184652 - Zaida's name from 1939 - 1945

A few years ago, on Yom Hashoah, my brother posted the number that had been tattooed on my grandfather's forearm. He had been "catalogued" in Auschwitz before being sent to a work camp called Blachenheimer. When I first saw his post a few things ran through my mind. One was how I had known him for over 37 years (he was approximately 96 when he died) and yet while I had seen that number at least a million times, I had never paid attention to the actual numbers, and two, was that it never occurred to me to write them down somewhere.

My brother did. 

At first I thought it was a weird thing to do - to copy down the number, but after I thought about it for a while, I'm glad he did.  Now that my grandfather is no longer alive I'm glad that someone in my family thought it important enough to write it down.

The idea of branding humans, reducing them to a number instead of the complicated beings they are, complete with physical differences, unique personalities and individual emotional makeup was just the beginning of the Nazi plan to eradicate the Jewish people. Shaving their heads and stripping their clothes was just the physical removal of their individuality. But taking away their names and replacing them with a number was their attempt to strip them of what made them who they were. 

But for five long years my grandfather had no name as far as the Nazis were concerned. He was 184652.

It's time everyone got to know the man behind the number. 

Thankfully my Zaida survived the Holocaust and married the girl he was in love with before the war, also a Holocaust survivor. He emigrated to Canada and had two children. He worked for a mattress company for many many years and was the Gabbai (caretaker) of his small shul. He was a fun grandfather, too. We would spend Sunday afternoons picking wild strawberries from his backyard, and he taught me all the Yiddish I know (which isn't much...). He helped me open a savings account and taught me about interest rates and what would be the best account for my meager savings. While I was in college, we bought lottery tickets together once a week fantasizing about what we would do with our winnings. He would take me to his small single-car garage and I'd watch him upholster new couches for my mom.  I loved the way he would shine with pride when he would show me how he still fit into the same pants from twenty years ago - and they were the SAME pants. And how he'd demonstrate his expertise on the rowing machine that he'd use every night while he watched the news. He'd tell me how he preferred stale bread because you had to chew it longer and therefore ate less - hence his ability to fit into those twenty year old pants. And I loved how he treated my grandmother. She'd scold him and he'd tease her and then he'd end up laughing so hard his false teeth would clatter in his mouth. And my grandmother would roll her eyes at him, exasperated. I loved the way he cared about others, the way he listened. He always said a smart person was one who listened more and talked less. I loved the way he'd pronounce the word 'knife' sounding out the k instead of leaving it silent. And when I'd correct him, he'd laugh and say 'then why is it there?'  

To them, he was known as 184652, but to me, he was Zaida.  He was a great man, father, husband, uncle, grandfather and great-grandfather.

He was Elimelech Gut (Good) son of Chava Rachel and David, z"l (may his memory be a blessing).

My Zaidy, Shimon Woolf z"l and Chanukah...

A few days ago it was the first yartzheit (anniversary) of my grandfather, Shimon Woolf z"l (may he rest in eternal peace).  He died last year on the third night of Chanukah, and for our family, a light that had burned for more than ninety years had been extinguished forever.  This past Shabbat, my family shared a meal with good friends and our host gave a small Dvar Torah while we sat at the table, unable to move from all the amazing food.  He spoke about the machloket - the disagreement - between Hillel and Shamai in regards to lighting the menorah on Chanukah.  Shamai argued that we begin the holiday by lighting all eight candles on the first night and gradually decrease every night until we light one last candle on the last night of the holiday.  Hillel argued that we start off the holiday by lighting just one and then increase every night until we are lighting all eight candles on the last night of the holiday.  Our sages have decided that while Shamai's method had merit in many ways, we were - for generations to come - going to do things Hillel's way.  And so we do.  But the reason our host gave was a beautiful one.

