Lessons from Sderot

“Seva Adom” were the first two words I learned when I came to Sderot. It means “Color Red.” When these words sound, you have between 10 and 15 seconds to run and dive before the Qassam missile hits.

Over my three-day stay, we heard the alert only once. This was unusually lucky. By some stroke of luck, Hamas decided to issue a temporary cease-fire the day after I arrived. We never found out why. Maybe they ran out of lighter fluid.

It’s a good thing, too. Our response to that one “Seva Adom” was nothing short of pathetic. The madrichim had briefed me beforehand about which buildings I was to run to if the call came: The main chamber in the school building had extra paneling to protect from bombs and the classrooms where we were sleeping had reinforcements and iron windows. But when “Seva Adom” echoed over some distant loudspeaker—a sound I might not have recognized among the normal street noise of cars and merchants had a mass of people not jumped to their feet—the crowd of Israeli students made straight for the cafeteria building behind us. It occurred to me for a split second that this was not one of the bomb-proof buildings I had been advised to seek, but with less than 15 seconds to choose my path, instinct drove me toward the mass of scurrying Israelis. Once inside, the madrichim directed us toward the correct buildings, and it was a humiliating 30 seconds or so before we actually reached the appropriate shelter. We laughed at our ineptitude, but I think everyone secretly thanked God that the rocket decided to land somewhere else that time.

It’s hard to say why I came to Sderot. Most Israelis shudder at the name. Since the IDF pulled out from Gaza, the town of 20,000 has been consistently attacked by Hamas militants with an average of a few missiles per day, but up to 50 in times of high tension. The rockets lack sophisticated navigation, but can easily tear through buildings, and each hit sprays shrapnel 10 meters in every direction. I came with around 200 Israeli college students to show the residents that Israel has not abandoned them, and to try to make their day-to-day life a little more beautiful. I suppose my personal mission resulted from some mixture of adventurous idealism and frustration with the lack of productivity my time in Israel has yielded so far.

So I spent three days painting rocket shelters along the roads and cleaning up living areas that had been hit by Qassams. The language barrier provided an annoying obstruction, but I still managed to meet some fascinating people and get my hands dirty. Our painting team covered five shelters in all with various murals, elementary but colorful. It may be only a small improvement in the long-run, but it made a noticeable difference to drive around town and see pictures everywhere instead of cold concrete slabs. And we had a definite effect on the atmosphere around town. People seemed confounded and delighted that so many students had interrupted their lives to come help them. We got honks of support from passing drivers and invites for tea from local mothers. We even got a visit from the Rabbi Mobile, complete with booming klezmer music and a fully constructed Sukkah in the back. Often, people walking around the street would stop and ask if they could help, and what began as an outsider project turned into more or less of a community event.

Though I enjoyed volunteering, more remarkable was simply experiencing the place. I had never before been in anything resembling a war zone, and it frightened me how normal everything looked. The village sported flowers, roundabouts, and playgrounds, and the block-like layout could easily have been mistaken for Qiryat Gat, Dimona, or any other Israeli town. People shopped at the shuk, went to school, and drove their cars just like anywhere else. It blew my mind to consider that every old lady I saw walking down the street had run for her life dozens of times before and likely heard the blast of a Qassam up close.

Despite the normal façade, there was a lingering paranoia that affected every moment of my stay. Each time we drove anywhere, I concentrated intently on Gaza’s shifting position with each turn, and imagined where I might run if we suddenly heard the call. When dancing with other students during our down-time, I worried our music would be too loud to hear an alert. Such an extreme level of focus was manageable for my short stay, but I gained a new sense of sympathy for the people who must live with those fears all the time. It must be simply exhausting. It’s no wonder most of Sderot’s residents have been treated for PTSD.

It’s been months now since the weekend I volunteered there, but the experience continues to color everything I do here in Israel. I understand now that land by itself can not be exchanged for peace. Sderot is a living example of why the Gaza pullout failed, and Qassam attacks have only risen since the end of my visit. Thankfully, I have an image now to attach to all the headlines. The words “attack on Sderot” no longer blend in with the rest of the day’s tragedies. They conjure memories of iron-enforced classrooms and my poorly-rendered palm tree, and make me hope that the boy who liked red paint is okay.

