A Land and a People: Fighting For Our Very Survival

I tried to stay above the fray these past few weeks. To keep my beliefs to myself. To think my thoughts and have my opinions, but to have them quietly. Because the truth is, part of me felt like maybe I didn't have a right to speak out from my safe and sound American Jewish existence. That my opinions were somehow less-than because I was giving them from a house in New York instead of from a bomb shelter in Israel where I was taking cover from terrorist-fired rockets.

But then this morning I read that 13 Palenstinian terrorists were caught trying to infiltrate Israel through a tunnel with the sole purpose of attacking Israelis, I read the millionth New York Times article that began with some form of "children were killed in Gaza today by Israeli airstrikes," and I saw this completely irresponsible illustration comparing casualties in Israel and in Gaza without a single explanation for the difference in numbers.

And I remembered something. I remembered that the Jewish people alive today are the first generations that have been blessed with the creation of the State of Israel. For two thousand years we wandered and we lived on land that belonged to other nations. We prayed and we hoped and then, in 1948, the State of Israel was proclaimed. The very next day the surrounding Arab states attacked the new Jewish homeland.

And here we are. Sixty-six years later and once again fighting for our land. For our very right to exist as a nation and as a people. 

And we are all but alone.

Pick up nearly any newspaper in wide circulation or log on to nearly any news website and you will see what I see. That the level of anti-Israel sentiment in this country has risen to a frightening level. Israel is constantly touted as an aggressively violent state that is engaging in a unilateral slaughter and Hamas is painted as a group leading an oppressed people who are dying in droves at Israel's hands.

It is true that there are a lot of civilians dying in Gaza. And it is also true that some of the deaths are children. Young ones. That is a terrible thing and I promise you that any sane supporter of Israel acknowledges this. But those same people will also tell you that we need to be clear on who is to blame for those deaths.

You see, this is not an ordinary war. Israel isn't fighting a country with an organized military and rational objectives. Hamas is a terrorist organization that will stop at nothing to get what it wants; the eradication of the Jewish people and destruction of the State of Israel.

And so they shoot rockets into Israel with increasingly long ranges, they bury missiles under the buildings where their children go to school, they build tunnels to smuggle weapons, they urge their people to act as human shields to raise the body count, they fire their rockets from densely populated areas, they refuse to honor the terms of a cease fire, and they leave civilians out in the open while the commanders flee to the underground bunkers.

And Israel defends itself, just like any other country would. But before the Israel Defense Force launches its weapons it places phone calls to civilians in Gaza warning them of imminent attacks on the area, giving them time to flee. It drops leaflets telling civilians to keep a distance between themselves and the Hamas commanders, who are the targets of the Israeli strikes. It calls off airstrikes when the pilots spot large groups of civilians. It makes a herculean effort to engage in pinpoint strikes to military targets, minimizing harm to civilians as much as possible. And it puts off launching a ground invasion as long as possible, until it becomes clear that one is absolutely necessary.

It is not Israel's responsibility to take care of the civilians in Gaza, and yet it does, because Israel values life; the lives of its citizens and the lives of its enemies. The Israeli government makes sure that there are enough bomb shelters to safeguard its citizens when the Hamas rockets come flying. The country has invested time and money into a missile defense system that can not be called anything but a miracle. The army makes sure the citizens of Israel are prepared for threats and know what to do and where to go when those threats are imminent.

So to those of you who really and truly believe that the fight is unfair, that Israel is somehow oppressing the people of Gaza, I ask you, what would make it fair? Would you be satisfied if Hamas managed to kill one hundred Israelis? Two hundred? Would that somehow make this a balanced war? Would you be satisfied if Israel stopped its airstrikes and powered down the Iron Dome to let the barrage of missiles from Gaza pound the country unabated?

An entire group of people in this country and in the rest of the world have somehow gotten the mistaken impression that if Israel would only lay down its weapons, this whole pesky conflict would just go away. I guarantee you, Israel wants nothing more than to stop fighting, but unless Hamas and the rest of the Arab world will do the same, we are where we are.

I have been to Israel many times. I have strolled the streets of Jerusalem and prayed through tears at the Kotel, the Western Wall. I have stood on the top of a mountain and watched the sun set over the country while strains of Kabbalat Shabbat, the prayers welcoming the Jewish Sabbath, drifted out of a nearby synagogue. I have been to the graves of our forefathers and mothers in Chevron and Beit-Lechem. I have walked the same paths traveled by generations of Jewish people and I have felt their presence keenly. It is in Israel where spirituality is tangible. Where I understand that I am but one link in a chain that binds me to the ones who came before and the ones who will come after; to a people with a rich history and a future that we will stop at nothing to secure and protect.

And so we fight. We fight against terrorists who wish us to death and who want blood. The blood of my friends. The blood of my family. The blood of my people. We fight to safeguard our country that was built with hardship, sweat and tears so that Jews the world over could have a place to call home. And we fight because not fighting means ceding Israel to the people who wish to destroy it and we will never, ever allow that to happen.

