The Israel That Remains within Me

It’s a lifelong habit: after the cartons of notes I write, and oceans of things I consider, I relish the key images, quotes, and ideas that remain most strongly.

I went to Israel in July, to volunteer again.  Here are five encounters which snag in memory.

Dread: Machane Yehudah, Jerusalem

“It is dread,” she said strongly, with finality, the mother of three daughters who’ve served in the IDF.

Meeting with Lorre Goldberg, my daughter-in-law Elana’s older sister, for coffee and cake at Roladin, Rechov Yaffa, I asked about the general mood.  Is it…? I began, receiving her resounding answer, as loud and forceful as the light rail before us.

Living in Raanana, now, like all of Israel, within easy reach of rockets, dealing as so many do with the injured and bereaved, the frightened friends with family in the IDF, Lorre faces the strains of privation, pain, and war.

“What it’s not,” she added, “is despair.  This is our home.  We will never be defeated or displaced.”

Silence: Kikar Musica, Jerusalem

On a beautiful Jerusalem evening, my stalwart cousin Yechiel, his wonderful wife Rivkah, and I went to Kikar Musica, an exceptional outdoor blend on restaurants near Rechov Yoel Salomon.  As we perused the menu, we noticed a young woman pushing a wheelchair.  Seated in it was a young man missing his lower right leg.

“You see a lot more of that these days,” my cousin muttered.

Right, I answered, in part because armies are saving a lot more injured soldiers than they once did.

Helpless, heartbroken, we turned away, finding that we could not speak.

Fellowship: Sderot

The room was full of boisterous Americans waiting to travel south, to Shuva Junction, the Nova site, a makeshift army base to serve barbecue on the Gaza border.

Seeing her, a tiny Black woman sitting alone, I said, no, not on my watch.

Because Torah instructs us repeatedly about treating strangers well.

Asking if I could sit with her, and enjoying her smile and acceptance, we became travel companions – and fast friends.

Kenyan by way of Britain by way of Boston by way of working with wayward youth in Tokyo, Emba Allison loves the Jewish people. Coming from Japan to volunteer, she worked on farms, listened well, interacted better, easily embedding herself with everyone, notably soldiers.

Our most profound moment came in Sderot, an absolute miracle of a city one kilometer from Gaza. Suffering 22,000 missile attacks over 15 years, Sderot, clearly, will never give up.  While new apartment blocks abound, and traffic circles are chock-a-block with sculpture and flowers, children play freely in the streets. As Emba and I marveled at all this strength and vitality, we spotted what became for me the symbol of Israel, summer 2024: an Ethiopian mother walking her children home from a beautiful, brand-spanking-new elementary school, pastel racing stripes identifying buildings, the family proud and tall and loving their city and their homeland.

Resilience: Shuva Junction, Gaza Border

On October 7, the three Trabelski brothers — Kobi, Eliran, Dror – went flying toward the fighting. While one headed for combat, the other two hunkered down at the dusty Shuva Junction, handing out free water to soldiers, support personnel, anyone thirsty and in need.

In Israel, where communications are measured in nano-seconds, immediately people came and donated – everything, including the large shed that houses the kitchen, store room, free store.

By July, the Shuva Brothers, as they’re known, and their volunteers were cooking and serving 3,000 meals a day, giving out socks, toothbrushes, underwear, all free.

The day Emba and I were there, we met a soldier who had been out of the IDF for 20 years – and went back on October 8.  He’ll go home, he told us, when it’s over.

Then he added, “we will give up our lives for this country.  But we can’t do it alone.”  He held onto me.  “We need you.  You are keeping us alive.”

Unabashedly, I held him in my arms and cried.

Identity: Rechov Palmach, Jerusalem

Finally, on a lighter note, erev Shabbos, I stopped in a makolet, the kind of place that sells everything from bubble gum to the bubbly, to buy some local product for the table.

There I was, glow-in-the-dark skin, blue eyes, perfect English, asking the clerk – Mizrachi-type, dark skin, dark eyes – about wine.

“Forgive me,” he said, in something approaching English, “but are you Jewish?”

Because in his neck of the woods, being Jewish means speaking Ivrit and having dark eyes and dark if not outright black skin.

I smiled and assured him that, yes, indeed, I am Jewish.

“Oh,” he said.  “I thought you were German.”

Like the food I packed and meals I served, my small purchase of wine didn’t change much of anything.

But it made our Shabbos that much sweeter.