A peek into the first day of an Israeli School

Embed from Getty Images

I started teaching last Sunday, September first.  I wasn’t sure what I would encounter as I walked through the halls of my school for the first time in two months. It had been a thunderous summer in Israel.  With the seemingly never-ending war in the background, political leaders were arguing, families of hostages were setting Tel Aviv on fire, and the Ministry of Education called for a strike.  I was somewhat surprised by the smiles and the “Hi Mrs. Levi!” echoing off the newly painted walls.  I shouldn’t have been, I suppose.  These were teens.  They didn’t spend their vacations devouring Channel 12 news and Douglas Murray on YouTube over their summer vacations as I had.  They went to summer camps, on family trips, and hung out with their friends in the mall.  I was glad about that.

My first class was my 11^th grade.  I had taught these girls for the past four years, so I knew them well.  When I was asked how my summer went, I responded by saying “it was bittersweet”. They understood immediately.

“The events of the summer, especially over the last week dampened some of the sweetness of my summer,” I explained.  “Although I really enjoyed sleeping late” I added.

Some laughed. Others nodded.

I chose to begin my year by teaching them the inaugural poem by Amanda Gorman entitled “The Hill We Climb”.  It’s a beautiful optimistic poem about overcoming struggles to reach true democracy.  It portrays a vision of a world where acceptance reigns, where there is no racial or religious divide, and where love overcomes hate.  I felt that it would be healing for my girls to understand the dream.  I felt that the idea of redefining democracy as a goal to strive for would be inspiring.  Boy was I wrong.

Gorman begins with the words that first drove me to teach the poem that day:

“When day comes we ask ourselves,
where can we find light in this never-ending shade?”

I talked to my class about the metaphors of light and shade and explained to them that while the poem was written about America, it could easily be speaking about the situation going on in Israel today.  We too are seeking an end to our struggles both national and personal.

“We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace,”

We discussed the distinction between quiet and peace and I asked them where we see this in our current situation.

My class sensed the applicability easily, and they provided examples. The cease-fire.  Hidden racism in society.   They are a particularly intelligent group of girls, and they had a lot to say.  But it was the next few lines of the poem that really sparked an explosion of comments and left me speechless.

“and the norms and notions of what just is
isn’t always just-ice.”

I wasn’t sure they would comprehend the subtle distinction between “just” and “justice” in this line, but they did.  I wasn’t sure that they would understand how Israeli society might adopt a belief that is “just” when it does not represent true “justice”, but they understood that too.  They just did not appreciate the accusation.

“How can you blame  Israelis for the way we feel after October 7^th? “ “Can Israeli society be expected to accept a population that has spent decades committing violent crimes against it?”  “Isn’t it “justice” to hate the people who want to kill you?”

They shouted their opinions at each other, at me, and even at themselves as I sat and listened and at times nodded my head.  The conversation grew louder as girls who were not as involved prior were suddenly drawn in.  It was a teacher’s dream really.  The poem had managed to inspire something in them, even if it meant disagreeing with its words.  I tried to differentiate between  Israeli Arabs and Palestinian Arabs. I tried to explain that the dream of justice was complete integration of the other.  Neither Israel nor America had reached the top of that hill.  But soon I realized that I was talking to a group of girls who would never understand.  They were too wounded by war.  Some had lost relatives, others had siblings in hospitals and rehabilitation centers, and still others had friends who had been shuttling in and out of war zones for the past 11 months.  Many had parents who were crying themselves to sleep, while their daughters listened from the other room.  My students knew what it felt like to be the targets of missiles.  They tasted the fear of death and knew just how close they had come.  This was not the audience to whom this poem was first recited.  It was a group of girls who were bleeding inside.

As Gorman’s poem went on it became increasingly beautiful and optimistic, as my students became more and more cynical.

“We are striving to forge a union with purpose,
to compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and conditions of man.”

“It will never happen”, one girl assured me while shaking her head from side to side.  The others agreed.  Nothing can bring that kind of peace. We talked about the religious vision of the Messiah, and they accepted that this was the messianic vision.  But nothing short of that could heal this broken world for these students.

I left the room horrified by what I had just heard.

Thinking over it now, I recognize the source of my horror.   The realism in which these girls reside is unnatural for 16-year-olds.  I mean, think about it.  When most of us were 16, were we that cynical about the state of the world?  Perhaps now, as an adult, I am less naïve.  But one of the gifts of childhood and adolescence is naivete and unrealistic hope for the future.  Among other things, this war has robbed my students of these two precious gifts.  They sounded more like war veterans than 16-year-old girls.

I began my next class by explaining to them that I understood their reactions.  I told them that their generation went through Corona, and now this long-drawn-out war, and their cynicism about the future was understandable.  But I explained that I didn’t grow up with these experiences, so my views about the future were vastly different from theirs.  I said that my wish for them is that one day they would begin to perceive the world differently.  I wanted them to see possibility in place of pessimism.  I saw one girl nod in agreement.  The others sat in silence.  Perhaps they had begun to understand just how broken they truly are.