to my best friend, the dictionary, I found out that kalmar is a pencil box. Oh. 

A friend of mine told me a similar story. One day, her six-year-old came rushing in from school, mid-morning. As she lived the closest to the school and knowing her mother was home, her teacher had sent her to get a ‘poompiya’. My friend looked at her little daughter in horror. She couldn’t even begin to guess what a poompiya was. The kid was becoming unstrung as she had promised her teacher she would come back right away, with, of course, a poompiya. After several minutes of looking through more and more advanced dictionaries (this was in the days before my new best friend – Google translate) my friend discovered that a poompiya was a food grater. That little incident, my friend declared, took years off her life.

As she was telling me this story, I was feeling very smug. I knew what a poompiya was from watching “Parpar Nechmad” – A Lovely Butterfly – a children’s TV program which I never missed. After reading food labels, children’s television was the best way of learning important words.

Of course, once my kids hit their teens, Hebrew became less important. I had to learn a whole new dialect. Slang. After almost twenty years in Israel, all my hard-won Hebrew was for naught. My kids came home from school speaking a foreign language. Once again I persevered. I made them speak slowly and repeat themselves until I translated their babbling into workable sounds. I learned the difference between a chadjkoon and a falloola. The first is what teenagers suffer from on their faces; the second is what Ehud Barak had removed from his. I learned who was a ‘patish’ (a macho kind of guy), and who was a laff-laff (a nerd). By far the most important word I ever learned, however, is ‘fadicha.’

A fadicha is what mothers do when they kiss their kids in front of friends (MOOOOOOM, don’t do that, it’s a fadicha); when they wear too much makeup and color their hair some ridiculous shade of orange; or when they don’t wear makeup and don’t color their hair, (“Don’t come pick me up. Your hair looks funny, it’s a fadicha”). Or when they offer their kids’ friends some light refreshments (‘but he doesn’t want anything – I already asked – please don’t do any fadichot). Of course a fadicha can extend to other people’s behavior, (“Shlomit forgot all her lines at the ceremony today, and ran off the stage. What a fadicha!”). But parents in general, and mothers in particular, are responsible for most of the world’s fadichot.

Accompanying my son to an interview for junior high school, I was told that he didn’t want me to come in with him, though parents were encouraged to participate. I was hurt by his attitude, until I caught sight of myself in a window. My shirt, slightly stained with chocolate from the cake I had shoved into the oven just before we came, did not quite match the skirt I was wearing. I was sockless too. I was a walking fadicha.

Another time, coming back from a meal in a restaurant my in-laws had treated us to, my daughter, wanting to go to her youth group club house, asked us to drop her off. “But please stop about a block away. I don’t want anyone to see us.” Looking at the nine people jammed into the car with arms and legs hanging out every which way, I understood her request. We were a fadicha on wheels.

My own battle with a foreign language has made me appreciate my parents’ generation far more than I did as a child. While my parents both spoke accentless English, many of their immigrant friends did not. I would cringe when I listened to their grammatical mistakes, their funny accents, and their awkward syntax. Now I’m being paid back in spades.

What a fadicha.

63 Reasons

Reams and reams are written in the days before Israel Independence Day about how wonderful it is to live in Israel. Indeed, Israelis have just been ranked the seventh happiest people in the world. This, despite the wars, the growing isolation and anti-Zionism in the world, the terrorist and missile attacks. I’ve decided to add to the list from my own perspective as an immigrant ex-Winnipeger, a veteran resident of 26 years in Beer Sheva, and an orthodox Jew, in no particular order, my 63 reasons (one for each year of modern Israel’s existence) that still make my heart flutter and why I thank G-d every day that I live in Israel:

1. Everyone has two birthdays, a Gregorian and a Jewish one.

2. In some years, there is as much as a month between the two birthdays. We call this period the birthday 'Chol Hamoed' (a term used for the intermediary days of Passover and Sukkot), and reserve the right to celebrate anytime.

