Blum family at Blarney Castle“If anyone asks where we’re from, say America, not Israel.”

Those were the instructions I gave to my wife and children for how to minimize friction while traveling outside of Israel after a summer where protests bordering on (and sometimes overtly embracing) anti-Semitism raged across Europe.

Our vacation – ten days in Ireland, hiking, drinking and enjoying Irish music in the country’s ubiquitous pubs – was planned long before Operation Protective Edge and its international impact began, and we flew out of Israel scarcely a week after the last missile was downed by the Iron Dome.

Ireland is not France or the U.K., where thousands demonstrated against Israel’s actions in Gaza this summer, but there were still some smaller rallies in Dublin, where we spent our first couple of days before heading out to the Irish countryside.

I was determined to keep a low profile. We wouldn’t speak Hebrew in public and we made sure not to wear t-shirts giving away where we were from. We long ago swapped strict outwardly identifiable kashrut for a traveler’s vegetarian diet when abroad, a choice that would prove to serve us well in Ireland: even in this meat and potato loving land, the most off-the-beaten track pub now offers at least one Indian curry and veggie stir fry dish along with the traditional non-kosher Irish Stew.

This is not the first time we’ve needed to hide our identity while on vacation. Last year, my wife and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary on the island of Bali, which as part of Indonesia, does not allow entry to those traveling on Israeli passports. Bali is an anomaly in Indonesia: a tourist-loving Hindu enclave that just happens to be part of a country with the world’s largest Muslim population.

We entered using our U.S. documents and told people we were from California (true, if you go back 20 years). While there is no Chabad or official Israeli presence in Bali, we ran into plenty of Jews and even a couple of Israelis (also with dual citizenship), one of whom operates a chain of organic vegan restaurants and holds Shabbat dinners in her apartment near the beach in Kuta.

McGann's pub in DoolinIn Ireland, concealing our identity was not a matter of gaining entry to the country, as with Bali, but a practical choice. Our plan was to visit a local pub every night. Given enough alcohol, who knows what kind of fracas might erupt if we told a stranger we were from Jerusalem. It was in another English-speaking, pub-centric city that I had a nasty encounter with several drunk dudes that, in retrospect, may have changed my personal destiny.

It was January 3, 1984. I was at the beginning of a post-college round-the-world trek that was to include my first visit to Israel. I stopped into a bar in London. I’ve never been a big drinker – at university I was nearly a teetotaler – but I was keen on chocking up “experience,” and frequenting the local pub was supposed to be a quintessentially British one.

I sat by the bar and got chatty with my new mates, who promptly ordered a round of beers, including one for me. Somehow in the conversation it came up that I was Jewish.

I sipped at my beer while they downed theirs. “Your turn now: you buy us a round,” one of the guys said. I hesitated. I hadn’t even come close to finishing my drink, plus I didn’t know that’s how the game worked – there were a lot more of them than me and I was a poor backpacker watching every penny.

“Man, I knew Jews were cheap, but you take the cake,” one of the other guys said. The mood turned quickly and I made my way out of the tavern.

Two of the guys followed me onto the street and harassed me with the “cheap Jew” line again. I don’t remember if I gave them money for my beer, but there were enough people around outside that nothing else happened. But I was shaken. Had I violated the drinker’s code? No…there could be no justification for anti-Semitic epithets.

I flew to Israel the next day. It wasn’t as a result of the exchange; my ticket was already booked. Still, I often wonder if that unpleasant send off contributed to the unexpected Zionism that took root once I got here.

Thirty years later, I didn’t want a repeat in Ireland with my family in tow, especially not in the current anti-Israel milieu that has taken hold in Europe. And so I instructed my family to say we were from America.

“So you’re here for the big game, then, yeh?” asked the desk clerk at our first hotel in Dublin. I stared at him blankly. Apparently there was a well-known American team in town, but I hadn’t a clue. “Um, we don’t really follow sports,” I mumbled, vowing to scour the Internet before our next such interaction.

The truth is, we didn’t have that many opportunities to share where we were from – most of our conversations had to do with whether we qualified for the “family discount” to get into a particular castle or whether we were drinking Jameson, Baileys or both. (It turns out you can mix them for an Irish Cream with a killer kick… who knew?)