Our world, especially now, is a dark one.  There are unspeakable events happening all over the world that seem to be gaining a scary momentum and it doesn't seem like things are going to get better just yet.  As Jews, we are commanded to be a light unto the nations.  The events over this past summer tested us in ways no one should ever be tested, and yet, we came through with flying colors.  We sought prayer, gave comfort and rose beyond the anger that fuels revenge and hatred and chose to love instead.  The outpouring of pure giving that went on in this country was mind-boggling, inspirational and endless.  And so we - as a nation - actively chose to keep that commandment and we shone.  

Our Shabbat host explained that when you take a pitch black room and suddenly fill it with lots of light, it's bright and beautiful.  You've filled the darkness with lots of light and that's a good thing.  But the act of lighting one less candle each night, is a depressing one.  And a passive one.  Instead of keeping the light, you're actually extinguishing it slowly until there's but one measly flickering flame left behind.  The amazing quality about light is that even a little bit of it can light up even the darkest of rooms.  It fills each and every corner with just enough light for you to see and find your way.  And in doing so, it brings with that small flickering flame the concept of hope.  Increasing the light slowly until the room is completely lit up, is the antithesis of depressing.  It's an act of positivity and hopefulness, of seeing the glass half full instead of half empty.  It's an attitude, it's the way we should all see life, and ultimately, I believe it is the key to our survival.  Bringing the light into the darkness is one thing, but increasing it is a whole different concept altogether.

And I'm not just speaking physically, but metaphorically as well.

My grandfather carried a light inside of him wherever he went.  Yes, he was sometimes incredibly focused, single minded and filled with more stubborn determination than anyone in their 90's should be, but he had that light.  It shone from his face when he handed out candy every Shabbat to the kids in his shul in exchange for some words about the parsha.  It shone from him whenever he was busy with the mitzvah of Hachnasat Orchim, which he was busy with all the time.  Nothing made him happier than hosting people.  He'd go out of his way to buy just the right cakes and offer drinks and a comfortable seat and he would engage you from the minute you walked in until the minute you left.  He gave tzedakah with a smile and a willing hand.  The crinkles in the corners of his eyes never reflected more light than when he was with my grandmother.  His love for her was palpable.  He came to Israel to visit almost every Passover for the last four or five years of his life.  We took him to Leket one afternoon during Chol Hamoed and he insisted on getting down in the dirt to help his great grandchildren pick beets for the needy.  He was dressed impeccably, dapper and elegant in his perfectly ironed slacks and button down shirt and tweed cap, but he got down on his knees and he picked those beets.  And you could see the light that shone from him.

When he died, I thought that that light was forever gone.  After all, it's the neshama, the soul and the true essence of a person that makes a person truly alive.  Without the soul sparking within, there is no life.  

But I think I was looking at this the wrong way.  

I think that if we all take those little sparks of light that we've learned from him - his genuine crinkly smile, his easy laughter, his love for Torah, his true desire to help people and his welcoming nature - we can keep the light that was him alive.  And we can increase our own inner light.  We can keep the spirit and deeper meaning of Chanuka, of bringing more and more light into this world alive.  And instead of slowly removing and extinguishing the light, we can make a conscious decision to strengthen the light, and keep that flame steady and constant, not just during Chanukah, but during each and every day of our lives.

My first real Tisha Be'av...

I grew up in an Orthodox home in Toronto.  And, although I won't reveal my exact age, suffice it to say I've spent more than three decades fasting on the ninth of Av and sitting on the lumpy cushions on the floor of my shul in Toronto while listening to Megillat Eicha.  Nothing much has changed since I've made Aliyah, except I sit on the cold hard marble floor instead, since there are no cushions in my shul.  And while I learned throughout my schooling the significance of this fast day - second in importance to the fast of Yom Kippur - it's sometimes difficult to really feel it in your bones.  We begin the mourning period every summer on the fast day of 17th of Tammuz, which was the day the walls of Jerusalem were breached by the Romans in 69 CE.  Three weeks later, on the 9th of Av, marks not just the date of the destruction of the second Beit Hamikdash (the second Holy Temple) but also was the date of the destruction of the first Beit Hamikdash as well.  And if that wasn't enough tragedy for a single day, there was a whole slew of other terrible events that just so happened on that day as well (not a coincidence in my opinion...).  