3. There is only one possible three-day holiday. In Israel, only the first and last days of Pesach and Sukkot are chagim (holidays) and not the first and last two days, as is the case everywhere else in the world. The only holiday that is two days is Rosh Hashana, so when it falls on Thursday and Friday, we add Shabbat and have a three-day holiday. We never have to worry about Sukkot or Pesach. Which means that

4. We have only one seder. If there is no other reason to live in Israel, this is it. We have one seder on Pesach and finished.

5. Jewish holidays are national holidays. We don't have to ask for extra time off work, or to postpone exams for Rosh Hashana/Yom Kippur or Pesach, or for Shabbat for that matter. The country shuts down automatically.

6. It is understood that you will take off from work on the day your child is drafted into the army.

7. Israel is such a small country that it is possible to visit many different places in a short time.

8. It's even possible to literally walk the country’s length and breadth.

9. Not only is it possible to walk Israel's length and breadth, it's considered a mitzvah to do so. During vacation times, attractions, holy and historic sites, walking trails, and nature reserves are clogged with people touring, visiting, picnicking and enjoying.

10. Falafel is available everywhere, all the time. And it's cheap.

11. Ice cream is available everywhere, most of the time. It's still an Israeli trait not to eat ice cream in the winter. This quaint trait, however, is changing.

12. Pita and laffa (Iraqi bread) are considered staple foods and are available in any supermarket.

13. Supermarkets are kosher and are closed on Shabbat. Those few shops that provide non-kosher food (usually meats and shellfish) have signs on them proclaiming they are not kosher.

14. The sunsets are not only beautiful, but mark, not the end of another day, but the beginning of a new one.

15. Snow days are almost national holidays. It's a given that if snow falls anywhere in the country, people are going to take the day and go visit it.

16. Snow days are very rare. Even after living here for so many years, I really don't miss the snow.

17. From May to October, you can plan any event outdoors and not worry about it being rained out.

18. The Hoopoe is Israel's national bird – not the mosquito.

19. The Hoopoe, like all things Israeli, comes with its own history. It is said to have carried King Solomon's invitation to the Queen of Sheba to visit Jerusalem. The rest, as they say, is history.

20. Neot Kedumim, a park located not far from Jerusalem, is dedicated to educating Israelis about the natural flora of Israel. All plants and trees mentioned in the Bible have been planted there, often in the same arrangements as recorded. This gives one an idea of what was meant when in Sefer VaYikra (Leviticus) it is said that the Kohen is to take the 'cedar of Lebanon and the hyssop'…

21. The Jerusalem zoo is home to all the animals mentioned in the Bible (along with many that aren't).

22. The shoemaker to whom I take my shoes to fix is one of the liberators of Beer Sheva who fought in the War of Independence in 1948-49.

23. Heroes are everywhere and dress up as ordinary people.

24. After the liberation of Beer Sheva in 1949, the first park that was built was called Allenby Park, named after Field Marshal Edmund Allenby, who liberated the city from the Turks during the First World War in 1917.

25. Every year, there is a ceremony in Beer Sheva on October 31 marking ANZAC day. ANZAC stands for Australian and New Zealand Armed Corps. October 31 is the day that Allenby and his troops, made up of Australians and New Zealanders, liberated Beer Sheva.

26. A few years ago, Allenby Park was re-dedicated and a new statue of Allenby was unveiled. Not only did the British ambassador come for the ceremony, so did Edmund Allenby’s grandson and family.

27. Israeli universities have a second sitting for all exams. This practice was adopted for those students who had army reserve duty during the first exam period.

28. During the Lebanon War in 1982, a third exam sitting was implemented, for those students who missed both the first and second sittings due to the war.

29. When my son was in the army, I sent out an email on the Beer Sheva email list requesting information on where to find some equipment he requested I buy. Not only did I receive dozens of replies with the information, I also received offers to borrow the equipment, or even just to take it for free.

30. Many of those emails also included words along the line of “I am including your son in my daily prayers for the welfare of our soldiers”.

31. Some of those people who added my son to their prayers needed to first ask me his name, as they were complete strangers. But that didn’t matter because

32. Soldiers, no matter their age, are everybody’s children.

33. A lecturer in one of the colleges was fired when he did not admit a student in army uniform to his class. It was a unanimous decision.