“Enough of this,” our 20-year-old daughter declared a few days into the trip. “I don’t see why we can’t say we’re Israeli. The next person who asks, I’m just going to tell them.”

I couldn’t stop her. She was an adult. So what happened? Absolutely nothing. People nodded, said something like “that’s interesting,” “hey, I know krav maga,” or “I have a cousin who visited Israel last year.” Then they would turn to what we’d seen so far and where were we off to next.

Cliffs of Moher“When you go to the Cliffs of Moher, park your car before you get to the lot. There’s a little little farm on the right. You can’t miss it. They charge six and a half euros a person to park at the Cliffs, but you can walk in for free,” said one helpful local. Nothing about us being cheap Jews trying to cheat the system. Just a helpful tip from an Irishman proud of his country.

I met a retired Irishman in Dublin’s Phoenix Park underneath a five story high cross. “So where’re ya from?” he asked in an accent thick enough to match the curry we’d been sampling every night. “Israel,” I replied. He got quiet for a moment. Then he said, “My wife was a Polish Jew.” He didn’t volunteer any more information and, since I couldn’t understand more than every third word, I let it lie there.

Cross in Phoenix ParkBut a part of me felt ashamed. Why had I been so reluctant to say I am Israeli? What had happened to my Zionism in those first few days in the country? Had I been giving in to irrational fear? Or was I just trying to keep my family safe in the best way I knew how?

After all, all the way back in April, before the summer’s exacerbation in Israel, European Congress president Moshe Kantor cited a study by the European Union’s Agency for Fundamental Rights that showed almost a third of Jews in several European countries were mulling emigration. “Jews do not feel safe or secure in certain communities in Europe,” Kantor said at the time. And things have only gotten worse.

Our last stop on the trip was in the tiny fishing village of Doolin. I’d read online that the owners of the Rainbow’s End Bed and Breakfast, where we were staying, were named Mati and Carmel. Could it be…were they Israelis? Expats who had made their home far away from the conflict of the Middle East, hosting travelers and spending their evenings at McGann’s, a pub known for having some of the best traditional Irish music in all of Ireland?

Now that we were being open about where we were from, I decided to ask.

“Oh no, not at all!” Carmel said, blushing a bit. “Mattie is short for Martin. And I was named for the saint closest to my birthday.”

She was referring to Our Lady of Mount Carmel, for which a feast, instituted in the 14th century, is celebrated by the Catholic Church on July 16. But, Carmel added, “I’ve always wanted to visit Israel!”

“You’re welcome to come any time,” I told her. And when you do, I thought to myself, you can feel free to tell people where you’re from.

Maybe someday I’ll be able to do the same.

This article originally appeared in The Jerusalem Post Magazine.

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Sultan's PoolIn a summer where nearly every large-scale outdoor event was canceled on instruction by Israel’s Home Front Command, the annual Hutzot HaYotzer International Arts and Crafts Festival in Jerusalem represented a desperately needed welcome breather.

Now in its 39th year, Hutzot HaYotzer is the country’s preeminent place to meet talented local artists – nearly 200 in total – who park their wares in a picturesque valley watched over by the walls of the Old City and who put on a smile for 12 days, as they pitch their hand crafted earrings, sparkly necklaces, ceramic hamsa’s and natural wooden children’s toys to some 175,000 eager attendees, wallets at the ready, anxious to forget politics and missiles for just one night.

Then, at 9:00 PM, a different mainstay of Israeli rock and pop takes to the stage at the adjacent Sultan’s Pool, the former reservoir that dates back to the days of Herod the Great. At an entrance fee of only NIS 55 ($15) for the entire shebang, it would be a bargain for the concert alone.

The festival is divided into two areas – one for Israeli artists and a second for international exhibits, from the Far East to South America, some 40 different countries in all. Street and gypsy performers mill about; there is an interactive performance space/café where the singers and dancers are also the waiters; a pavilion devoted to art from students at the Bezalel Academy looms large, and a frantic food court entices visitors to partake of an entrecote tortilla or that ubiquitous Israeli favorite: “Thailandi” noodles (which are nothing like what you’d actually get in Thailand).

The entrance to Hutzot HaYotzer has been spruced up too. For several years, one had to wind through a construction zone. That’s finished now – the result is the wet and wonderful Teddy Park with its musical fountain that has somehow turned into a free and fully clothed swim space for the city’s ultra-Orthodox population.