Call me a Zionist or call me right-wing. I assure you I am both of those things. I am also a Jewish person living in a world where it has become startlingly difficult to tell the difference between anti-Zionism and anti-Semitism and I believe with every fiber of my being that having a strong Jewish state is the only way to assure that we will always be protected. Israel is our homeland, our security, and our future.

And we will defend it; today, tomorrow, always.

Circling For a Landing

As my plane flew over Queens yesterday, drifting in for a landing at LaGuardia Airport, I had only one thought on my mind.

It's been a whirlwind.

I've been on a sprint since the fall Jewish Holidays began, just a few days after Labor Day. With four holidays over four weeks celebrated in three different places, I'm sufficiently exhausted. September was a delightful month, filled with family, fun, food and travel, but I'm ready for a little downtime, and I'm ready to be back here on this blog, writing away.

One of the best things about this past month was that, for the duration of each holiday, I was forced to disconnect. To turn off my phone, shut down my computer, and to be present.

But there is one thing about being disconnected for three straight days. While I was off the grid, the rest of the world certainly wasn't, and each week I turned on my phone on Saturday night - having turned it off on Wednesday evening - to find that one can miss quite a lot in 72 hours.

No week was that more true than in this past one.

I turned on my phone this past Saturday night, logged in to all my various accounts, and let the e-mails and updates come rolling in. When I clicked over to Facebook and Twitter I noticed that I had approximately 40 missed notifications, way more than the one or two I was expecting.

Because while I was unplugged, the Top 13 for Blogger Idol was announced, AND ONE OF THEM IS ME!!!!

Since the Top 13 was announced on Thursday, and I couldn't respond until Saturday night, the messages trying to find me got more frantic as the days went on. I read through them all and frantically responded to all the Facebook posts and Twitter messages that no, I was not lost, and to the e-mails with some variation of "I'm here please don't disqualify me."

With my very first Blogger Idol post halfway done, and the schedule copied to my calendar, I am a tiny bit nervous, but also unbelievably excited and incredibly honored to be a part of this competition.

September is over, the holidays are in the past, but it seems that the fun is just beginning.

So stay tuned. It's time to rock and roll (and write).

Succot

For forty years after the exodus from Egypt, the Jewish people traveled the Sinai Desert. The Torah teaches us that as they walked, they were surrounded by "clouds of glory" that shielded them from the danger and discomfort of the desert.

Each year, as the seasons change from summer to fall, we commemorate those years by constructing a temporary hut - called a succah - outside of our homes in celebration of the holiday of Succot. For eight days we eat all of our meals in these huts, and some people even have the custom to sleep in them, something I don't do now, but did once with my sisters and friends when I was about eleven and sleeping outside was a fabulous adventure.

Succot is, above all, a time of happiness and joy. The ten days of repentance are over, and for eight days we fill our succahs with guests, have meals together, and celebrate family, unity and Jewish continuity.

This year in our new house, we got to build a succah of our very own. My parents came to visit for the holiday, the weather has been glorious, and we have spent much of the past four days enjoying it right here:

"Let Us Tell How Holy This Day Is"

There is a prayer, midway through the morning service on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, that gives me chills. That gives everyone chills.

The ark opens so that the Torah scrolls are visible. The congregation stands. For a second there is silence, and then one voice rises from the front of the sanctuary as the chazzan - the leader of the service - begins to chant the prayer. No matter what synagogue you are in around the world the melody is the same. Slow. Haunting. Timeless.

The prayer is called "U'Netaneh Tokef Kedushat Hayom," loosely translated as "Let Us Tell How Holy This Day Is."

It begins by recalling the power of the ten days that encompass Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the holiest days in the Jewish calendar. Because it is in these days, our rabbis tell us, that each Jewish person is judged. It is during these days where all of the events of the year ahead are decided. We learn that on Rosh Hashanah, our fate for the coming year is written down, and on Yom Kippur, it is sealed. And the days in between the two holidays are days of repentance, where we have a unique opportunity to change our fate.

Even the customary greetings we give each other during these holidays reflect the power of this time of year. On Rosh Hashanah we say, "ketiva ve-chatima tova," meaning "may you be written and inscribed for good." But as Yom Kippur draws closer, the greeting changes to "g'mar chatima tova," meaning, "may you be sealed for good.

U'Netaneh Tokef continues with a recitation of a litany of possible destinies that could befall us in the year to come. The chazzan recites the paragraph slowly, the ancient words explaining that on this day God will decide, among other things, "how many will pass from the earth and how many will be born into it," "who will live and who will die," "who will rest and who will wander," "who will be impoverished and who will be enriched," and "who will be degraded and who will be exalted."

It is solemn and scary and powerful. But it is ultimately uplifting.

Because the climax of the prayer is not the listing of all the gruesome ways in which we might meet our fates over the coming year, but instead when the entire congregation joins their voices together and declares "but repentance, prayer and charity remove the evil of the decree."