34. Various presidents, prime ministers, and members of Knesset speak (or spoke) Hebrew with a foreign accent.

35. When people comment on my accent I mention the above to them. It always makes them smile.

36. When there was a chance that the Israeli national basketball team might qualify to play in the European championship this year, a national debate ensued as to whether or not they should play. The final game of the championship was scheduled for the evening of Yom HaZikaron (Israel’s Remembrance Day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terrorism). It seemed inappropriate to play a championship game on that night.

37. The Europeans agreed that if Israel did qualify to play in the final game, they would move the game to the afternoon hours, so it would finish before sunset and not conflict with Remembrance Day. The Israeli team did qualify, and the game was moved to the afternoon.

38. The Israeli team agreed that if they won the championship, there would be no celebrating that night. (They lost anyway…)

39. In previous years, Israel has not participated in the Eurovision Song Contest because it was held on Yom HaZikaron.

40. Verses from the Bible or the commentators have become idioms in everyday Hebrew. Rashi’s “What’s the sabbatical year to Mt. Sinai?” roughly translates to “what’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?”

41. In Hebrew, anything outside of Israel is called precisely that; outside of Israel. As in “she went to outside of Israel for a vacation.”

42. Part of the state education curriculum is trips to various areas of the country.

43. Most schools have a siddur (prayer book) party at the end of Grade one, celebrating the children’s ability to read from the siddur.

44. Most schools also have a chumash (Bible) party at the end of Grade 2, celebrating the children’s ability to learn Torah.

45. My children’s schools took the kids to Jerusalem for their chumash party. What better place to celebrate learning Torah?

46. Streets in Israel are often named after Jewish and Israeli figures.

47. In Beer Sheva, each neighborhood has a theme for its street names. In one neighborhood, all the streets are named for animals found in Israel, another for pre-state historical figures, while in my neighborhood all the streets are named for places in Israel.

48. The main street in my neighborhood is Jerusalem Street.

49. There is one older neighborhood where each street is named for one of the twelve tribes of Israel.

50. When that neighborhood grew and more names were needed, the new street was given the name Osnat. Osnat was the wife of Joseph, son of Jacob.

51. If a street is named after a person, the street sign often comes with little explanations of who the person was. Explanations such as “medieval Jewish commentator,” “Supreme court judge,” and “Chief Rabbi of the IDF” make walking down the street an educational experience.

52. When there is a pigua (terrorist attack) or a grad missile attack, the phone lines crash within five minutes. This is because everyone across the country is phoning everyone to make sure everyone is ok.

53. It is not unusual for thousands of people to attend a funeral of a terror victim or a soldier killed in battle.

54. It is also not unusual for thousands of people to visit the families of a terror victim or a soldier during the shiva period.

55. It is also not unusual for thousands of people to pray for the quick recovery of wounded soldiers or terror victims or send presents or even come visit.

56. Then, when a family of a killed or wounded soldier or terror victim celebrates a wedding or a birth or a bar mitzvah, thousands of people follow their simcha and rejoice with them. This is because

57. Kol hayehudim eravim zeh lazeh. All Jews are responsible for each other, in sorrow and in joy.

58. Flowers are everywhere. All year round.

59. Ben-Gurion University, where I work, is a world leader in research in water use, de-desertification, and agriculture.

60. One of the smaller BGU campuses in the city is dotted with experimental fruits, sabra plants, and one-of-a-kind trees.

61. When asked, our very secular neighbor happily joins us to make a tenth in a minyan.

62. We know when mincha (afternoon prayers) is on Shabbat at the neighborhood synagogue by watching for groups of men walking down the street.

63. My children are all sabras.

Grad Redux

Life in Israel normally begins much earlier in the day than in North America. Most people here have to be at work by 8:00 or 8:30 AM, so 7:00 AM is already considered 'rush hour'. Nonetheless, Wednesday morning's 5:30 AM alarm was still a little earlier than usual. Because I had a very full day ahead of me, I was actually already awake and up when warning sirens were heard across the city. Nevertheless, it took me two or three seconds until I understood what that dreadful noise was. I went directly to my 10-year old's room to wake her and bring her to the safe room. My husband, however, preceded me by three seconds and was already taking her from her bed. We then went into my older daughter's bedroom, which is in fact the safe room (build of reinforced concrete), where she was sitting up groggily in her bed. "Don't these guys know it's 5:30 in the morning?" was her only reaction. Shortly after the end of the siren, we heard the whump of impact, waited a few more minutes – as per instructions of the army's Home Front Command – and then headed back to bed. Of course, one of us only had to lie back down again – still cursing under her breath.

