The sirens of memory.

I am sitting next to my roommate in the Holocaust Research Institute in Haifa. It's just a 10 minute walk away from my apartment; but in this library, in this underground cave of history, in this computer and book-lined room of documentation, I am so far away from the comforts of my sunny room. Once ashamed of the Holocaust, dumbfounded and then obsessed, I now sit here totally mindful of the fact that it's 2015 and the Kristalnacht is viewed as a day in history. These dust-covered history books about the events of Hitler's rein mock my ignorance of my people's pain. I try to picture it. I imagine myself back in Berkinhau on my Poland trip two years ago. I knock my forehead against the table attempting to shove the memories into focus. I reread my journal from my Poland trip. Reading about the thick smells of the cattle car. The story of Jean, the lone surviver of her family and grandmother of my friend. Praying the afternoon Mincha services in the Warsaw cemetery. The sewer covers with small stars of David, marking the underground escape path from the ghetto. I squint trying to decipher my hurried handwriting recording my chilling excitement inspired by heroic stories. The pages totally fangirling on Yanish Korchak and his righteousness and on his unconditional love he gave to all these children that he saved. I turn a few pages and my eyes drown in sorrow.

I am proud of my connection to the Holocaust. I am 100% certain that I personally won’t forget. Nevertheless, Holocaust Remembrance Day is feeling like a solitary event reminder that toggles the refresher in my digital memory. How can it become just a notification on our screens? A blink of recognition before going back to our routine. Is it just a day my Facebook wall takes some time off from Coachella photos?

I turn a few pages in my orange and teal notebook. How did we allow this to happen? How did we willingly walk into the ghettos? Vicky Berglas’s answer is quoted in my pen. “It felt like independence to the Jews.” We were so desperate for independence that the illusion of autonomy in the ghetto trapped us into acquiescing.

Yom HaShoa is the anchor to our chain. It’s the siren that brings us back to the ship, united and fully aware of our vulnerable indestructibility. It’s the number counting, storytelling, generational tie to our painful survival. It’s the snowy walk through Treblinka and the flag of Israel wrapping around our shoulders. It’s Joe’s story that I share, remembering his eyes fighting the grief of being the only survivor of his town. It’s the grandchildren wearing IDF uniforms. It’s our nation crying together. It’s our nation fighting to stop Iran from continuing Hitler’s plans. It’s our same necessity to be independent. It’s my blue eyes and light colored hair screaming that I am a Jew. I am the Jew that wants to go back in time to whisper to my people to fight and scream at the silent endorsements of the world. Why does remembering feel so passive?

When the Holocaust ended, when we lost a third of our people, when we were liberated from the the death camps and shoved back into reality, we started building. We initiated that drive for autonomy of our people that welcomed us into the ghettos and chose to build our home. Our reaction to death is life. We summoned the lines of might to steer us into our self-determination. Now here we stand 70 years later, still figuring out how to balance our sails. We stand here 70 years later, counting 23,320 fallen soldiers and civilian victims of terrorism. Our answer to the Holocaust is far from a Happy Ever After. It’s the all too familiar pains in our chests, the short breaths of despair in our national survival. It’s the 116 soldiers that were killed this year. It’s Hadar Goldin z”b, and his fiancé trying to figure out how puzzle pieces could dissolve from existence. It’s Sean Carmeli z”b and Max Steinberg z”b, and their understanding that serving Israel isn’t dependent on place of birth. It’s the 2,000+ orphans. Its Eyal z”b, Naftali z”b, and Gilad z”b.

I sit here next to Chen. She’s organizing the books shelves and recording the numbers. In the background plays a documentary about the tattoo numbers from concentration camps. If only we had an Israel to run to back then. If only we were secure on our own terms. The siren sounds and I stand, thinking about Hannah Marks and Joe Getz. I sit down and thank G-d that I live in Israel. Six days later, I stand at the Yom Hazikaron ceremony in Haifa. I think back to all that has transpired since last year’s ceremony in Ofakim. Before the kidnapping. Before the war. Before my second year of National Service. Before deciding on studying Law at Bar Ilan. Before understanding that my path here in Israel has some loose bricks that will cause me to trip. This siren brings on damper eyes than expected. I sit down and thank G-d that I am Israeli.