So, in a nutshell, this was not a great day historically for the Jewish people.

During these last few weeks, I've been thinking about how I've spent past Tisha Be'avs and I've come up with some constants.  I've slept in, hoping that when I finally woke up, half the day had passed so I didn't have to think about food for more than a few hours.  I've tried keeping my kids busy so they wouldn't complain about being starving.  I've read books and watched documentaries.  Then, later in the day, I've busied myself with cooking for the conclusion of the fast, which somehow - ironically - manages to keep my hunger at bay.  I'm not sure, though, that I've really ever felt like I was mourning.

I suppose it's difficult to mourn something you've never had.  Despite learning all through school about the Beit Hamikdash and learning about how it was made, how holy a place it was, how sacrifices were brought to the Kohanim (the Priests), it's all just stories and legends, more or less.  No matter how many times I've learned about bringing the first of your crops to the Kohen or about how he took a handful of flour and some oil, and made some sort of cake and then burned it, it was all so removed, so distant.  And the fact that the destruction of both Temples occurred thousands of years before I was born, has distanced me further from the event.  And so while I go through the motions of not eating meat, not swimming or listening to music or going to parties or the movies for nine days and then ending this period with a twenty-five hour fast that begins by sitting on the cold hard floor and listening to the tragic reading of Megillat Eicha, I'm not always truly mournful.

In fact, I remember one particular Tisha Be'av, exactly 14 years ago, when I passed the day in a drunken state of joy and euphoria as I sat in Tel Hashomer Hospital holding my gorgeous, healthy, super-cute baby girl that was born only two days earlier.  Not fasting and basking in the quiet mother-baby bonding, I was too busy mooning over her to think about Tisha Be'av.

This year is different.  These last three weeks can only be described as hellish.  It started with the cruel and unforgivable kidnappping and murder of three young boys and culminated in a war so devastating and frightening that it's left us all shaken.  We've lost WAY too many of our young, brave soldiers and our nation is truly in a state of mourning.  And I've felt it, this all-encompassing sadness that has taken over our people.  I've felt it in every nerve ending of my body.  Now, with a little perspective, I think back to August 70 CE, when our second Holy Temple was destroyed by the Romans, scattering the Jewish people and commencing our exile from the Holy Land.  

And while I got it before, now I really get it.  

The very existence of the Jews of 70 CE were at risk for annihilation.  They lost a country that they were gifted by God, a country that they loved.  They lost their Holy Temple, their place to worship God freely and with a whole heart.  Families were torn apart, and loved ones murdered before their very eyes.  Whoever was left standing was taken away by shackles to other strange countries, forced to give up their religious beliefs.  Their yeshivot and their places of worship were now a thing of the past.

It's now August 4th, 2014.  Centuries lie between us and them, but the threat facing us right now is one and the same.  We are fighting an enemy that wishes to destroy us, to eradicate us from this land that is rightfully ours, a land that we love.  And while we don't have a Beit Hamikdash, their goal is to destroy our religion in the name of theirs.  They have already torn families apart by killing our children, our soldiers and our citizens.  

But there is one fundamental difference between now and then.  We will not let them win.  We are hanging on by tooth and nail to this country of ours and we will not let them take it away from us.

But in the meantime, while I'm fasting in the cool air-conditioned comfort of my home, our soldiers are spending this tragic day in impossibly difficult and dangerous conditions.  They are fighting for us.  For our right to exist in this country that is unequivocally ours.  But we've paid a terrible price for this just war, and will go on paying it until we can live our lives in peace.  We have no other choice in the matter.

And for the first time in a long, long time, this Tisha Be'av, August 4, 2014, I am in mourning.

Fragility and Strength...a paradox?

This summer has been such a strange one. For all of the Jews around the world, but especially for those of us who live here.  This war has been on the front page news for way too long and the anti-semitism that has erupted all over the world as a result has left us all a little shell-shocked.  