I, however, headed straight to the computer to see if I could find out where the Grad missile had landed. The boom of the impact was much quieter than the last one, so I knew the area where it fell must be much further away than the last missile a few weeks before.

Long before any official news updates were released, my Facebook page was full of information. Several friends were already posting that the crash had been loud; the missile seemed to have landed close to their houses. And then another wrote that she actually saw the bomb crash, as she was running with her toddler to a shelter. When I spoke to her a few hours later, she was still shaken. The grad, she said, had literally fallen in front of her eyes. She and her baby were unhurt physically, but in a slight state of shock. Her building does not have a shelter, so she had to run outside to the neighborhood shelter, which was locked. This was not, she declared, how she planned to start her day.

The missile had landed in the older part of a lower-to-middle-income neighborhood. The street where it fell is populated mainly by older immigrants from Northern Africa—Morocco, Algiers, Tunisia, and Egypt. The street is dotted with synagogues, each boasting its own unique customs and rabbi. Observant Jews pray three times a day—morning, afternoon, and after nightfall. It is considered an extra 'mitzvah' – or good deed – to pray as early in each time period as possible. The synagogue next to which the Grad had crashed was full of men who habitually pray at the 'sunrise' minyan (quorum for prayers). They arrive at the synagogue while it is still dark, and time their prayers so that they say the Amidah (the Standing Prayer) as the sun is just coming up. On this particular morning, the prayers were interrupted by the thunder of the crashing missile. The windows of the shul all blew out, and glass flew in all directions. Because this is Israel and miracles happen, the men streamed out unhurt. Not one was so much as scratched.

Had the Grad been launched ten minutes earlier or later, the streets would have been full of men on their way to or from the synagogues. As it was the streets were empty, and therefore, except for one man watching the action from his third floor window, there were no physical injuries. (The heads of these missiles are filled with jagged pieces of metal and ball bearings so that on impact they can cause even greater damage. The man wounded was hit – on the third storey! - from flying shrapnel).

Obviously, the Grad landing in the middle of the street (replaying the miracle of the last grad that fell two weeks ago) minimized the amount of property damage.

Maybe it was because the Grad didn’t wreak the damage the terrorists had hoped for that three hours later the warning siren sounded again. This time I was already at work in the University. I had left my sleeping daughter in the house as school had been cancelled for the day. After returning to my desk from the shelter, which was not a shelter as much as a stairwell, I immediately called her. She was slightly shaken but calm. I returned home (as did most of the mothers in my department - losing half a day’s work) to be with her. My own Facebook status said that now I was officially annoyed.

That evening, the organization of Americans and Canadians in Israel (AACI), in which I am active, was holding a meeting featuring a guest speaker who had been an American volunteer in the Aliyah Bet – the immigration of Jewish survivors of Nazi death camps to pre-state Palestine, defying British mandate edicts denying their entry. I spent much of the afternoon speaking to army authorities getting permission to meet (as long as there was a protected area big enough to hold all the people there was no problem), calling the guest speaker to make sure he was coming (a gentleman over the age of eighty, his only comment was “What, I should let a few bombs stop me? I’d never get anything done”), phoning expected guests from Jerusalem to see if they were still coming to the war zone [they laughed, but this was before their own war zone opened up that afternoon in the form of a pigua (terrorist attack) near the Central Bus Station claiming the life of one foreign student and almost 40 wounded – 3 critically], and posting updates on the local e-list saying that yes, the meeting was still being held.

More than 80 people gathered together that evening to hear Murray Greenfield, one of the founders of AACI, speak of his efforts in the Aliyah Bet, bringing thousands of Jews home to Eretz Israel. Their attitude was one of defiance; that life – no matter how early or how rudely you are awakened in the morning – not only goes on, but is to be enjoyed, celebrated, and to be taken with gratitude.