Ultimately, the message of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is that we are masters of our own destiny. That there is a God who may inscribe us for a certain kind of year, but that we have the ability to control what inscription is sealed for us. The idea that we may transgress, but that we can - and will - be forgiven. By ourselves. By each other. By God. Even Yom Kippur, a day of fasting and prayer, has an undertone of joy in the spirituality of the day and the confidence that we will be sealed for a year of goodness and prosperity.

As the beginning of Yom Kippur draws near, I find myself comforted by the thought of the 25 hours ahead. Hours where I will sit in my synagogue with my community and immerse myself in ancient prayers. Hours where I will think about the year ahead, and my wishes for myself and for my family.

And tomorrow night when the sky darkens, the final prayer is said, and the single blast from the shofar is sounded indicating the end of the fast and the beginning of a clean slate, I will walk home lighter, happier, and hopeful for what is in store for all of us in the coming year.

Wishing all who are celebrating a g'mar chatima tova. May you and your families be sealed for only the very best.

Happy New Year, 5774

A weird thing happened over Labor Day weekend. The three days normally reserved for barbecues, swimming pools, and final beach trips were instead, for many people of my acquaintance, filled with apple picking. 

Yes, apple picking.

The beloved annual outing normally reserved for a crisp late-September day took place for many this year as summer poured out the last of its steamy heat. Not because they relished the idea of sweating their way through an apple orchard, but rather because apples are an integral part of the Jewish new year, otherwise known as Rosh Hashanah, which, this year, falls strangely early on the Jewish calendar.

Essentially just an extension of the Labor Day long weekend this year, Rosh Hashanah begins tonight, approximately two weeks earlier than the norm. Along with the first night of Chanukah and Thanksgiving falling out on the same day, the freakishly early Jewish holidays have something to do with the way that the Jewish calendar is slowly moving out of sync with the solar calendar.

It is so unusual, in fact, that last time Rosh Hashanah fell out this early in September was in 1899, and the next time will be 2089. So it has never happened in our lifetime, and unless I live to be 107, it will never again happen in mine. 

And the Chanukah situation is even more fascinating. Try and get your head around this. Thanksgiving is the fourth Thursday in November, which means that the latest it could ever be is November 28th. November 28th is also the absolute earliest that Chanukah could ever be. Because of the aforementioned syncing of the lunar and solar calendars, the last time this could have happened would have been 1861, which was two years before Thanksgiving was formally established in the United States, so it has never, ever happened before. And apparently, if the Jewish calendar is never modified in any way, the next time that Chanukah will fall on Thursday, November 28th will be the year 79,811. So, basically, never.

These, folks, are historic times.

These are also family times, times of reflection, and times of celebration.

Tonight, as the sun begins to set, I will light candles and welcome in this most important month of the Jewish calendar. For four successive weeks, we will celebrate four different holidays, and come out the other side of this month ready to start again, to begin as we mean to go on.

Because of the holidays, my time here on this blog will be limited over these next weeks. I'll look forward to being back full force in October. But until then, for those of you who are celebrating, I wish you a sweet and peaceful new year filled with health, happiness and success. Or, as we say in Hebrew, Shana Tova. 

Saturday Mornings

Our relaxing, technology-free family room

Five days a week we are busy. Very busy. We wake up at different times, and nearly every weekday morning since our marriage more than two years ago, I leave the house first, before David even wakes up. At the end of the day we make our way home at different times, and often don't lay eyes on each other until well into the night. We eat dinner together in the living room in front of the TV because we are too tired to make conversation. And when it's time for bed, I always go to sleep first, due to the aforementioned early wake-up. And most nights I drift off to sleep to the sounds of a laptop keyboard clacking and a television humming, often well into the night.

This is what emerges when you stir the cauldron of one full time job (mine), two self-owned companies, which generally translates into about four full time jobs (David's), and the various other obligations and activities that make up a life.

Five days a week we are busy. Very busy. So that is why, in our house, Saturday mornings are a break in the pattern.

We are lucky that Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath, gives us a built-in pause button. For 25 hours beginning right before sunset on Friday and lasting until a little after sunset on Saturday we just stop. We don't answer the phone, turn on lights, or drive a car. We don't watch TV, use a computer, run errands, or set an alarm. iPads and wallets go into a drawer, the washing machine stands silent, and there is no cooking happening in my kitchen.

Instead, on Saturday mornings we wake up when we want to, sit on the couch and drink coffee. We read books and magazines, and have actual conversations. We don't sit in our living where we spend most weeknights, but rather spend the day in the family room - a room we outfitted with comfortable couches, my bookshelves, a skylights and tall windows, and absolutely no electronics. We eat lunch when we feel like it, spend most of the day in sweatpants, and take a nap if the mood strikes. If the weather is nice, we might take a walk or visit some friends, but we don't always. We could go an entire day without seeing anyone but each other.

Once the sun goes down on Saturday night the phones start ringing, the TV goes on and plans are made, either together or separately. Sunday is filled with errands and chores and long runs and things, and on Monday we wake up and start all over again.

I'm not sure I could make it without having Saturday morning just beyond the finish line of my week.

Five days a week we are busy. Very busy. But that's just fine with me.

Because Saturday morning is our time, and we are not busy at all.