Three months ago, I took a chance and turned a dormant dream into a reality. I packed up my belongings, sold my car, resigned from my job, said goodbye to my friends and family and moved to Jerusalem.
Was I crazy? Maybe. But in many ways, this whimsical decision has made more sense to me than almost anything else in my life has.
Ever since I was a young girl, my eyes would sting with tears whenever I heard the opening chords of HaTikvah, the Israeli national anthem. At the time, I couldn’t explain why; I just knew I belonged to a country I’d never even visited.
Years later, I had the opportunity to visit Auschwitz and hear survivors’ stories first-hand. I remember seeing hope in one man’s eyes as he detailed his time in the death camps. How could this man possibly be nurturing hope while discussing unspeakable tragedies, I wondered. Then I began to understand; his hope had nothing to do with his own circumstances. By telling his story, this man was doing his part to prevent another Holocaust from ever happening again. His hope was in a brighter future.
I left that experience, understanding the need for the state of Israel in an entirely new way. It went so much deeper than providing a homeland for a persecuted people; Israel offered the chance for the Jewish people to collectively hope again.
For many years, I felt that my role in this hope was advocating for Israel, politically. Perhaps someday, I’d move there, but at the time, my focus was elsewhere. Then, recently, I decided that it was time for something new.
So, here I am, experiencing this “something new.”
When I first arrived, I couldn’t help but notice all the differences. I stood in a grocery store, staring at 50 brands of yoghurt all written in Hebrew, wondering which to choose. I fumbled as I learned to use an Israeli app to navigate the public transportation system in Jerusalem. I spent three hours punching random numbers into the phone, trying to guess how to speak to a live representative when calling to set up the internet. My heart filled with fresh compassion for immigrants in every corner of the world.
Yet, somehow, in the flurry of confusion and unfamiliarity, I felt connected. Though I was a stranger, I was also home.
Eventually, the unfamiliar began to feel familiar. I began to memorize the stops on my bus route, and I started to notice more similarities than differences– like a hopscotch game at the playground. Slowly, I began to acclimate to this new normal.
Recently, I met a young family who has captured my heart. I don’t share a language, a level of religious observance, or a culture with this family. Yet, I immediately felt at home in their house. Their children and I have formed a bond without being able to communicate with one another. Actually, that’s not true. We communicate without language.
Things I’m grateful for:
-the elderly man who greets me at the bus stop everyday, saying “Boker Tov.”
-the walk to my bus stop, where I get to see blooming flowers, a spectacular view of Jerusalem, and cute puppies
-surprising friendships
-creating routines and forming a place in an unknown world
-the joy of being able to order a cup of tea successfully in a foreign language
-being on an academic campus again and catching the idealism floating in the university air
-time and space to be able to write again
Mara's Musings 