Introducing Murray to the crowd, I said, “When I was about 13, I read a book that didn’t exactly change my life, but gave my life a very strong direction, a focus. That book was Exodus, by Leon Uris. It made me want to live in a place where people gave everything for others, where others were more important than self, where everyone is a hero. I wanted to live in a country that had such heroes.  A few years later I was blessed by being able to come and live in a country where miracles happen daily, and where heroes walk among us like regular people.”

What a blessing it is to be witness to daily miracles! Grads fall in empty spaces, between houses, outside shuls, in the middle of an empty street. Heroes come in many shapes and forms; mothers protecting their babies, kiosk owners warning people away from suspicious objects, taxi drivers taking people to hospitals, passers by running to give water to those in shock, strangers praying for the health and welfare of others. Because at the end of the day, despite all our divisions, we are all one family, with one history and one destiny.

And then I said that “being in a room with Murray Greenfield is almost as good as being in a room with Paul Newman”. Everyone else laughed, but Murray didn't look too amused.

In the Middle of the Middle East

Last night, just before I went out for the evening, I watched a few minutes of news on TV.
"Isn't it funny," I said to nobody in particular, "Libya is being blown up, Egypt is imploding, half the other countries in the Middle East are falling apart, and here I am, in the middle of the Middle East, going off to book-club! I'm so glad I live in Israel and not a dangerous country!"
And, indeed, off I went to discuss Flannery O'Connor and, ironically, her collection of short stories A Good Man is Hard to Find, which can be rather relevant in this area of the world.
In the midst of our heated discussion about Southern racism and anti-Catholicism, we were interrupted by the very loud wail of a missile warning siren. The rising and falling tones of the siren are unmistakable. Everyone around the table was an experienced Israeli; we all knew what the siren indicated. However, for long seconds we all just looked at each other and didn't move. The hostess finally jumped up and ushered everyone into her bomb shelter with a "there should be room for everyone".
We filed into the shelter, which – like almost everyone’s – held a washer, dryer, freezer, boxes of clothes, and assorted tools. We managed to find room between the washing machine and the freezer. We stood quietly, waiting for the siren to end and listening for the BOOM. After what seemed like a long while (but really wasn’t – especially if you are running to a shelter from, say, a parking lot), the siren ended, followed a few seconds later by the BOOM. It was a very loud BOOM, as it happened. The explosion was obviously not very far away.
Emerging from the shelter a minute later, all of us went straight for the cell phones. But nobody could get through. One of the more exasperating phenomena after any pigua (terrorist attack) in Israel is that all the cellular phone lines crash almost immediately from overuse. Because everyone needs to phone everyone, it ends up that you can't phone anyone, which, obviously, only exacerbates the panic. 
I got through to my family a few minutes later, however, on a land line. Everyone was fine, my daughter told me but the BOOM had been very very loud, and the windows and walls had shaken. As I got off the phone, my hostess was busy texting her husband who was still at work at the University. "All ok," she wrote, "good news is that nine people fit into the shelter."
Book-club fizzled out soon after. It was a little hard to concentrate on post-war America while fearing that we might, once again, be pre-war.

And so, still trying to get in touch with any of my out-of-town sons to let them know all was well so they shouldn’t get worried when they heard about the attack, I took a couple of friends home. The streets were quiet, no signs of fire, or firetrucks, or ambulances. No sign, that is, until I turned into my own street. Here, there were police everywhere, lights flashing, blocking off parts of the road. The grad missile had landed about a five minute walk from my house.
As I parked the car outside my house, I was finally able to get through to one son, and I told him how close the Grad had fallen. "Hey, cool," was all he said. So much for panic.