Summers are the only time of the year that I'm off of work, with pretty much nothing to do, and while I'm generally a person who loves to be busy every minute of the day (I consider myself naturally caffeinated...), I relish the summer months where I have nothing urgent to do but decide whether to sit on the couch and read a book all day, or play Boggle and Settlers with my kids in the middle of the afternoon, something I'm never able to do.  I normally sleep in, lazing in bed with my Nook, reading some light, fun beach read, before making my way downstairs for a leisurely breakfast. I usually tackle some summer project, like a mosaic or a particularly difficult piece of music but I have yet to do any of those things.  

I haven't been able to sleep in as much as I want - no, need - to and I wake up bleary-eyed and exhausted before I even lift my head off the pillow. Instead of sleeping deeply and dreamily through the night, my thoughts (which are often depressing) are rushing ADD-like through my brain and I'm tossing and turning most of the night.  Instead of dreaming about rainbows, fairies and happy endings, I've got images of tunnels and rockets stuck in my head.  And forget about reading. Those of you who know me well know that I am a serious book addict. I could read between five and six books a month in addition to keeping to my work schedule and still manage to make a balanced dinner most nights.  I never leave the house without my Nook tucked in my purse in the event I can get another chapter under my belt while waiting in the checkout line at the grocery store or at the pharmacy.  But since the kidnapping, I can barely bring myself to finish one single book.  I'm too unfocused, too shaky and have trouble turning the news off. I have this visceral need to know what's happening with our soldiers every minute of the day.  

While you might think that sounds slightly obsessive, I assure you, I'm not alone.

While I figured that everyone around me is probably feeling somewhat similar, I didn't realize to what extent.  I ran into a friend at the mall a few days ago while doing errands. She told me that she stopped by my house yesterday but I wasn't home. She said that she couldn't bear the thought of going home where the television beckoned her with only bad news and that she just needed to clear her head, talk with someone about what she was feeling. Which was untethered and shaky and unfocused. Like me. She has good reason since she has a son fighting in Gaza.  Yesterday I ran into another friend, also while doing errands, and the sentiment was the same. She had a bright smile on her face because there, standing next to her, was her son, the same age as my soldier daughter, who had just gotten back from Gaza. While he was heading back there after the weekend, her relief and her gratefulness for this small weekend reprieve was written all over her face. There was still worry mixed in with the relief, worry for her other son and her son-in-law who are still fighting in Gaza. And while standing in the local Makolet just a few minutes ago, I just had a lengthy conversation with yet another friend and all we could talk about is this war and how it's affecting us.  How surreal this summer is and how easily we are moved to tears by what is going on around us.

I feel fragile, on the verge of breaking if I hear of one more soldier dying to keep us safe.  Reading about that young widow who gave birth to her fourth child, a girl, just ten days after her husband died in the battle was almost too much to bear.  But there are moments in this terrible summer when I feel a surge of strength come over me.  It slowly creeps into me when I sit every night in the shul, elbow to elbow with other women who've come out to pray for our soldiers, for our wounded, for our army and for our country.  I felt it pour through me when I saw a young girl standing at the entrance of the supermarket next to six huge boxes that bore a sign on which was written: "for our chayalim, please give what you can".  And another surge of strength when I handed over four tubes of toothpaste and her face broke out into the biggest beaming smile you can imagine.  For toothpaste.  It crept into my veins and made me smile when I saw the picture of the IDF armored vehicle decorated with colorful "stay safe!" cards made by children from all over Israel.  I felt it when I read about the owner of a Shwarma restaurant that literally emptied out his store and packaged up every last salad and Shwarma for a father who was taking food down to his son's unit before Shabbat, and then refused to take any money.  I feel it when our community continuously collects everything from underwear to flashlights to granola bars so the soldiers could keep focusing on doing what they do best and not worry about the small stuff.  I felt it when I saw the picture my husband posted of himself along with four colleagues doing a volunteer ambulance run down south in Be'er Sheva.  And I felt it again when I watched a video of a mother who has lost two sons in past wars bring words of comfort and solace to the mother of a slain lone soldier who came all the way from the US to bury her son.