My wife and I have been going to Hutzot HaYotzer since we first arrived in Israel in 1984. Other than the few years we lived in the States, we’ve never missed it. But this year’s event, like Neil Young, America and Megadeth before it, was at risk of being shut down as the summer’s missile fire from Gaza made public gatherings of more than 1,000 people in the main centers of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv forbidden for our own safety.

Hutzot HaYotzer opened this year in that surreal period when the second to (hopefully) final ceasefire held for an all too brief seven days. And so the show went on.

We always pick the night we’ll attend the festival based on which band is performing. Over the years, we’ve caught stars like Aviv Geffen, Ivri Lider, Knissat HaSechel, Barry Sacharof and Tea Packs. This year, we chose alte-rocker Shalom Hanoch, who regularly performs his 70s and 80s hits at Hutzot HaYotzer but whom we’ve passed over for hipper entrants like Mosh Ben-Ari and HaDag Nahash.

By the time the concert started, every space except for a few nosebleed seats in the top bleachers was filled. The crowd was a classic Israeli multicultural, multigenerational melting pot. There were religious and secular, seniors and young families and lots of kids in backpacks and strollers. It always amazes me that teenagers still know all the words to songs written 40 years ago by an aging pop geezer.

When the lights finally went down and the smoke machine cranked up, out walked – not Shalom Hanoch – but Jerusalem Mayor Nir Barkat, who launched into a fiery political speech. I’m a big fan of Barkat but I was rolling my eyes: we came for the music not for a primer on why Jerusalem rocks…as a place to live and work. But his words soon proved to be much more than early electioneering. (The next polls won’t be until 2018.)

“How do we prevent the terrorists from defeating us?” he asked the crowd. “By coming out to sing together. By continuing with our normal life!” He praised the IDF and its soldiers. Then he announced he had a surprise.

“Every night here at Hutzot HaYotzer, we are saying thank you to a different military leader,” Barkat said, as he introduced the head of the IDF paratroopers, who said just a few brief words to acknowledge how important the nation’s support has been for the men and women in the field before yielding the stage to Shalom Hanoch.

It was at some point in the middle of that speech that it hit me: throughout Operation Protective Edge, Israelis found themselves marveling over the remarkable achdut – the national unity – that washed over the country. The feeling that the war in Gaza was a just one; that Hamas was an enemy that had to be taken on, was shared by nearly everyone, from the far left to the far right. You’d have to look pretty hard to find an Israeli Jew who would criticize the army’s efforts and the sacrifices of our soldiers.

But this was the first time that my wife and I had been together with other Israelis, in a large group setting, in public. There have been a few rallies that have slipped in during ceasefires – thousands gathered in Tel Aviv on August 14 and then again on August 18, for example – but most of the famous unity has been on a smaller scale: on social media, watching the news on TV, talking with friends on the phone or by forwarding supportive emails.

But here were thousands of Israelis, sitting together outdoors on a crisp Jerusalem night, cheering for our soldiers, as the mayor reminded us that this was more than a chance to dance; it was an opportunity to celebrate. We had not been defeated. We had not been broken. We can still sing together.

Shalom Hanoch acquitted himself splendidly, mixing his trademark ballads with a surprising number of head banging numbers. That wasn’t the point. The next day, the missiles started up again. The lull was over and it was back to the new normal for another week.

But for one night in Jerusalem, at least, the unity was far more than virtual.

This article appeared originally on The Jerusalem Post.

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Fire from Below

by Brian on August 23, 2014

in Living Through Terror,War in Gaza

photo 2With our nerves already on edge from the air raid sirens and the heartbreaking mounting death toll as Operation Protective Edge raged on last month, the thick black smoke billowing out of our parking garage did not bode well. I was about to jump in the shower when my son burst in and told me to get dressed and shut the window in my bedroom…now!

We live in an apartment complex in Jerusalem that is built around a central courtyard. At even intervals along the length of that common area are mock “wells,” intended to remind passersby of, say, the architecture of the Old City or Nachlaot. The wells are actually just openings to the underground garage, letting in light and creating natural ventilation. (Cynics say that the architects put them there to keep local kids from using the courtyard as a soccer field.) And now they were belching smoke like a 19th century coal-fired power plant.