Upon entering the house and reporting breathlessly that there was a ton of police down the street (nothing like adding to the drama), my husband announced in true Israeli fashion "let's go see!!"
So, armed with a cell phone equipped with a camera, we marched off to go see a bombed house.
The closer we got to the area, the more confusion there was. Dozens of people were milling in the street, an ambulance was trying to back out a narrow passage blocked with gawkers, and a fire truck was double parked down the block. By the time we got close to the site, most of the excitement was over, and people were packing up their picnic baskets and going home. The street was full of glass from blasted windows, and it crunched beneath our feet. We could see shrapnel damage on the face of one house on the street and damage to a fence near a different house. Disliking the feeling of glass under my feet, I turned to go home before seeing the house that had actually taken the hit, but Martin went further. He was able to actually see and photograph - gasp - a hole in the ground.
The truth is that the damage was extensive. At least five houses were damaged, with one living room falling in. A number of cars were also wrecked, and several people suffered from shock and had to be taken to the hospital.
What is miraculous, however, is that it wasn't much worse. The missile had fallen in a yard (hence the hole in the ground) and not directly on the house. There had been nobody outside, though it was a warm evening. In addition, the missile fell in a neighborhood where every house, by law, has a 'protected room' or shelter. In other, older neighborhoods, there are neighborhood shelters, rather than private ones, and most of those are locked up.
Five meters in any direction and that one missile had the capacity of killing and wounding at least twenty people .


But we all know that here in Israel miracles happen.
And this is why I'm so happy to be living here, in the middle of the Middle East.

Happy Chanuka!!

Ther

There is a famous question concerning Chanukah.  Why it is, that if there was enough oil found in the Holy Temple to last one day and it lasted eight days, we celebrate eight days of miracles, when actually the miracle itself only appeared on the second day, therefore there were only seven days of miracles?

There are many answers to this question. One of the more known ones is that we celebrate the miracle of the victory of the few over the many (the Jews over the Hellenists) on the first day, and on the next seven days we mark the miracle of the oil. Others say that the small vial of oil was divided into eight portions, knowing that it would take 8 days to make more. This way, the menorah in the Temple would be alight at least a small part of each day, until more oil could be procured. However, the small amount of oil lasted all day until it was time to light the menorah again the next day with its own day's portion. Therefore, each day, for all eight days, a miracle did occurr. Over the centuries, more and more answers have been given to this question, and there is a book called Ner L’Meah (A Candle for One Hundred) that gives one hundred separate answers.

I found this answer, based on the teachings of Rav Smicha Zissel Ziv – known as the Alter (or elder) of Chelm – very moving and relevant to today.

Rav Zissel begins by explaining Rambam. This 10^th century Rabbi/philosopher/doctor/commentator explains that there are two kinds of miracles; ‘open miracles’ (galui), which are those that obviously go against the rules of nature. An example would be the parting of the Red Sea. Other miracles are ‘hidden’ (nistar). These are occurrences which happen regularly and within a pattern, and are not necessarily seen immediately as a miracle. (We here in Beer Sheva were witnesses to many hidden miracles during the ‘Cast Lead’ war, two years ago.) Intrinsically, however, there is no difference between an open and a hidden miracle.

Rav Zissel explains that the only difference between the two kinds of miracles is one's perspective. He brings this example:

For forty years manna fell from heaven for the Children of Israel as they wandered in the desert. We, today, consider this a great miracle. However, let's look at it from the perspective of a person of that generation, born in the desert. Every day of his life, he sees the manna fall from the sky. To him this is a natural, regular occurrence. He knows no difference.

And then, one day, along with his people, all of whom were born in the desert, he enters the Land of Israel. Suddenly, the manna stops falling. For this person, there is no food. Where does he find food? Growing inside the earth, growing from the trees!! He has never seen anything like it. For him, this is a great miracle. An even greater miracle is that when he plants a tiny seed, it grows into a large plant! For this desert born man, these are open miracles.

So now we understand that the only difference between an open and hidden miracle is on e of perspective.

The Gemara in Masechet Ta'anit tells a story of Rav Chanina ben Dosa's daughter, who one Friday evening accidentally filled her candelabrum with vinegar instead of oil. She became distraught, but her father comforted her by telling her "He, who says that oil should burn, will say that vinegar should burn!" She lit the vinegar and it burned throughout the Shabbat.

Rav Zissel of Chelm explains that the miracle which occurred in this Talmudic episode is not that the vinegar burned, but that oil burns at all. Everything which happens on earth is a manifestation of G-d's will.