We are getting through this summer moment to moment; from weakness to strength, and from despair to hopefulness. I keep hoping that the moments of strength will overpower the moments of shaky uncertainty and while that hasn't happened just yet, I'm not just hopeful but certain that they will.  Soon.

And I think that's what we all feel.

That amidst all the shakiness and fragility, there are unbelievably beautiful and powerful moments of strength that feeds our souls and continues to bind us together and makes us the nation we are today.

Word association...

Show someone a cup of water that is filled to the half mark.  Fifty percent of the people will say it's half empty and fifty percent will say it's half full. It's all about optimism versus pessimism and an individual's perspective.  War is always - inarguably - a negative thing, no matter how you try and spin it.  I think about the usual words associated with the word war, and I come up with pain, suffering, loss, wounded, death, fear, trauma, nightmare, etc... These are not pretty words, which makes perfect sense, because war is anything but pretty.  

But there's one more word that comes to my mind when I think of this war.

Miraculous.

I know.  It's strange to add that upbeat, hopeful, supernatural word to the mix.  Miracles are usually associated with good things.  Great things.  Godly things.  Awe-inspiring events that have the power to turn non-believers into believers and to forever change lives.  It certainly doesn't apply to war.

But I can't help but see that this war is anything but miraculous.

When the tunnels were first discovered, I didn't know what to think of them.  First of all, my impression of these tunnels were little furrows just beneath the surface if the ground.  I figured they had something to do with the black market - something surely illegal - but I didn't know much more than that.  It was only after I saw the footage of the five terrorists popping out of the ground on Israeli soil and then trying to scurry back into the mouth of one of the tunnels after being discovered by the IDF, did I begin to understand the gravity of them.  As every day that passes during this war, the complexity and sheer number of these sturdy fortified tunnels - that resemble any major city's underground subway system - sends tremors of fear up and down my spine.  And I still worry that they will not find each and every one.  I shrunk back in abject horror when I saw a video of the IDF pulling shampoo bottles, soap and conditioner out from a cupboard beneath someone's bathroom sink.  They then removed a false bottom and discovered the entrance of yet another tunnel.  They filmed some of the items they found down there: rockets, lighter fluid, bomb-making material and the like.  And this was in someone's private house! (This leads to a whole other issue of what "innocent civilian" really means...)

When the "master plan" of a massive-scale terror attack that was carefully planned over the span of a decade to slaughter all Israelis in towns, yishuvim and kibbutzim within the vicinity of Gaza this coming Rosh Hashana was made public, I know not a single one among us that did not quake in fear.

And it hit me with such clarity that this war was a miracle.  A blessing in disguise.

Had the IDF not gone into Gaza, there would have been a chance that those tunnels may not have been discovered.  And if their plan of terror had actualized, the losses on our side would have been unimaginable.  Personally, it affected me deeply.  As a mother whose son is scheduled to be attending an army prep school not four kilometers from Gaza, I'm still reeling from the "what ifs"...

And to think how close we were to that happening.  Truth is, Hamas is stupid.  And stupid is as stupid does.  We accepted not one but two ceasefires before the ground forces of our army went into Gaza.  Had Hamas been smarter and had accepted the ceasefire, there might have been some sort of (fake) peace treaty (until the next time they lobbied rockets into Israel...) and our Prime Minister would have been forced to stop the IDF from going in.  He took a calculated risk by accepting the ceasefire, hoping that Hamas would refuse and it - thank God! - worked in our favor.

So yes.  While the losses of our many - too many! - soldiers are painful and devastating, this war cannot only be defined by pain, suffering, loss and death.

It is also a miracle.

And so when I go to the synagogue every night to say Psalms for the safety of our soldiers and for the healing of our wounded heroes and warriors, I also say a fervent thanks to God for two things: for sending us this miracle, and for being able to recognize it for what it is.  I might not like the shape or form that this miracle has been given, but I'm eternally grateful nonetheless.

An open letter to my family and fellow Jews all over the world...

