"Now that I understand why you are really here there are some things you need to see." my aunt said. (I didn't feel like I knew the real reason myself.)
"You are a spy!" she smiled with a twinkle in her eyes. "No, that's not the word... reporter!"
Maybe that IS one of the reasons I am here. -not a news reporter. I can't possibly learn enough in just a few days... But I can share my perspective on what I see in the daily lives of Jews and Arabs who live this life every day.
The conversation started in my aunt's living room. -two young mothers, several children and "Bubbe" (Grandma in Yiddish) And, of course, me and my other aunt from America.
"I want to tell you that, in spite of what you might hear from the media, many Americans support you. Many are praying for you. I had friends, and even people I barely knew, contact me shortly after October 7th to ask how my relatives in Israel were doing." I had traveled nearly 7,000 miles to look in my loved one's eyes and tell them that my heart has been with them all of this time.
"Tell me about what it was like, living here, on October 7th. How are you all doing, with the war and everything?" I wasn't quite sure what to ask, but I wanted to open the conversation.
As they explained their experiences, I began to hear something I didn't expect, then one of the young mothers came right out and said it, "I really didn't know what was going on, and I still don't know very much about what happened on October 7th." Her babies played around her feet. And I realized that is how it should be.
They followed the rules. They went in the bomb shelter when instructed to and came out when it was safe. They watched the jets and rockets and drones fly over. But mostly, they prayed and sang. They hugged their children close and read them stories of miracles. Life went on. After all, childhood is short. It is so important for little ones to feel safe and loved. These families don't have TV, smartphones, or anything like that in their home. The phones they have will sometimes ring with information on what is happening in the community, or prayer requests. But sometimes these mommies don't even answer those calls. It makes sense.
Their town is surrounded by a security fence. A guard post is at the main entrance to town with a gate that can be shut if needed. A siren will alert everyone if they need to shelter. The children run and play. They go to school and come home. Everyone prays three times a day. They pray for rain, if it is dry. They pray for safety when they get on a bus. They pray for deliverance from those who want to destroy them. God answers those prayers! Oh, the many miracles that have happened because of the prayers of the righteous. Our hope cannot be in fences, or gates, or safe rooms- for those have and will fail. But our hope is in the Lord our God! He will save us! Yes, this town has a pretty powerful line of defense, but I can't show you a picture of it, because it is in the prayerful heart of the Bubbes and Mommies.
Observations in the House
They weren't so different from me, my Jewish cousins across the sea.
I walked into their home, and it felt like mine. A couch, tables, stove and fridge. She had yoghurt and cottage cheese in her fridge, just like me. She liked half and half in her coffee too. A bowl of fruit sat on the table, just like home. Baby toys were strewn across the floor- just like at my house, although her baby was her son and mine is a grandson. They are close to the same age, these baby boys who may never meet.
Bedrooms, bathroom and a laundry room- just like mine. Except, my house doesn't have a bomb room. The kids sleep in it. The adults listen for sirens in the night that instruct them to go to the bomb room. It's part of life, something that must be done. In another home I heard a young Grandma, called "Softa" (Grandma in Hebrew), instruct her toddler granddaughter to put something away in the "bomb room". Everyone has one, and even the youngest children know where it is.
The thing about the bomb room is its purpose is to keep people safe from bombs- not home invasion. The door swings out, and the hinges are on the outside. The latch is not secure and there is no lock.
So, since home invasions seem to be the new tactic of the enemy, people are putting bars and gates on the outside of their houses too.
Driving Through Israel
As we rode the bus from one town to another, my aunt would point out the different neighborhood, or towns.
"Those are Arab houses. See how they don't have anything over the windows, or even rails on the balconies?" I noticed. I noticed something else to. The Arabs lived free. Free from bars and gates and security points. It is not safe for the Jews to go into Arab towns. Some of the special places for Jews are controlled by Arabs. -the graves of the Patriarchs and Bethlehem are a couple of examples
But Arabs are free to go into any of the Jewish towns. They often work as construction workers.
One day, an Arab man was doing a repair job for my cousin's neighbor. My cousin had stepped outside for a minute. When she walked back in, this strange man was standing in her kitchen. She got so scared. He just wandered in looking for something. He wasn't even repairing anything in her house. Evidently this is quite common. They don't tend to respect private property. And they are protected because they are considered minorities. Companies from janitorial businesses to hospitals must hire a certain percentage of Arabs.