My first thought as the smoke rose, first in fits, then so fast and thick that we couldn’t even see out of our windows, was that a missile from Gaza had miraculously scored a direct bulls eye in the well. But there hadn’t been a siren and there was no boom.

The fire trucks arrived within minutes and the source of the smoke was squelched. When we were finally able to come out of our house, the smell of burnt plastic, metal, and fabric was overwhelming. Five cars in the garage had gone up in flames, one after another in a row until it reached our parking space, which was empty (my wife was out with the car and on her way home at that very moment), before jumping to the next spot to torch our downstairs neighbor’s rental car.

Speculation began among the neighbors even before the police inspector had noted his suspicions. It was definitely not an accident, he said, that was for sure. An arsonist (or arsonists) had entered the garage, smashed the windows of each car separately, and tossed in some lit material, which caused the cars to catch on fire. He deduced this because, in one car, only the interior burned. At some point, the fire may have jumped to another vehicle on its own. If the firefighters hadn’t come in time, the inferno could have engulfed the entire garage of 70 cars.

OK, if it wasn’t an accident, what was it then? Was it nationalistic? Had the war in Gaza reached our parking lot by proxy? A debate broke out as to what constitutes “terror.” Is it terror if the target is property and not human life? But what if the cars had exploded? Maybe that would have taken down the building, resulting in loss of life. There are upwards of 200 people living in our apartment complex.

I did a quick Internet search on “car gas tank” and “explosion.” It turns out that all those cars that explode in the movies – it doesn’t really happen like that so often in real life. First, gasoline itself isn’t explosive. It explodes in a car’s engine, but only after it’s been vaporized and turned into gas, then mixed with air before introducing a spark. If you put gasoline into a cup and light it, it will burn, for sure, but it won’t blow up. (Standard disclaimer: kids, don’t try this at home.)

And while there is gasoline vapor in the tank, you need to add a source of fire to get it started. Fire won’t normally travel up a fuel line to the tank because there’s not enough air in the line to keep the flame going. So someone would have to be smart enough to know to punch a hole in the tank and insert the fire that way. I don’t think most arsonists have degrees in chemistry. Ours clearly didn’t.

The other possibility that began floating around in the email discussion among the residents was that the arson had a criminal motive. We have a friend who works in the police. He took a quick look at the case in the computer and came away convinced that organized crime was behind the attack. “Every day, I deal with burned out cars,” he explained. “Usually, it’s someone who is trying to send a message. They don’t always know – or care – if it’s the target’s specific car. They just want to make the person feel unsafe. Or to get the neighbors to put pressure on him.”

And why couldn’t it be terror, I pressed? “Torching a car takes too much time,” he replied. “If you want to kill someone, you’d be much more effective by bringing in a small bomb.”

Somehow, that didn’t make me feel any more comfortable.

In fact, the entire experience has left me feeling deeply ill at ease in my own neighborhood, in a different way than being under potential missile attack. This seemed more personal. Someone came into our garage and lit our cars on fire. We’re not on the seam line of Jerusalem, let alone the front lines in Gaza; this is a quiet suburban neighborhood where kids play, we walk our dogs and pick up after them, and stroll over to the local Aroma to get a cup of ice coffee and a croissant on a Friday morning.

Walking home the next night after dark, I found myself startled by noises and shadows in a way I hadn’t before the attack.

We have a great Va’ad HaBayit (house committee), which moved quickly to hire a clean up company to deal with the mess and the stench, and is now discussing the merits of putting in a closed circuit camera security system.

A few days ago, we received word that a suspect had been caught with a nationalistic background. However, he was subsequently released for lack of evidence.

We may never know what the true motive was for the attack on our building. The only consolation I can summon up is the hope that, as the old saying goes, lightning rarely strike the exact same spot twice. Illogical and probably not true, it still gives me some small comfort. Which is about as good as it gets in this long, strange summer of war.

This article appeared in the Friday edition of The Jerusalem Post.

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Ben-Gurion flight boardJuly 22, 2014. Remember that date. It will be recalled in history books yet to be written as the day the conflict between Israel and the Palestinians changed completely. That’s because it’s the day that the war in Gaza transformed from just another in a series of “operations” to an existential threat to the Jewish State. As a result, any future negotiations towards a two state solution will look very different.