To my fellow Jews,

I've lived here for almost twenty years.  I remember the day we broke the news that we were planning on making Aliyah.  Thankfully, most of you were proud and supportive, even if it meant taking our infant daughter far far away from you.  We came here without the support of Nefesh B'Nefesh or it's financial grant because it didn't exist at the time.  We were supposed to have been met at the airport by a representative of Tehila, but somehow there was a miscommunication, so no one showed.  There we stood, on February 3rd, 1995, in the old Ben Gurion airport, standing among hundreds of Russians and a handful of visitors, with our duffle bags, our car seat, our stroller and our five month old baby girl.  We had not a clue what to do, but we made our way to a Sherut taxi service which would take us to our apartment in Jerusalem.  

Our three bedroom apartment in Katamon was 75 steps up with no elevator and had a galley kitchen painted a bright glossy canary yellow.  I didn't need coffee to wake me up during the three years we lived there.  And we loved it.  We loved the neighborhood and our new friends, and our new community.  But living so far away from all of you was not easy.  I know we communicated via the telephone and email and we sent plenty of pictures of our growing little girl but it's not the same as seeing one another in the flesh.  Looking back, sometimes I can't believe we did it.  

As you know, we did not have jobs lined up and we were living off our savings while we settled in and tried to find work.  Things did eventually fall into place.  We eventually moved to the center of the country and added three more kids to our family.  We found a community we love, people who have since become like family.  Our kids went to Gan and learned Hebrew, And I went to Ulpan and learned Hebrew (I'm still learning...) and we settled into life in Israel.   But unfortunately, things have not always been calm and quiet here.  

Our son was born amidst bus bombings that crippled Jerusalem, and as a result, only half of our guests were able to make his Brit due to a bombing that occurred a half hour earlier.  Ironically, he happened to have been born half an hour after another such bus bombing.  I remember being in the middle of heavy labor when the staff in the birthing hospital started whispering and a tension gripped the room.  They wouldn't tell me what had happened until after our son was born, but I had pretty much guessed.  Imagine trying to bring a child into a world with so much pain and suffering.

We experienced more threats a few years later and had to seal up our bedroom and make sure we had our gas masks and other necessary supplies in case of a biological attack, which they thought was imminent.  Those were fun times, I tell you.  Our bedroom still has marks of the tape residue and for some reason, we never painted over them.  And I look at them now and then and it makes me remember those times, like when we had to instruct our young daughter how to put on her gas mask.  No parent should have to do that.

Since then, we've had more wars.  During the second Lebanon war, my husband, an ambulance driver, volunteered to help out up north near Akko where the bombs were landing in residential neighborhoods.  This was before the Iron Dome, so yes, there were fatalities.  He drove up north with three other ambulance drivers and it just so happened to be the fast of Tisha Be'av.  It was also one of the hottest days of the summer.  Our rabbi told my husband and his colleagues that they were under no circumstance to fast, despite the seriousness of the day.  They were doing God's work, he said, and it would be stupid to put themselves in danger health-wise when they were responsible for saving lives.  

Just two years ago - not even - we had another short-lived battle against Gaza.  That same little baby we made Aliyah with was now in an army prep program in Kibbutz Alumim, is situated less than four kilometers from Gaza.  Rockets started landing in and around the kibbutz as well as other yishuvim in the vicinity.  The school sent all the students home.  They stayed at home for one, maybe two days, and then, as a group, called the head of the school and said they were coming back and that they didn't care.  They were officially kibbutzniks for that year and if the people of Alumim were hiding in bomb shelters, then they would too.

Now, this war called Protective Edge has taken on a more ugly and terrifying form than any other in the last twenty years since I've been here.  Despite the several cease-fires that our side abided by, we have been barraged with more rockets than you can possibly imagine.  We've had too many deaths already, too much pain and loss.  It all began with the kidnapping and murder of the three young boys, Ayal, Gilad and Naftali.  The hunt for the murderers and the despicable revenge killing of the Palestinian boy escalated things in record time and now, Israel is fighting for its life and the life of its people.  Our brave soldiers have begun a ground invasion and were shocked at what they discovered.  The magnitude of these tunnels, and what might have happened had they not been discovered is chilling.  Through interrogations of the terrorists that were captured, there are terrifying reports about evil plans that were to take place this coming Rosh Hashana.  Hundreds of terrorists, disguised as IDF soldiers, popping up from under the ground inside kindergartens, lunchrooms and backyards in yishuvim, kibbutzim and settlements around Gaza in order to slaughter as many Jews in a surprise attack is now a nightmare that every Israeli sees behind their closed eyes when they go to sleep.  