The tree is blooming.

The thistles scratch at the threads in my hiking pants as I lead my 10th graders across the Lavi Forest. A map in my hand. A song in my throat. I am their tour guide, and more often than not, their life guide. They start a new cheer, screaming that the ban on wearing leggings on hikes forces them to wear pants that resemble ones of terrorists. My neck finds itself contorted backwards in appall and a few minutes later, I’m joining in on the “moralim.”

A voice beckons my attention. Another student obsessed with my ascent, my story, my insanity in coming here. He’s sure that I’m drunk off of some funky kool-aid. In his mind, America= perfection. And to leave such a paradise to come to this *#$@!, is a shame. I ask him what he wants out of life. I inquire about his dreams and his family. I interrogate him on this truth that he clutches in between his iPhone and bag of Doritos. And when he tells me that he’s leaving this place as soon as he finished the army at age 21, I tell him that his 3 years of service is just the starting line. He laughs and ask me to marry him so he can get a green card. I respond in my Israeli teenage slang, “sweety, your living in a movie.” …..So fine, why should I stay here?

The colors of spring glitter around me. I can feel a spiritual awakening within my bones as the sun adds a few more freckles to my beaming skin. I breathe in the air of change and re-center myself. The beauty around me is simply distracting. A worm coming to say hello. A tree welcoming me for a nap. A bird singing a love song. I remind my students, and myself that our hiking is a fulfillment of a commandment. We are marking our territory, fulfilling the need to retreive the gold in every four steps. I tell them that a gift only transitions into the recipient's property when you start to utilize it’s potential. I shriek out my commands for hydration and they roll their eyes, unaccustomed to the taste of unsugared liquid.

We meet a carob tree and I introduce them to my friend. I recite my appreciation for Hashem’s fruit and take a bite of sweetness. I ask them to open up the fruit to inspect the seeds. All exactly the same size. I quiz them on my friend’s abilities and attributes. In the Talmud, theres a dude who plants a carob tree. Everyone laughs at him for planting a tree that will only bloom in 70 years, way after he passes away. Why plant for something that you won’t even reap from? A student shouts, “Duh, it’s for his kids.” Investing for future generations. That’s why I’m standing here with you instead of in California. I’m planting Jewish trees. What are you planting for future generations?

There are several trees in this country that make me stop walking. The tangy red of Erythrina trees continuously disturb my strut. Their flowers cluster together like the feathers on a Las Vegas costume. The stocky petals command my attention at every meeting. I guess we are mightier as a bunch. And against a dark bark, we blaze in a fiery contrast. My students start chanting “Talya, the queen!” I guess thats my hint to move on. On my next explanation, I call upon my students to be my teachers. The more they involve themselves with connecting to this land, the more logical is my story. I am here because I am a Jew and Jews live in a Jewish country. If we didn’t have a Jewish country, we would just be praying for and working towards starting a Jewish country. So now we have what to start with. The seeds are already blooming.





“Nu, how much longer?” I promise them another 20 minutes…. because 20 minutes is always the perfect answer. And at the seder table last week, we all finish the 4 hour hike through our history with the exact same answer. “Next year in Jerusalem.” The thorny purple flowers and the blazing red trees, that’s our answer. We defend and make our identity present, standing high with whoever will join us, harvesting our potential until we can fully broadcast our freedom.

The way she loves.

Love is something so complicated I don't know if any definition could cover all cases. Love is demanding and intense, and yet youthful and inspiring. Love is what The Beatles sang about, what Emily Dickinson dreamed about, what initiated wars, and hopefully will finish all wars. Love is larger than life and love creates life. 

I didn't realize that I was in love at first. I know I felt excitement and curiosity. I  know I wasn't ready to settle down yet, still playing yo-yo with plenty of suitors. I didn't expect to feel tingling shivers or to walk around trying to cover up my smile. I wasn't planning to find "the one" - let alone believing that it actually exists. But that's exactly how it works. Love causes us to do the things we wouldn't expect.... like packing up from the place I've lived my whole life and leaving the people that mean the most to me. 

