They told us we'd experience a range of emotions comparable to having bi-polar disorder.
They couldn't have been more right.
From tearing up during the Yom HaShoah siren,
To becoming angry at the world when talking about the Holocaust,
To having the time of my life planning activities,
To crying on the roof when they fail,
To comforting a crying friend,
To laughing for hours,
To getting hysterically lost all day,
To being so exhausted I don't know if I'm awake or asleep,
To crying during the Yom HaZikaron Tekkes,
To being frustrated with a lack of basic human respect,
To feeling so interconnected,
To feeling so intrusive,
To feeling interconnected again,
To being angry with everyone,
To being a family with everyone,
To crying at Har Hertzl during Yom HaZikaron,
To rethinking everything I thought at the discussion afterwards,
To crying some more,
To feeling lonely,
To feeling loved,
To feeling cold,
To walk for hours,
To seeing Israel celebrate as one,
To dancing,
To understanding 'tirkidi iti?'
To dancing with Israelis,
To talking with Israelis,
To dancing with the Nachman guys,
To dancing so much our bodies are screaming in pain,
To smiling so much my face will be sore for days,
To walking around Jerusalem,
To seeing people: Israelis, friends, strangers, family,
To scoping out every single convenience store in search of Blu,
To having a lengthy, complex conversation in only Hebrew,
To seeing old friends,
To meeting new ones,
To taking advantage of everything I can.
My hair has fake snow in it. My eyes are red because I've been awake for too long. My face is in pain from smiling. My arms are tired from waving and clapping. My core can't decide whether it's full due to the intense amount of food I ate today or if it's hungry due to the intense amount of walking I did today. My legs are shaky and have held me up for so long now. My feet scream in pain, every step is a punishment for the torture I've put them through.
I leave Israel in less than two months. But I don't want to.
There's a communal feeling here. Community, brotherhood, mutual responsibility, mutual celebration, chevruta, peoplehood, family. At Har Hertzl, every person understood and felt for everyone else. It was so crowded as to be claustrophobic, but the feeling was one of brotherhood.
The siren started, and everyone stopped what they were doing and stood in silent respect and memory of the fallen soldiers and victims of terrorist attacks. We stood at the Navy Memorial.
Later, during the tekkes, I noticed these three older men. They weren't too old, just a bit older than my dad. They were standing there, sad and lonely, by a grave. Their sons, their brothers, their friends, I don't know.
And I thought: What if I do this to my dad?
And I could see my dad flying to Israel to bury me, and to visit my grave on Yom HaZikaron. He might not understand the Hebrew or follow the tekkes or read the signs to find my grave, but his pain would be the same pain that is in everyone.
When I thought of my dad having to go through something like that for me, and I pictured him among those men, I couldn't hold back the tears.
Luckily, I have emotional friends who carry around tissues.
To be honest, I still tear up when I think about something like that happening.
There's a poem; we read it today. And now I have a new favorite poem. I could talk for houts about why, or how it makes me feel, or how I connect, etc, but I think it speaks for itself:
The Gathering of the Fallen by Haim Heffer
They come from the mountains, from the valley, from the desert
They come - names, faces, eyes - and join the gathering
They come with a manly step, strong and tanned
They come out of the crushed airplanes and from burnt tanks
They rise up from behind boulders, over dunes and from trenches
Brave as lions, strong as leopards and swift as eagles
And they pass one by one between two rows of angels
Who feed them sweet candies and place flowers around their necks
And I look at them and they are all happy
These are my brothers, these are the brothers.
And they meet each other, black, blue and brown eyed
And they remind each other the names of weapons and places
And they pour each other cups of coffee and tea
And suddenly break out in a shout of comrades
And they meet in this vast crowd friends and companions
And the officers pat the backs of the privates and the privates shake hands with the officers
And they break out in song and clap hands
And all the inhabitants of heaven listen to them in amazement
And the gathering lasts day and night, day and night
Because never before has there been a group like this in heaven
And then suddenly they hear familiar voices crying
And they look home to father and mother, to the women and the children and the brothers and the sisters
And their faces are still and they stand embarrassed
And then one of them whispers: Forgive us, but we had to
We won in the battles and now we are resting
These are my brothers, these are the brothers.
And thus they stand and the light in on their faces
And only G-d himself passes among them
And with tears in His eyes, He kisses their wounds
And He says with a trembling voice to his white clad angels:
These are my sons, these are the sons.
It is now Yom HaAtzmaut. We met the Aussies in the park and had a picnic. We heard fireworks, so we went home to see them. We continued our picnic overlooking Jerusalem. We went out.
A question we get a lot is 'what has been your favorite day/night on Shnat so far?'
I have lots of answers.
The first day in complete awe, meeting the Shnatties, the geodesic dome in the desert, my MDA course, my first CPR, the massive car crash, nights in Karmiel, Lailah shift at the station, yaldasefot, dojo nights, etc.
This night just made (maybe even topped) the list.
What I want out of life, the kind of feeling and attitude towards humanity and towards family, this is it.
It's here, in Israel.
This is it.