And yet, I don't regret - not for a single minute - the decision we made to move here.  It's been the right move for us and for our family and we feel that this country is our one and only true home.  We've watched our kids grow and flourish and soak up a love for this land that is overflowing.  They relish the day they will serve it and protect it and help it continue to grow.  They are being educated in a country where education is prized and appreciated.  Where democracy and civil rights are protected.  They are living day to day in a country where giving is more important than receiving.  They are growing up in an environment where they can apply the Torah's values and morals to their day to day lives.

When I see what's going on in Europe, Canada and America, I'm chilled to the bone.  I see the sign in an Antwerp restaurant saying that while dogs are allowed, under no circumstances are Jews allowed.  I hear of synagogues in Paris being burnt, and see Jewish businesses in Paris broken into, their windows shattered.  And the glass lying on the street is eerily reminiscent of Kristalnacht... I see violence against Jews all over England, their cemeteries desecrated.  I see protesters all over the world carrying signs with a swastika, saying they will happily finish the job Hitler started.  I see protests in Canada where the Muslims beat up anyone carrying an Israeli flag or supporting Israel.  I see the main streets of downtown Chicago and Boston filled to capacity with American jihadists protesting Israel's right to exist.

So while it might seem strange to you, with the rockets flying overhead and the alarms sounding every few minutes, I am afraid for you.  For you, my family and my friends.  For all my fellow Jews in the diaspora.  

I am very afraid for you.

And I know this might seem crazy - and in many ways it is - but we are safe here.  We may be in the middle of a war, but we are fighting it and we will win.  We are taking as many precautions as necessary, but we are surviving.  Our soldiers and our country will protect us.  

And they will protect you if you come here.

Love Your Neighbour....

We are commanded by the Torah to love our neighbour as we do ourselves.  In its most basic form, it means treating people with kindness.  I am the kind of girl who appreciates the little things.  I never forget to say please and thank you to those who show me any type of kindness - big or small - and that especially includes people in the service industry.  It's a tough industry - having to please people all day no matter how they treat you.  A genuine smile and a sincere "Thanks!" can go a long way.  It's like I tell my kids:  You catch more bees with honey than vinegar.  Setting that cliche aside, I happen to like having a personal relationship with the people I encounter on a regular basis.  Last week I was in Jerusalem, strolling down Jaffa Street, when I saw one of the checkout clerks from Mega Modiin sitting on a bench.  It was weird to see her out of context.  She didn't see me and I could have walked by, but I walked over to her and said a big hello.  She smiled and asked me how I was.  Vicki has worked in Mega Modiin for at least 15 years since the day I moved to my yishuv.  And we always share interesting conversations while she tallies up my grocery bill.  I continue to break my teeth speaking Hebrew to her while she chats with me in English.  And then there's the guy at the local gourmet shop who asks me what I'm going to bake with all the stuff I've bought and we end up segueing into which diets work and why.  But I'm not just friendly with the Israelis that I come into contact with, but Arabs too.