Loving Israel is loving the good and the bad. Loving her is believing in her potential and being patient when she lets me down. Loving her means getting to know all of her and even loving the parts that I wouldn't dare to appreciate in someone else. Promising myself to her is investing in our future. Love demands me to love fully; and as my heart opens, I also bleed out tears of missing the people I've left in favor for our relationship. And in return, she gives me the highest quality of life I could have asked for. She gives me awesome views, sidesplitting laughs, a reason to wake up and the inspiration in my dreams. She encourages me with her youthful strides of growth. She fortifies me with historical reassurance. She gives birth to children of audacity and strength. She builds herself up to grow and flourish in unlikely circumstances. She converts her battles into confidence, her worries into accomplishments, and her petiteness into might. 

I have butterflies in my tummy. And I have headaches that won't subside. And I have a few scars from bad fights. And I have tremendous desires to protect. And I have anxieties of her leaving me, or her perishing from this world. And I cannot fully comprehend why others don't love her like I do. And I can travel to other countries and experience their culture, but my heart always stays with her. And I want to scream out my love. And I want to shake the world to listen to her testimonies as well. And I want to tell the judge that she's not perfect but she is innocent. And I want this nightmare trampling on our love story to end. And I want my nation to join me in supporting our partner. And I want the UN to give thought to other tragedies occurring in the world besides my love's transgressions. And I want to catch my breath because love is too exhausting. And I want to give her everything, even what I'm lacking. I want her to flourish and the red carpet to roll out behind her and the camera to capture her unstoppable beauty. And I thought that I wanted a break but know that I can't exist anymore without her in my life. 

The problem with having such intense love is the eery shades of ephemerality. Sometimes on a grey day, I worry that one day there won't be an Israel. And I honestly think that if this would happen, I would lose faith. I would probably stop practicing my people's traditions. I would end up depressed and forsaken, like the widow that just drifts away. 

I have to shake off that thought. I have to do everything in my power to ensure it won't occur. I have to persuade my people to come here as often as possible. I will tell them to move their family tree to their original grove. I will explain the improvement of quality of life in the national community. I will share the excitement of joining in the greatest experiment in our history. I will sing the music that my love sings, the quality lyrics that western music forgets to continue. I will hug with gratitude the citizens of Israel, who consciously choose to support our love. I will do this and do more; and even that won't be close to enough. 

Love is exhausting. Love raises me to new levels of self improvement. Love comforts me with feeling understood and asks me to conquer challenges. Love teaches me a little something every day. My love is unique to me and unique to Israel. And my friends' love of Israel is exclusive just to them as well. My particular journey getting to know Israel is still just beginning; we are still working out some kinks and catching on to each other's rhythms. She might have a tough day and ignore my needs and sometimes I'll be small and revengeful. But the relationship is worth it all. She's worth it. She will give my children a wonderful education. She will prove them to be upstanding people who act on their values. She will give them opportunities to live life to the fullest; to live life truly richly. We are together for the long haul, and this relationship is making our life all that I've wanted. 

There's magic in nightmares.

It's hard for me to put pen to paper when it comes to terrorism. It's hard for me to write about my feelings when it's all beyond understanding. When humans act worse than animals, when the world looses individuals of impact, when the media reports unfairly, when the vast population doesn't register the dangerous trends.... I just sigh in painful hope that some else has a better answer to it all.

When I was younger, I was terrified of Disney villains. I often had nightmares of them haunting me after they moved on from the hero of the movie. This was a fact of life and I expected their visits. I was afraid of the dark... But even more afraid of the shadows that arrived when a nightlight was added. Sometimes the solution forgets to supply comfort.

When I was in high school, I feared tests and projects. I worried about fitting in, but furthermore being true to myself. I was scared of rejection and insecurities.... but never scared of being a Jew.

Transitioning from an 8th grade class of 10 Jewish students to a 9th grade class of more ethnicities and religious identities than I could count, I reviled in the dance of diversity. I pranced around from traditional Indian dance performances, Pilipino hip hop, and Christmas lyrical. And in return, I represented my faith and my nation with thoughtful answers, samples of traditional food and the hereditary sense of humor. Proud to be Jewish in the mixture of my public high school, I had to catch my breath when I look up from my Freshman biology project and a blurred swastika appeared.