A Big Fat Apology

Okay... My bad. I want to issue a great big apology to everyone who has been checking this with hopes of seeing new and descriptive stories of life here. I wish I had a brilliant, witty, adventurous excuse filled with some combination of identity theft, paralysis, and terrorists, but alas, it's merely my tendency towards laziness and perfectionism that have kept new stories from appearing. Soon, I will upload a story that I began writing almost two months ago, and pretend it happened just last week. So don't give up on me yet. I promise I'll make this relationship work!

Security in Perspective

Security is most peculiar topic of discussion in the Israeli vernacular I have yet experienced. On the one hand, it lingers as an indisputable concern: Israel, though smaller than the state of New Jersey, manages to make international headlines almost daily due to shifting aggressions and is the only country I can think of with enemies (explicit and latent) surrounding all borders and within its own territory. On the other hand, this has long been the case, and no native Israeli can recall a time when their country was not under imminent threat of some attack. Because danger is such an inseparable part of daily existence, security matters in public conversation are not as gravely dreaded as one might expect. Bad omens in the news are met with understanding-yet-unimpressed refute. Perhaps some examples might better illustrate what I’m trying to say:

Two weeks ago, a rocket struck the base at Ashqelon, our closest coastal neighbor. That same day, one of my friends at the Merkaz invited me swimming. “Are you seriously still going?” I asked. “Of course we’re going,” he said, “There’s a beach in Ashqelon, isn’t there?”

Last week at the bazaar, my friend had a realization as we searched for garlic cloves.
“It’s kind of weird being here, isn’t it?”“What?”
“Well, a few days ago they caught a man trying to escape from Gaza with bombs. He said he was going to blow up a public place in Be’er Sheva. I guess this would be it.”
“Oh. Yeah. Good thing they caught him. Mind if I stop and get tomatoes?”

In ulpan a few days ago, our class froze when we heard a loud explosion accompanied by the ground rumbling beneath us. The teacher continued, obviously un-phased by the interruption. The rest of us glanced around with nervous curiosity. “Should we go to the bomb shelter?” “No,” she replied. “We study Hebrew.” We sank back into our chairs, pretending to concentrate on the lesson as we tossed all possibilities around in our minds. Class proceeded as normal.
[Footnote: Someone informed us later that the sound was not actually a bomb, but a harmless sonic boom. (Who knew those existed outside of Mortal Kombat?) Supposedly, the rumble occurs when the Air Force jets break the sound barrier. It would have been nice for someone to have politely alerted us beforehand.]

By far the most urgent national security problem, however, concerns the almost daily Qassam rocket attacks launched on the town of Sderot, near the Gaza border. Around the day we began ulpan, a rocket hit beside a kindergarten class. An enormous portion of the town has been treated for PTSD, and much of the population is too afraid to leave their houses. In a few days, I will be joining a collective of students from around the country to help rebuild the community. We’re going to tutor kids, paint rocket shields, and generally beautify the town in any way we can to make daily life more pleasant and show national solidarity. I expect some good stories to come of it, so I’ll post an update when it’s over.

The reason I mention all these things is not to give the impression that Israel is a dangerous place, nor that I’m suicidal for being here. I simply want to emphasize the extent to which living here requires a logical outlook and a sense of humor. M16s are as common an accessory as backpacks. Every few days, something somewhere blows up or gets shot. But to worry too much about such things would be futile and irrational. After all, the number of deaths by terrorism still pales in comparison to the number of lives claimed by car accidents, yet no one thinks twice before going for a drive. Sure some hint of danger is close, but if it’s not close enough to duck, then it’s not close enough to panic. And if I wanted to live in a box, I would have gone to Kenosha.

A Foreigner Among Foreigners

The longer I stay here, the more I realize that I really, really like this living situation. This is our first weekend at the Merkaz, and all but five people in our group (myself included) left Be’er Sheva for beachier accommodations. As a result, my wanderings this evening have resulted in some very interesting friendships. I met a brilliant tetra-lingual Indian family living down the hall from me who immigrated here ten months ago. They came to Israel because they could not sustain themselves economically elsewhere. The father died a few months ago from poor medical treatment, so it is difficult for them to make ends meat even here at the center. The mother, Shimba, has promised to cook us Indian food for Shabbat dinner one day.

Later on, I managed to get into a comical-then-heated argument with a Uruguayan/American and a Russian about the distinctions between Palestinian government and Palestinian people. The debate somehow shifted to King Solomon and the Queen of Sheeba, and I went home with some bar recommendations and an offer for Russian lessons. This absorption center is a truly fascinating place. It is a uniquely Israeli concept. Nowhere else in the world are there such internationally integrated facilities that offer a complete linguistic/cultural introduction for new immigrants and refugees. Nearly every apartment represents a different nationality, but all have a common Jewish lineage and communicate with varying masteries of Hebrew. As an added bonus, the Merkaz Klita is the longest building in the Middle-East. Take that, Dubai.