What’s so important about July 22? That’s when the United States Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) put in place a temporary ban on air travel between the U.S. and Israel. Most of Europe quickly followed suit. By day’s end, 160 flights were canceled.

That might seem a minor annoyance. Big deal, a few vacations got canceled and a (not insubstantial) number of tourists were inconvenienced. But an existential threat? Isn’t that a bit dramatic?

But when an international airport is shut down by the crude and navigationally-challenged missiles being fired by Hamas out of Gaza, it is indeed a game changer.

Israel can’t be physically destroyed by those missiles. The Iron Dome has done a spectacular job of keeping nearly every missile from falling in urban areas.

But Israel can be destroyed economically if its link to the outside world is severed. In our globally connected planet, we rely on air travel to move both physical and intellectual goods and services between markets. If the missiles were to continue indefinitely or to become more accurate, that short-lived air travel ban would be transformed into a semi-permanent one, and the Jewish State would not be able to survive.

All those Israeli R&D centers of international hi-tech companies would be shut down, or maybe even worse, their Israeli staff relocated to “safer” locations overseas. Tech conferences and professional meetings between scientists and entrepreneurs would be canceled. Shipments by plane, both commercial and private would stop or, at best, become unreliable and erratic. FedEx: When it absolutely, positively has to get there overnight…or maybe not.

Tourism of course would be decimated, putting tens of thousands of Israelis out of work. “Who would want to fly into an airport that the top aviation authorities say is dangerous?” travel professional Moshe Mizrahi asked David Shamah at The Times of Israel.

The resulting economic implosion would be worse than what the BDS activists have been trying – mostly in vain – to achieve over the past several years. Our enemies will have finally figured out a way to bring us to our knees. Israel would become a true island and emigration – at least among those who have that option, including much of the country’s essential business community – would become rampant.

Yes, but what’s changed? Hamas has had the ability to aim for the airport at any point over the past few years. There are missiles targeting Israel from Lebanon, Syria and Iran too.

But this is the first time the imagined threat has become actualized. Once the FAA stopped the planes, it is no longer possible to hide our heads in the sands and pretend it will never happen. It just did.

This is not the first time planes have stopped flying. During the first Gulf War, when Iraqi Scud missiles were falling on Israel, there was a wide-scale suspension of flights by foreign carriers. But that was a time-limited conflict and, more importantly, the enemy was really trying to halt the U.S. operation, using Israel as the most vulnerable proxy. It’s different this time, knowing there are thousands of missiles in Gaza intended for us specifically.

As I write this, it’s not clear where the war, with its repeated attempts at breached ceasefires and unilateral redeployments, will take us. Even if there is a positive, enforceable outcome, and the threat from Gaza is somehow neutralized, the effect on the peace process will be profound. The Jerusalem Post’s Herb Keinon perhaps said it best. While the world will say that the Gaza fighting demonstrates “why reaching a two state solution is so critical, now more than ever…Israel’s takeaway [will be] that in any possible two-state solution there will need to be a long-term Israeli security presence throughout the West Bank. Not just along the Jordan River, but throughout the West Bank.”

The reason is clear: Ben-Gurion Airport is just 10 kilometers (6 miles) away from the old Green Line. If missiles got into that territory, compared with relatively far away Gaza, they wouldn’t miss the runways and land in Yehud next time.

In some ways, this is nothing new. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has long talked about the need for a future Palestinian state to be demilitarized and, in his June 29 speech at the Institute for National Security Studies, emphasized that Israel will have to retain a security presence west of the river as well to ensure that the West Bank doesn’t become the equivalent of, as he put it, 20 Gaza Strips.

What’s different now, writes Keinon, is that while in the past there might have been strong debate within Israel on whether Netanyahu’s approach was overly reactionary, he will now have “more domestic understanding and support for that position.” And while his old/new line “might have been looked upon as obstructionist by many Israelis before the current operation, [it] will appear more reasonable by much of the Israeli public today.” In short: “anyone who thinks that…Israel will return to negotiations with the Palestinians as if nothing has happened is deluding themselves.”

Keinon isn’t the only analyst who’s come to that conclusion. Harvard University law professor Alan Dershowitz goes further and writes that “Hamas’s decision to fire rockets in the direction of Ben-Gurion Airport may well have ended any real prospect of a two-state solution…Israel will now be more reluctant than ever to give up military control over the West Bank, which is even closer to Ben-Gurion Airport than is Gaza.” And he adds, echoing Keinon (and Netanyahu), that “the Israeli public would never accept a deal that did not include a continued Israeli military presence in the West Bank. They have learned the tragic lesson of Gaza and they will not allow it to be repeated.”