It's masking tape on a t­shirt. It's a boy’s joke of a symbol is an attack against me. It's a wake up call that sometimes it's not cool to be Jewish. It's fear. And I tell him immediately to take it off. He asks me if I am a Jew and I reply, “Yes, I am, but that is besides the point, because the Holocaust is no joking matter.”

But, my bold reaction didn't dispel my disgust of this foreign behavior. My sister, returning from a teen trip to Poland, volunteered to help me with a counterattack. I remember that next day suiting up for school wearing my Israeli Defense Force shirt and Star of David necklace; fortified by my secret weapon grasped in my shaking arms­­- my sister’s photographs of concentration camps. I walked up to him and offered this evidence, holding my breath as my legs shuddered. There was something in his expression when looking at the photos. Something so honest and apologetic. And then he respectfully showed the photos to his friends who were joking with him about the swastika the day before. I released my lungs as he returned the pictures to me simply saying, “Thank you.” Relief. Triumph. Hero wins. Villain learns a lesson. I'm a strong Jew. I am a proud Jew.

But then it keeps happening. At the UC schools. In Europe. In New York. In Israel. I just keep watching the nightmares come back. It's all encompassing. It's not cool anymore to be a Jew. It happens when we stand up to our villains and especially when we don't. It happens when we are distracted and even happens when we are focused. So what's the point? When does the happy ending block out my nightmares?

Strolling around Disney World, hand in hand with my family, I am back to my childhood. I am back to believing in heroes overcoming the odds. Skipping around nostalgic landscapes, I learn how to continue being a Jew. It works just like the magic in Mickey's wand. It's the power that feels so obvious in our imagination. So I close my eyes and imagine my future children skipping and jumping around with kippahs and Hebrew wishing around them. Just for a second, the future is so real... I can allow myself to get through the present in order to bring about the magic. I can allow myself to continue believing in our creator even when my people buying kosher food are murdered. I can find determination to amplify my freedom of speech even when others were murdered for theirs. I can continue living even though others weren't given that choice.

I can and I do this because there is pride in survival. Even when my left arm is tied behind me and my right eye is punched out, I can continue fighting back. And when I fight, I'm fighting for everyone else who can't anymore. I am fighting for the magic of the future to unravel. I believe that Jews will continue despite terrorism. I even believe that we might continue because of terrorism. I know for certain that I am a stronger Jew from my 9th grade encounter with a swastika. I testify to the desperate need for Israel because I stood in gas chambers in Poland. I feel the pain brought on by our villains, prepared for their threats to continue unfolding. I have yet to discover solutions to the nightmares. We as a nation are stumbling with a bloody nose, still going at it with our fierce determination, fighting for a magical victory.

May it be sweet.

Celebrating the holidays in Israel reflects all the reasons why I love living in Israel. Feeling part of the normative rhythm of my surroundings, I smell the change of seasons in the air. The advertisements shift their focus. Everyone on the bus and in the office discuss plans and recipes. It's this cultural atmosphere of Judaism. It's the completeness of traditions feeling current and sincere. The authenticity of the holiday season gives me another layer of gratitude besides the vacation time and spiritual renewal. The calendar in Israel stands as a logical order, not a burden of using sick days of work or school. I am here in Haifa, where I start my second year of Sherut Leumi as a tour guide in schools. I take note on my successes and missteps from my first year in Sherut, thankful for my growing experience in Aleh Negev, the rehabilitation village for adults with severe disabilities. I stand humbled before Hashem, focusing on my trust in his plan for me. I am ready for this new year of challenges because in our land, the challenges are the tools for improvement. The Israeli society of community has welcomed me in with love and support, appreciating my service and cheering me on for the guts to choose the path less traveled.

Rosh Hashana will be three consecutive days this year, just like last year. Yom Kippur will be on Shabbat, following suit to the pattern of our last day of atoning. The difference of this year is that as we step away from chag, we walk straight into a year-long chag with Hashem- Shmita. Personally extremely excited and nervous for the new Halachachic practices and tighter focus on Hashem, I study in anticipation. This year is my first time practicing Shmita, and as a proud Olah Chadasha, I am dumbfounded in the opportunity to connect to this land that I now inhabit. The usual excitement for chagim is now doubled as we greet the sabbatical year, breathing in our role in the partnership with our father. 