Explaining the eight days of Chanukah, the open miracle is that the small amount of oil 'unnaturally' lasted for eight days. But the first miracle (which we mark by lighting a candle on the first day of Chanuka) is that the oil burns at all!

The Greeks and the Hellenists tried to forbid all those mitzvot which did not seem to have a practical purpose. Circumcision? Why scar a perfect body? Shabbat? Why sit in the dark when you can just reach and put on the lights? 

There is absolutely no practical use to the chanukiya. We are not allowed to use its lights for any purpose. The only function of the chanukiya is its function as a mitzvah. Therefore lighting it is our way of proclaiming – all these years – that we recognize G-d's miracles – open and hidden. We recognize His domination over us, and that we are blessed and sanctified by doing His mitzvot.

The relevance of this story to today’s generation – or anyone under the age of 60 – is this:

Like the desert-born man who was born into a world where manna was an every day occurrence, we were born into a world where the state of Israel had always existed. We have never lived in a world without Israel being here, protecting us. Those who were on earth before Israel became a state recognized, then, the open miracle that had occurred. But we, whose perspective is different, might not recognize or appreciate how great a miracle we are living every day.

When you light your candles, think of this ongoing miracle we have been privileged to be witness to.

Chanuka Sameach to all.

An Israeli Thanksgiving

Last night, for the first time, I had a taste of American Thanksgiving. Being Canadian-born, and having spent two thirds of my life in Israel, I have very little feeling for the American Thanksgiving. No, sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, I have NO feeling at all for the American thanksgiving, other than the fact that I’m thankful I’m Canadian.

I’m also very thankful that at least one of my prime ministers is a man of principles, and stands by his word. Go Stephen Harper, my new superhero.

Whenever I officially think of giving thanks, the first thing that comes to mind is this book I read a long time ago, but stayed in my head, called the Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom. Corrie was a Christian Dutch woman, who was sent to Ravensbruck Concentration Camp with her sister for hiding Jews in her home in a small town in Holland. After the war, she wrote a book about her experiences, and was honored by Yad VaShem as a righteous gentile.

In her book, she describes her time in the camps. She and her sister would lead prayer groups with the other prisoners, where they would give thanks for whatever they could. One day, her sister, leading the group, gave thanks for the friends they had made, for being together with her sister, and then thanked G-d for the fleas they were infested with. The fleas, of course, were a source of typhus and other diseases. Corrie protested this inclusion. “How can you thank G-d for fleas!!” she asked. But her sister insisted, “Yes, we must thank G-d for everything He gives us.”

Later on, Corrie discovered that the reason they were able to carry on with their prayer meetings was that the German guards didn’t want to come near them because the place was infested with fleas.

In this week’s Parsha VaYeshev, we read the story of how the 10 sons of Yaakov decide to sell their brother Yosef and he is taken as a slave to Egypt.

It’s written “And they (the 10 sons) sat down to eat bread, (after throwing Yosef in a deep pit with the thought of leaving him there to die) and they lifted up their eyes and looked, and behold, a company of Yishme'alim came from Gilad with their camels carrying aromatic gum, balm, and ladanum, going to carry it down to Egypt".

It is to this caravan of Yishmaelim that the brothers sell Yosef instead of leaving him in the pit.

Now, we know that the Torah never wastes words. It doesn’t believe in descriptions to make more interesting reading. There is a reason that the Torah tells us what the camels that are going to take Yosef to Egypt are carrying. They are carrying aromatic gum, balm, and ladanum. (I looked up what ladanum is in the dictionary – in case anyone was wondering. It’s the juice extracted from certain rose plants and used to make perfume.)

We know that Yosef’s sale to the Yishmaelim is the first part of a divine plan. We know that he goes to Egypt so that he can eventually attain a position in which he is able to save his family from famine. We know that G-d wants the sons of Yaakov to come to Egypt. G-d’s plan is for Bnei Yisrael to become slaves, leave Egypt as a nation, and receive His Torah and be brought to the Land as a nation. We know this, but Yosef doesn’t.