Dershowitz says that Israel is not just fighting for its own safety. “If Hamas is allowed to shut down Israel’s major airport, every terrorist group in the world will begin to target airports…the shooting down of the Malaysian airliner over Ukraine will be but one of many such tragedies…an attack on the safety of Israel’s airport is an attack on the safety of all international aviation.”

One beneficiary of the FAA decision will be El Al, which did not cease its flights for a moment. A year ago, my wife and I flew on Israel’s national carrier to Asia and found it to be quite disappointing: the service, food, entertainment system and even the physical condition of the plane were so far below other carriers that we could have taken to our destination, that I vowed never to fly El Al again. I have now revised that position. (Reports of El Al’s price gouging during the flight ban temper that somewhat.)

The FAA lifted its ban on flights to Ben-Gurion in just 36 hours and most of Europe followed suit in the days to follow, but the sea change in Israeli attitudes will last much longer. When our children ask when did the Israeli-Palestinian conflict become whatever it will morph into in the months and years to come, we will remind them of this date: July 22, 2014.

The article originally appeared in The Jerusalem Post’s Friday Magazine.

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YMCA Chorus in t-shirts (sm)An article a few weeks ago in the Israeli newspaper Haaretz questioned why someone would ever want to make aliyah from a comfortable country like the U.S. Especially these days – with the murders of the Naftali Frenkel, Gil-ad Shear and Eyal Shach still on our minds, the revenge killing of Palestinian teenager Mohammed Abu Khaider stinging at our collective conscious, followed by hundreds of Hamas missiles from Gaza and the thunderous response of Operation Protective Edge in Gaza – why, asked writer Vered Kellner, would a family pick up and leave friends and family, “a renovated apartment in the heart of Manhattan, a lively Jewish community and kids in some of the best schools around,” to come to what is these days among the most dangerous neighborhoods in the world?

Why indeed? Even as a not-so-recent immigrant to Israel, it’s a question I still ask myself sometimes.

Kellner, an Israeli living in New York for the past two years, became obsessed with a particular family making the move to Israel. “I followed them on Facebook and peeked at them in synagogue, trying to pick out from among their words and glances the reason why they were taking such a dramatic step,” she writes. Kellner admits she misses the Israeli pressure cooker with its intense, bipolar emotions, as she puts it. “I’m already addicted, a lost cause,” she says. “But what about the new immigrants, the ones who choose it?”

Like the family in New York, I left a good job in hi-tech to move 7,500 miles away from all but our immediate family and I’m still struggling, 20 years later, with accepting that I will never fully speak a language whose backward squiggles and ornate verb constructions are so completely foreign from the English in which I make a living expressing myself as to render me prime parody fodder for an Israeli TV comedy show like Eretz Nehederet.

And then there’s the missiles. It’s not that I didn’t know there was the possibility of sirens and running for shelters in my future. During the first Gulf War, I had a transistor radio at my desk in California tuned in all day to the local all news station. I would hear the sirens, the reports of Saddam Hussein’s Scuds and the purposely-vague descriptions of where they landed. But just like the parent I would soon become, I put it out of my mind. When our kids grow up, there will be peace, I cooed. We won’t need an army and there certainly won’t be any more rockets.

The day we made aliyah, Nachshon Wachsman was kidnapped. I can almost hear Kellner crying out, “What were you thinking!”

The truth is, I was never supposed to be here. I came to Israel almost by accident. After I graduated from college, I dreamed of traveling around the world. I loaded my arm up with inoculations that would allow me to go anywhere – Africa, India, Southeast Asia. Israel was just a stop along the way.

But from nearly the moment I landed at Ben-Gurion Airport, I was captivated. Even though (or maybe because) I grew up utterly assimilated, with no bar mitzvah, Yom Kippur just another school day, and the highlight of Shabbat mornings our weekly bacon breakfast, I couldn’t tear myself away from this place. The trip around the world was put on hold, I stayed for three years and met my wife-to-be. We returned to the U.S. to jumpstart our careers, started a family and made aliyah for real a few years later.