For the first week here, we essentially ran around the country with the goal of exploring the area and getting a sense of the volunteer opportunities. As part of Be’er Sheva orientation, we did a volunteer day in the developing town of Dimona. The project was led by a group called Ayalim, which is possibly the coolest organization I have ever encountered. The Negev Desert covers 60% of Israel’s land mass, but holds only 10% of the population and has the highest unemployment rate in the country. Accordingly, a bunch of college students got together and decided that to continue Ben Gurion’s legacy, the next generation of pioneers must look to the Negev for population development. To realize this expansion, the students are creating communes in arid landscapes directly outside of developing communities. When they’re not attending class, they volunteer to enhance the communities both structurally and socially, hoping over time to settle a young, attractive population right in the heart of the desert, where Israeli’s security could use it most. We spent the day building a garden, oiling wood planks, and tiling floors. Perhaps I could fall back on a career in carpentry...

Big Transitions

My Israel experience began thusly: I arrived at the El Al terminal in JFK to see a line of mostly orthodox Jews winding maze-like through the queue and stretching into the hallway, around the corner, and halfway down the shopping center. It was a quintessential beginning: As we paraded a half-mile down to wait in line, a man toddled past us and muttered in a thick caustic Yiddish accent, “We’d get to Israel faster if we walked.”

What has followed has been a roller coaster of a week. We did a lot of the typical tourist agenda for orientation: walked through Jerusalem’s Old City on Shabbat, did a camel trek and slept in a Bedouin tent, floated in the Dead Sea… all utterly surreal experiences that left my emotions spinning to every possible extreme. For example, let us try a scenario: After 60 continuous hours of jet-lagged sleeplessness, what would your least preferred activity be? If you chose a 6-hour hike at in the blazing hot desert, you might just be living my life. It was nauseating, painful, refreshing, scorching, and beautiful all at the same time.

Now, after my week-long re-enactment of my camper days, I have arrived in my Be’er Sheva apartment to stay (for a time). Despite being the smallest living quarters I have ever experienced, it yields a potential for adventure and will give me the kick in the ass I need to sympathize with new immigrants and impoverished citizens. This city is indeed an interesting cultural phenomenon, and I hope to elaborate soon on how life works in this strange desert oasis.

Feh... Nerves.

1 day, 8 hours, and 27 minutes.

In typical Jackie fashion, I’m evading the packing giant ahead of me to provide you, my generous reader, with an up-to-the-minute countdown of my daunting departure from cozy Chicago. This gesture is rather emblematic of the last few weeks. My schedule has gone something as follows: 11am wake up. 12pm eat Grapenuts. Put off exercising by rummaging around the internet. 3pm guilt myself into going for a run. 3:20 run concludes. 3:30 shower and put on real clothes. 4:00 daily meal. 5pm either get schlepped around by friends or take more time for internet. 11pm bedtime. Rinse and repeat.

Needless to say, traveling to the other side of the planet to volunteer for 10 months will be a bit of a shock to my system. Every so often, paranoia kicks in and I recognize how insane I am for undergoing such a venture. After all, I’m immigrating into a potential war zone, I have no long-term career plans, I live in constant fear of passing out, and I still need to reconsider my spelling of ‘desert’ each time to make sure I haven’t confused the word for its tasty alternative. I’ve yet to decide which of these is the greatest danger.

Still, once in a while I get a twinge of self-assurance that this is absolutely what I must be doing right now. Graduating college has allowed me to see my life a little more broadly than before. I don’t know precisely where I’m going, but I know that I want to go to the grave with as few regrets as possible, having actively experienced everything in my capacity and having given just a little bit more than what others gave to me. So I’m going to what I believe is the most important place in the world right now, and I’m spending my days learning, teaching, and building community. And there will be lots of Jews. Finally, cynicism and idealism on the same plate.

I can’t say I know where this Blog is going, but hopefully I’ll be slightly more pro-active about it than I was in Greece. I'm also hoping this can develop collaboratively, because I always feel inexcusably bad for writing about myself. Please read at your leisure, post bountiful comments, then go do something more interesting with your day!