So the Torah tells us that the caravans were full of aromatic gum, balm, and perfume. This is a hint to Yosef that he is not alone in his troubles. The caravans could have been full of chickens, or fertilizer, or old boots. But they were full of perfume, making his dark journey into slavery just a little easier, a little brighter. It’s a message to Yosef, and to us, that G‑d is with us even when we don’t understand or see the good, there is always some good to be thankful for. Sometimes, we need to look for the good and recognize it, even in the toughest situations.

And sometimes, like Yosef, or like the Pilgrims in 16whatever, we have to go through some difficult times to be able to really appreciate the good in life.

It’s something to keep in mind.

Like my (Canadian-born) friend Bracha said last night at our Thanksgiving soiree, just like every day should be Mother’s Day, every day should be Thanksgiving.

Wishing all my American friends happy Thanksgiving, and all my non-American friends happy giving thanks!

The Three Fs: Family, Friends, and Facebook

I have several friends, acquaintances, and family members who refuse to join Facebook (or any other social networking site). Others are on, but seldom sign in. They all say that they don’t have time to waste on such nonsense. One person said that she doesn’t have enough time to stay in touch with the people in the real world, never mind in cyberspace. Another told me that she does not want her private life and thoughts splashed all over the net.

I say hooey!

I love Facebook. I don’t play the millions of games it offers. I seldom take any of their quizzes (though I did take “which Canadian city suits you best—and ended up with Toronto even though I deliberately answered so the results would come out to Winnipeg—I think these quizzes are rigged).

What I do do on FB is look up old friends and relatives with whom I have lost touch, and in some cases were never in touch. I’ve had much success. I have found old classmates from high school I haven’t seen or heard from in 30 years. I’ve rediscovered college mates from Bar Ilan University who left Israel and lost touch. I’m now in contact with relatives, close and more distant, and we share news and pictures of our families, though, geographically, we are all so far apart. In addition, Facebook has allowed me to get to know some cousins who were either not yet born or were too young when I left Winnipeg, or who lived in a different city and I had never met.

The first high-school mate I found on Facebook, several years ago, told me that I had ‘set a record’ for being out of touch the longest and being the furthest away. I protested that I wasn’t out of touch – they were! I have since found several others, and they all seemed genuinely happy to hear from me, though our lives have taken such different paths. We’ve exchanged gossip, caught up with families, sent pictures.

I have one schoolmate friend who recently joined FB. I had actually been in touch with her off and on over the years. More off than on, to be honest. She gave me the names and emails of other friends, and now I’m in email touch with them too!

A college friend of mine whom I found, and lives in the US, invited me to his son’s Bar Mitzvah last summer at the Kotel. He had married another college friend. We had lost touch shortly after I moved to Beer Sheva 25 years ago. I traveled to Jerusalem that day with some trepidation, I must admit. I had aged, gained weight, and looked a bit older than my 21 years. What would they think of me? But I was excited to see them. At the Bar Mitzvah was yet another friend; – also on FB – who lives in Ra’anana. I hadn’t seen him since his wedding 23 years before.

I made two discoveries that day. The first was that – surprise!! – all these other people had aged too. The second was that it didn’t matter how much time had passed. The 27 years since we were last together faded away. We joked, we shared info on other college friends, we talked. There was no awkwardness, no embarrassment, no lack of what to say to each other. And my friends, I am happy to report, felt just as comfortable making fun of my height – or more precisely, lack of it – as they did 27 years ago.

And more. This year, those friends’ daughter is spending a year in Israel. We’ve just hosted her for Shabbat. I told her that I and her parents had been family, when none of us had family in Israel, and that by extension she could feel that she was now family, too. I was delighted and grateful to pay forward to the next generation a little of what I received back then.

So I say to all those who denigrate Facebook: Like most things in life, it is what you make out of it. I believe that no one can have too many friends or too much family (unless you have to wash their dishes or do their laundry – fortunately FB doesn’t have that technology yet).

I’m happy that the word friend has become a verb. (“Hey, you know who friended me today? My old roommate’s second cousin. Now I have 675 friends.”) You can’t say friend enough times.

I’m glad that the opposite of the word like is no longer dislike, but unlike. You no longer actively dislike something; you simply have stopped liking it. Much more positive.

And Toronto is a nicer city than Winnipeg.