I don't know what my friends who live in the US and Canada think, but just because we live in Israel, doesn't mean we only come into contact with Israelis.  I happen to live just over the green line and there are plenty of Palestinians (not Israeli Palestinians, who are full citizens of this country) who work in and around our small community and in the larger city of Modiin.  But just because they are Arab, doesn't mean I don't have similar conversations with them as well.  We have an older Arab gentleman who works for our yishuv keeping our streets clean and plenty of families here use him to clean their windows which he does for extra cash.  And every time he sees me, he waves and asks me how I am.  There is quite a skilled staff of Arabs working at the chicken and meat counter in a couple of the local supermarkets, as well as some working at the gas station.  While I don't get into conversations at the gas station, I definitely do at the meat counter.  Sometimes it's about what cut of meat to buy, or which method would work better, oven or BBQ.  When Thanksgiving rolls around and I pick up the 15 pound turkey that I ordered, we have a whole discussion about what Thanksgiving is all about and why I, as a Canadian, choose to celebrate it.  They laugh about it and then ask me how I prepare the turkey, with which spices and at what temperature and for how long.  And they often hand me the meat and then wish me a "Shabbat shalom."  My husband has worked with plenty of Arabs in the past and some of them even tried to "friend" him on Facebook.  I guess the point I'm trying to make is that we live with them and they live with us, and I, for one, don't ignore them.  I say please and thank you to them as I would to anyone who did me a kindness.  It never occurred to me to do otherwise.

But now things have changed.  I filled up my car with gas the other day and while I still smiled and wished the gas attendant a good day, I drove away with a clenching in my stomach.  I couldn't help but wonder if he was forcing himself to be polite while seething inside at the very fact that I am part of a nation that is attacking his.  And thinking about how easy it would be for him to throw a lit match into my tank as it was filling... (I know - I tend to be morbid sometimes...) And when I thanked the clerk at the meat counter for picking hairless wings for me (a big deal here...) I wonder if he's secretly wishing he could somehow poison my meat.  My 16 year old daughter pointed out that they could be thinking exactly the same thing about me.  And that thought had never even crossed my mind.

My house is situated at the far end of our community and the view outside my window is one of hills, valleys, craggy stone and olive groves.  And the ugly, tall, imposing, concrete security fence, too.  While it somewhat ruined my bucolic view, I'm glad it's there.  Before it went up, there was one Friday when I was standing in the shower, my hair full of shampoo, when my daughter burst in and screamed, "the Arabs are coming down the hill!"  I grabbed a towel and ran out of the shower and stared out the window.  Hundreds of Arabs were chanting while making their way down the hill towards our chain-link fence.  A call was made to the security company that sits at the entrance of our community and the army was called in.  For weeks afterward, while the security fence was still just a concept and not yet a reality, several army jeeps were situated on our side, using their night-vision technology to watch the valley, to make sure we had no other surprise visitors other than the occasional deer leaping through the hills.  Then the security fence went up.  Now, every Friday, the Palestinians behind the wall - there are three villages just beyond - come out to protest the wall among a host of other things. Sometimes it's peaceful, but most of the time not.  Too often, the army has to throw either a stink bomb or tear gas at them, which the wind then carries over the valley and makes it difficult to stand outside or even keep the windows open.  Never thought I'd ever experience tear gas in my life, but I have.  Many times.  I know that some of those same Palestinians are coming over the security crossing every morning in order to work.  And I wonder sometimes if the guy who cuts my chickens up into eight neat pieces is the same guy that's burning tires and trying to topple the concrete wall in view of my house.  

I'm not sure what to make of this whole weird relationship that we now have.  I'm still trying my best to love my neighbour and continue being kind and grateful, because that's the kind of person I am.  I'm still smiling and still polite, but I'm conflicted and the clenching in my stomach has only intensified.  It's not like this hasn't happened before.  With every war in the past, there were the same thoughts, the same concerns, but now it seems much more complicated.  This war has escalated beyond what we had imagined.  Sure, we figured there would be terrorists, but we weren't counting on the "human shields" or the twelve year old gun-toting kids, or the sheer number of mind-boggling tunnels that must have been in the works for decades.  The anti-Israel riots that have erupted all over the world hasn't made it any easier on us, either.  Educated European and American Arabs are now taking to the streets, not in peaceful protest with flags and homemade posters, but with bats, sticks, stones and fire and with an anger-driven violence that has not stopped shocking me.  And while these local Arabs - who I come into contact with each and every day - don't live in Gaza, plenty of them are loyal to Hamas.  

When will the tides change for them?  When will they care more about their loyalty to Hamas than their steady jobs?  When will they decide to put down their butchering knives, or the gas nozzles and take to the streets?  Is it only a matter of time?