Risa Lichtman

By Risa Lichtman, Project OTZMA participant, Detroit

Navigational I was sitting at a local coffee shop with friends from OTZMA as well as friends who had recently made Aliyah from all over the world. We were laughing and talking in a mixture of broken English and Hebrew, looking past language barriers and having a wonderful time. One of my friends looked down at her phone and immediately looked stunned. The table became silent as she gasped at the message. There had been an attempted hijacking on an El Al flight from Eilat to Istanbul.

I was walking with a friend down the generally peaceful streets of Ashkelon when we were thrown into shock at the sound of a loud boom in the air, so strong we could feel the impact shaking down our skin. We looked around frantically, thinking we must have heard a bombing, and noticed that the Israelis around us were not even stirred by the noise and tremor. A sonic boom, we were later informed, from planes flying to and from Gaza, just 30 minutes away.

Driving south from Migdal HaEmek to Ashkelon, I was writing a message on my cellular phone to a friend, jokingly asking her to have dinner waiting for me when I returned home. I was squished in the back seat with two other girls trying to keep my mind off of the uncomfortable car ride. The car came to a stop and I looked up to find the air invaded with huge clouds of black smoke and a fire taking over the entire intersection, inflicting the air with bright orange flames. A suicide bomber had blown up a bus enroute to Hadera. We were five to ten minutes behind the bus, traveling the same road at almost the same time.

So why did we, as 12 young American college graduates, decide to leave our friends and families for 10 months to get a taste of this life in Israel? Why did I, specifically, a Detroit native who had never previously visited Israel, who was far removed from my Jewish identity during my time at college, decide to postpone my graduate studies in Creative Writing to volunteer in a completely foreign land? And what purpose do we serve here, as Americans, as Jews? These are questions I have had to ask myself every day for the past three months. And while I find this to be an ever-changing thought-process, a time of mental and spiritual growth, I feel a stronger connection to my land and my people with every day that I am here.

Recently, our group met up with an American Rabbi who moved his family to Israel a few years ago. He has three children, the youngest boy being eight years old. The Rabbi began to tell us of the impact the security situation is having on his family. His children's friends are slowly moving back to the countries they came from. He once came home to find his son shaking at the window, sure that the fireworks he heard in the distance were yet more bombs. In spite of this, he does not consider moving his family back to the States. Is this the decision of a martyr, a man with no priorities, or a true supporter? These questions really came into play when he relayed to us a story about his youngest son.

The Rabbi and his eight year old son were driving in the car when the boy asked him, "Would you let me ride on a bus?" to which the Rabbi responded, "You know I let you ride on buses." Curious, the boy asked back, "How come Eema doesn't let me ride on buses but you do?" To this, the Rabbi did not respond. He didn't want to throw out an answer without thinking it through, or say something that would make the boy think his father and mother didn't love him equally. So he didn't say anything at all. After some time, the boy broke the silence by saying, "I guess if you really, really love Israel, you're willing to let your kids die for it."

I have tried to imagine being a parent and hearing those words come out of my child's mouth. I cannot pretend to have a simple answer to this statement, just as the Rabbi didn't either. It is so much more complicated than this young boy could truly comprehend, and as my time here passes I realize just how much I have to learn about the security situation, the Palestinian/Israeli conflict, and where exactly I stand on these most complicated issues.

One thing that has become continuously clearer to me is my reason for staying in Israel this year, while in the States I could be living free of sonic booms, suicide bombers, and the worry I am causing to my friends and family. Israel has become a home to me. I can go about my daily life here without occupying my mind with the thought of terrorism, much to the surprise of many Americans. I can go to the beach and enjoy the water, or I can play with a young Ethiopian immigrant on the playground and worry only that she isn't swinging too fast or too slow. In spite of the current situation, life does go on. People study, people pray, people enjoy their family and friends, and indeed, people would love to have more foreigners around to see the beauty of this land.

One fact that Americans always turn to when trying to "justify" being in Israel is that there are more deaths from car accidents here per year than terrorist attacks. And in truth, on an average day, I am more worried about getting in a taxi than walking down Allenby Street in Tel Aviv on a crowded afternoon.

Having committed to this program, I cannot pick and choose when my support for Israel will be strong. Seeing the burning bus did not deter me from going into restaurants or clubs, it did not leave me considering returning to the States. I am in Israel and I have learned to adapt to the Israeli mentality. I will be strong, like those around me, albeit more aware than I might be elsewhere, but I will live life here to its fullest. I look around, at this land, this history, the Jerusalem stone and the never-ending Negev, the split view of Jordan and Egypt from my lawn chair in Eilat, the all night fluorescent lights of Tel Aviv and the stretch of the Mediterranean on the walk to Jaffa. And when Israelis ask me, "Why are you here now, of all times?" I give them the simplest, most honest answer. "How can I not be here? If there is any time to be here, it is now."

  Tevet 5763 - December 2002