Then, when the heat was finally working again, we woke up one morning – on my birthday, as it happens – to find we had no water. (Forget about hot water, which by that point we were already well accustomed to heating up in advance via a flick of the dud shemesh switch.) We were not alone in this predicament. Our pipes and those of many other residents had frozen overnight. It would take just a few hours for the water to start flowing again, but we didn’t know that at the time. I panicked.
* * * * *
So no, aliyah has not lifted me to an exalted spiritual level where mundane vicissitudes don’t get to me. Nor has it gotten easier to digest the near-daily reports of attacks that cut down beautiful, innocent lives.
But without question, living here gives me a greater sense of purpose, fulfillment, God-consciousness, and arevut for Klal Yisrael and for Eretz Yisrael – the very things my husband and I hoped to achieve when we transplanted our family last summer. I love that I don’t have to be self-conscious about having my head covered. When I go for medical appointments and procedures, I feel safer, more at ease, because I am surrounded by Yidden. Hearing parents at my kids’ schools speaking French, Spanish, Russian, and other languages I can’t quite identify, I think: Look at us all together here. This is the beginning, the kibbutz galuyot.
In the U.S., even in my hometown of New York City, Jews are little fish in a huge pond. How they ought to conduct themselves in the Diaspora was the subject of frequent debate between my husband and me. I believed that decorous public displays of Judaism were an appropriate exercise of our sectarian rights, while my husband viewed it as imprudent for Jews to call attention to themselves. But there’s no disagreeing that here in the Holy Land we can and should live our faith out loud, without shame or hesitation.
When we first arrived, my children pointed excitedly at the fluttering banners of mini Israeli flags that adorn many balconies. Immediately we decided to get one for the balcony of our rented apartment. I tried at least a dozen different stores – stationery stores, toy stores, souvenir shops – and came up empty-handed. Finally someone explained that these ubiquitous banners are sold only around Yom Ha’Atzmaut. We were disappointed, considering that Israel’s next birthday was then three seasons away, until a dear aunt who lives in Jerusalem came by with an extra one she had found in a closet, and we hung it right up. Watching the blue and white flap and tangle in the breeze fills me with pride. Even I would not have felt comfortable hanging it from our apartment in New York.
Our children are, all things considered, adjusting well. As is typical of young olim in their first year, they understand more Hebrew than they speak, which means my husband and I can’t safely use our highly imperfect Hebrew-as-a-secret-language in front of the kids. They are comfortable with their new routines and the new items in our snack cabinet, but they miss some of their old friends, their beloved cousins, and real New York rye bread. It’s still a long way from the day they will, we fervently hope, thank us for bringing them here.
In the meantime, their eyes are imbibing the colorful Purim paraphernalia on display everywhere. Festive preparations for each chag follow seamlessly upon the previous one. Yes, of course it’s a marketing thing – but “holiday sale” has new meaning when it’s our holiday being celebrated. (Thankfully, Christmas was not even a blip on the radar screen, but I was chagrined to find the malls decked out with Valentine’s Day merchandise in February.)