As every bus, every pair of lips, every radio station voices "Shana Tova," I consider the greeting/blessing/promise. After the most excruciating summer, we are still cleaning up our battle wounds. After losing so many husbands, fathers, children and fiancés; we are desperate for a sweet release from survival mode. Barely scraping by this summer, my tank is on empty. At certain pitches of noises, my heart jumps, shooting me with anxiety and resounding aches of the remnants of the war. And when I hear that Southern Israel received a few rocket attacks this week, I gasp in frenzy, terrified that the small break in this nightmare is ending. But then I catch my breath and center myself in the collage of the memories and know that despite the war, it was a good year. Despite the pain of the summer, I literally witnessed miracles every day. Despite Racheli Frankle's son being kidnapped and murdered by Hamas, she teaches us that in Hashem's confusingly complex world, there is goodness. Whether we are currently aware of the good, it is here. Despite the 72 Israeli deaths and 1,306 wounded, Israel's population is reaching 9 million, thanks to the 24,000 new immigrants. Despite it all, we are here growing and flourishing.

Racheli Frankle says that we wish a "Shana Tova U'Metuka" because everything from Hashem is good but it's not always with the sweet taste on our lips. We wish each other for honey to pour out of every moment, for us to see the beauty in the goodness and the joy in the future events. We bless each other because Hashem is listening to us and we believe in our influence in the partnership. We promise a good and sweet year because after a summer like the one we just experienced, anything would feel good and sweet.

We are starting a new year, washing off our missteps and regretful actions. We plead for forgiveness from Hashem but more impossibly, from ourselves. I ask friends and family to forgive me for the barriers I have unthoughtfully placed in our relationships. I write a letter to Hashem, addressing the sins that I have committed, apologizing for my selfish acts and my apathetic waves. The list for my goals of self-improvement and organization fill my tank with hope and motivation. Thankful for it all, I play in the sand, meditating on the change in the wind, the opportunity for a new start. The cycle of time is now more relevant than ever and as I start my year of serving Israel, I refocus on the reasons guiding my actions and the sweetness found in the path.

Sending myself away.

The thing about a year is that it only gives you one try at every day. It only allows the holidays to be celebrated once and the months to be prized for their unique variance. The knowledge of the year's limitations contrasts the strength in serving as a foundation for another year. There is this sense of purpose for him standing alone, for accomplishing something within that time frame, and for appreciating his existence in the grand scheme of history.

Trying to pay attention to the Hebrew geology lesson, my groggy eyes wander to my watch and notice the date. I'm in the middle of my 3 week extensive course for tour guiding in schools when I realize that today is my Aliyah anniversary. My mind races back to exactly a year ago, landing in Tel Aviv and meeting my friends at the airport for the welcome ceremony. I watch my mental movie play out and it feels like someone else's story. It's just so long ago. It's just so different now. I look at her naivety and her impossible goals and shift in my seat, uncomfortable feeling so distant from who I was before starting this journey. I try to force myself back to absorbing the information for my course, knowing that these three weeks are giving me the basis for my next year of National Service. Unsuccessfully, my English speaking daydream allures my attention.

My first week of National Service at Aleh Negev presents itself on the screen. The silent film plays as I stare at the world I am entering. The world of the disabled. The faces and behavior that raises questions of humanity finds me squeamishly guilty. Determined to stride in optimism, I squeeze my commitment to succeeding in my new life here. I swallow my wish for a challenging year and repeat affirmations of finding beauty in the process. Soon enough a smile from a resident of a very low functioning house grabs hold of my mental games. Maybe I don't love this place now, but I believe that I will in the end.

I am here in this year. I am speaking in Hebrew conversations differently than I did a month ago. I am now understanding jokes on occasion. I form deep friendships with my sisters here. I dance with my sons and daughters. I witness some of their first steps. I listen to first words and improvement in independence. This is the champion of respecting time. This is honoring the moment and cheering on the future.

By joining the world of this veiled population, I now realize that it's me in fact that learns the grand lessons of humanity from these brilliant individuals. I am here because when I hold them tight, I am embracing their love. When I take them for a walk, they take me on a journey to appreciate every step that my blessed legs can tread. In this mutual friendship, I see our places in the spectrum of diversity as a gift and celebrate the growth in abilities that Aleh Negev brings about in us. Everyone in this village improves in one way or another. We invest in attaining movement because we recognize that progress is never easy.