Bomb shelters were never a part of the narrative. So, maybe the question is not why’d you want to come here, but why do you stay?

We have a family trip to Ireland planned for the end of the summer. (The irony of visiting a country that had its own long-term terrorism problem is not lost on me.) As the missiles fell, my daughter asked if we could move the date of the vacation up.

“Could we maybe get out now…just for a little while?” she asked.

“You know what you’d be doing, right?” I replied. “You’d have your news app open on your iPhone all day and you’d be Whatsapping with your friends non-stop and be totally unable to enjoy the trip.”

That was the experience of Allison Kaplan-Sommer who was vacationing in Rhode Island during June’s kidnapping crisis. She was looking forward to the trip as a break from the “sadness and strife” of the Middle East. But try as she might, “I haven’t been able to give myself that break…it seems wrong to wake up and read a local morning newspaper where the top story is a feature celebrating the fact that the shin-guards worn by the American soccer team in the World Cup were made in Rhode Island.” And so she spent much of her vacation glued to streaming video and social media out of Israel.

To friends who have helpfully suggested to Kaplan-Sommer that maybe she ought to pack up the kids and “find a safe refuge until the storm blows over,” she responds that she’d “rather be here experiencing it than far away wondering what the country is going through.” She likens it to when a family member is ill. It’s easier somehow to cope when you’re right in front of them, “with your finger on the pulse of their condition.”

Kellner gets it too. “Why settle for a seat in the balcony when you can have one in the orchestra?” she mused.

And yet, that seat in the orchestra can be so difficult. Why choose to put yourself in harm’s way when, as an immigrant with two passports, you always have an easy way out?

Michael Oren says it’s a matter of responsibility. Oren is the former Israeli ambassador to the U.S., and an eminent historian – his “Six Days of War” is by far the best and most comprehensive volume in English on the 1967 war.

The rebirth of the state of Israel is an historic opportunity for Jews who care about their Judaism to take responsibility for making the country all that it can be, Oren told a sold out crowd at the Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies earlier this month. “The notion that as Jews we are responsible for one another is a time-honored Jewish definition…and what I’d call the base definition of Zionism,” Oren explained.

Yes, Israel is beset by a myriad of problems – economic, political, social, racial. “Sovereignty is messy,” Oren said. “But taking responsibility for that mess is what Zionism is all about. It’s very easy for me to talk about Israel’s astounding achievements in hi-tech, medical science and Nobel Prize winners. But what I’m proudest of is the mess, the chaos. And right now, we have no shortage of it.”

(Maybe that’s why our Jewish mothers back in the States have such a hard time with us being here. They spent their entire childrearing years trying to coax us into avoiding getting messy.)

Our youngest son sings in a unique Israeli-Palestinian teen choir. The Jerusalem Youth Chorus, which has been meeting for two years now under the sponsorship of the Jerusalem International YMCA, has performed all over the country – including singing backup for veteran Israeli guitarist and peace activist David Broza’s Israel radio chart topping cover of “What’s So Funny ‘Bout Peace Love and Understanding.”

The group’s weekly meetings alternate rehearsal time with “dialogue,” led by trained facilitators. The conversations are not always easy but for the 32 teenagers in the choir, an understanding and respect for the “other side” has developed.

Sometimes, though, I wonder: what’s the point? A couple dozen kids are being educated towards coexistence? Big deal. How is that going to make a difference on the national level? Can any of them personally stop the missiles? How, in fact, is my being here rather than in the U.S., also not being involved in anything political, going to make a change in Israeli society (other than, say, encouraging dog owners to pick up after their pets in the park)?

But you don’t need to educate a whole society for change to occur. A single individual can have profound impact – for better or for worse. Maybe one of the kids in the chorus will grow up to be prime minister and figure out how to forge peace in a way no one has yet thought of. Maybe, because of this experience, one will not grow up to be a terrorist (Arab or Jewish). And here’s one for believers: maybe one will grow up to be the messiah.

When you hear the sirens, it’s easy to succumb to despair, that this is too overwhelming a mess. “But I look at it the other way around,” Oren concluded his talk. “I can think of no greater blessing than to be alive at a time in Jewish history when I as a Jew have to deal with this mess.”

I get that and agree. But a little less mess, that would be OK too.

This article originally appeared in The Jerusalem Post Magazine and blog.

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