It feels wrong to write like this. My American brain has been wired to not put people in boxes! We don't judge people based on their ethnicity, or religion, or anything! Each individual person is judged on their own merit. Yet, here, on the other side of the world people are living in boxes. I don't know who put them there, or if it will always be so. But they need to be there, to survive. It seems wrong, but I don't know how it could be any other way. For when they come out of their boxes they get killed.
"It's always been like this." my aunt explained as she pointed to a Jewish apartment building. "Jews live together. It is safer that way."
Why must they?
Why must they create these worlds where they can live?
Why do so many people not want them to live?
I don't understand. I never will. Especially not in just two weeks.
My American mind says to put the murderers behind bars, not the Orthodox Jews. But they don't seem to mind. And they don't seem afraid. They live the way they believe they should. They pray and study the Torah. Sometimes trials come to test their faith, but they handle those times as they always have.
-all of the times that someone has risen up to destroy the Jewish people-
I looked in my aunt's eyes. "I do NOT believe that the Jews deserve this! I don't believe it is a punishment. I believe the Bible is very clear that God has NOT forsaken His people. He loves the Jewish people very much." Her face softened. We don't have to be enemies- Jews and Christians. The Jewish people have enough enemies without us condemning them as well. We have a lot of things we disagree on, but the time and place for discussing those things is not now. Now is the time to show love and compassion.
My Lord grew up here. He had an Ima. Did he have a Softa too? His family set the table for Shabbos. He ran these hills and touched these rocks. He learned all of the rules for living in this place. Where Jews were allowed to go, and where they couldn't. How could I not love this place he called home and these people he called his brothers and sisters?
The Shaare Zedek Hospital
"You need to see the hospital." my aunt instructed. And so, here we were, sitting in the main lobby, watching people walk past. -a coffee shop, a little gift shop with newborn things- "Can you tell who is Arab and who is Jewish?" I had only been in Israel two days! As the people passed us by I mumbled responses: "Arab?" (he didn't have a kippah) "No, I think he is Jewish, just not religious." she answered. "It's hard to tell. We are cousins you know."
So, that was the lesson? That they are very similar?
She led us into the labor and delivery area. "We could never do that in America!" Aunt Anita and I told her. Everyone is scared someone will steal the babies.
Jewish and Arab women labored next to each other. It was hard to tell which one was which. Sometimes, if a mother is a radical Muslim, and she gives birth to a son, she will exclaim that Allah has given her a son, may he grow up to be a terrorist and kill Jews. The Jewish mothers next to her give no mind to her rapture. Her cousin, in the bed next to hers...
The nurses and doctors are also sometimes Arab and sometimes Jewish. Sometimes they are radical Muslim. (Again, what I am about to say is super hard to write. It goes so much against my western way of thinking.) If a Jewish doctor, or nurse, cares for an Arab patient, they, more often than not, treat them with dignity and gentleness. When a radical Muslim nurse, or doctor cares for a Jewish patient, they watch for ways to compromise that person's health. (It feels so wrong to write that!) But story after story confirm it happens with regularity. In fact, I came home to a news story telling about radical Muslim nurses, in Australia, who bragged about being responsible for the deaths of their Israeli patients.
How can such a world exist?
I sat in the foyer of the hospital and watched the people go by. Two women wearing hijab excitedly picked out baby outfits in the overpriced hospital giftshop. They didn't seem to be the least bit oppressed, as they paid for their items.
And there on the reader board, for everyone to see, all of the important information was written in three languages: First, Arabic. Then, Hebrew. And, finally, English.
Why is Arabic first? Wasn't I in Jerusalem, Israel?
But I am taught not to judge. In my country everyone is equal. Mothers all want what is best for their babies. No one wants their child to grow up to oppress other people.
I don't understand.
We run out into the dark, rainy night to catch a train home. My aunt guides us to the correct station. I can't tell the difference this time, as we maneuver through the towns to the one my aunt calls home. The one with the guard station, the fence, the bars on the windows and a little box on the doorpost called a mezuzah. She kisses it as she leads us into their cheery home. "Bubbe!" the little ones shout. "You're Home!"
I look at the smiling faces of the two little girls, knowing they were triplets. "The healthiest, strongest one is the one who died." my cousin explained. She told about the nurse who had come in the night before the baby died. She was a Muslim. Was she an extremist? No one knows what happened. -why she suddenly died the next day. And no one can say anything because there is no proof. Besides, we must be kind to them and give them a chance. Those poor oppressed Muslims.
(Of course, not ALL Arabs are terrorists, or Muslims.)