I take a peek at the photos on my phone of my Aleh Negev family. A part of me is forever there; laying out on the lawn, petting the horses, diving into the pool, stretching out in the winds of the Negev. Aleh Negev is eternally with me in whatever steps I take. Elan will be with me, giving me trouble. Being opinionated is the real test of intelligence. I will think of Meny and Rachmah's unstoppable hugs and excitement, their sensitivity to the world, and love that they have blessed me with. Inbal and Shachaff and their glorious smiles are inspiring me to crack a grin. Smile for the sake of the capacity and for the celebration for it's basis of the language of humanity. It's all with me  in my memories, in my life ideology and dangling on my wrist as I jot down notes about the magically complicated system of cells growing from the power of the sun. I am here because I was there. I am a year later even though it feels like a lifetime later. I step forward in merit of the strides behind me, waving hello to the fresh demands waiting to greet me in my second year of national service- Shelach.

At home in war.

As I notice the aches of the war surfacing in my body, I try to tune out the constant booms that terrify the soundtrack of my day. There are no words that can fully explain the existence taking place here. Every song on the radio is interrupted by announcements of rocket attack warnings in numerous cities. Every move outside is companioned by the question of 'where will I run when I hear the siren?' Every smile escaping with a joke lifts up the energy, enabling our continuance. We wear the same exhausted glance in our eyes. And when that 30 second siren rings, my heart blasts out of my chest as I run with the residents of Aleh Negev to the bomb shelter.

I know exactly what to do. I'm expecting it. I'm prepared. I know where the bomb shelters are and I know how to protect myself and my loved ones. The adrenaline filled panic of rushing so many people in wheelchairs into the centrally located safe room always catches me feeling overly motherly. Hearing the boom of the Iron Dome intercepting the rocket on it's mission to kill everyone in it's path, I finally allow a breath to enter my shaking body. We got everyone in. We survived. Now it's time to carry on with the day. Let's sing a song, do a little dance, distract ourselves from the miracle that just took place.

And that's how it's been for a month and a half now at Aleh Negev, the rehabilitation village for children and adults with very severe disabilities located 18 miles from the Gaza border. All of us doing National Service here have moved into the village in order to jump up in the middle night as the sirens sound; to extend our normal working hours to just be here, to support the community that brings us so much fulfillment. The punishment for existing is an exhausting yoke to bear. The only alleviation is found in the pride of being part of the experience. I am proud to support Israel not only with thoughts and prayers or a status on Facebook, but to literally be here in the land of my ancestors and to give my heart and all my energy to helping the diversity of the people who inhabit it. I am proud of the unity found in the streets, in the care packages to the soldiers, in the volunteering for the wounded.

Furthermore, I am proud that even in a war of self defense, we are still anti war as an entity of destruction. No one enjoys the pain drifting in the wind, catching my nose by surprise for the sensations of war are foreign to this San Diegan. Contrasting the familiar trees and climate that makes me feel at home in this coastal desert, I dare to live in a location that boarders neighbors much more unfriendly than San Diego. I chose to follow my dream and move independently to Israel because I wanted to actualize my link in the chain of my nation. Even when the link gets rusty in some sections or the tension pulls too tight, the challenges help in enduring one's identity. It's the zoomed out version of the picture that brings me comfort. It's the future links that are depending on me. It's the authenticity that I want to practice, guiding me to define myself by my actions.

Swimming upstream in the tide of anti-Israel events in America and Europe, I find myself feeling more safe where I sit here in the Middle East. The threats and hate pouring out against Jews via the Internet and protests, through the disproportional critic of the Israeli Defense Forces while thousands are murdered in Syria and Iraq without a thought of reducing causalities.

I wrap myself in a blanket, staring out at the stars, totally and completely homesick. I could not miss my family more, but so thankful to have my sister Ilana in Israel with me. I miss the glorious San Diego summers and simmer with jealously at the photo updates from my family. I am forever connected to San Diego, waiting to come back to my birthplace to visit. Nevertheless, snuggling into my new home, I whisper to the skies words of gratitude that I am in the place that I belong.