The Good with the Bad...and the Bad with the Good

Hello, dear readers.

I find myself sitting on that edge between Memorial Day and Independence Day here in Israel, that time that is so unique to our young country.  We go from extreme sadness to extreme happiness within the span of 24 hours.

Today has been filled with memorial ceremonies, people flocking to cemeteries to pay their respects, and of course, the memorial sirens that broke through the air at 8PM last night and again at 11AM this morning.

Last night, I stood solemnly in my living room with my boyfriend and dog, as tears slipped down my face during the siren's wail.  Today, I stood outside of a small, neighborhood bakery where Yagel and I had treated ourselves to some baked goods for breakfast.  We stood tall, bowed our heads, and allowed ourselves the two minutes to just think, reflect, and to try to understand the weight of this day.

Yagel and I started a very interesting conversation on the walk back home after the siren, about how he grew up with this tradition and how I didn't.  In his lifetime, he has heard 75 memorial sirens (1 every year for Holocaust Memorial Day and 2 every year for Israel's Memorial Day), so this is a natural tradition, a siren that he can handle.  I, on the other hand, have now heard 9 such sirens, and I am still blown away by the respect that an entire country can show for their fallen.

Not that everyone stopped what they were doing.  Yagel was playing with a group of Arab kids in the neighborhood last night, when one said that he would start dancing during the siren (he also threatened to break our dog's legs, if that tells you what kind of a kid he is...Yagel worked with him to get him to pet Tripp, so that somewhat calmed him down).  Someone continued driving down the street where we had stopped during this morning's siren.  And I saw a video of an Ultra-Orthodox protest in Jerusalem where many religious Jews kept walking, started shouting and holding up signs, and did all they could to break the moment last evening.  I don't think any of these instances, however, took away from the meaning and the respect that the majority of the Israeli people showed today and yesterday.

I, personally, balled my eyes out most of the evening and most of today.  At one point, I turned on the TV and immediately turned it off, unable to watch more stories of fallen soldiers and terror victims whose families are still broken and scarred after their deaths.  It's a feeling that I remember feeling last year, too, as if I was a glass that was about to be overfilled, as if I simply had had enough.  My brain yelled, "We get it!  We've been torn apart with sadness today - please don't fill the air around you with anymore!"  About an hour ago, as evening began to settle in, Yagel and I watched more stories on TV of those lost in this last war, Protective Edge, in the summer of 2014.  I cried more -  my eyes are puffy and red - and I looked up at him and asked if we could just start having fun already since my heart had been torn into pieces a million times over in the past 24 hours.

For me, it is an interesting question as to why I have cried so much during these Israeli Memorial Days.  I'm going to attempt to answer it now, although I'm still not so sure I can put it into words.  The first reason, if you know me, is quite obvious - I am a very sensitive person who is very easily effected by the stories/emotions/hardships of others.  Second, another fairly obvious reason, is that I am still in the middle of my own hard and heavy grief of losing my dear, dear father.  Just typing that almost sent me into tears again.

But the other reasons are less obvious.  I chose this country to be my own.  I, myself, have gone through two wars in my short time here.  And overall, I steadfastly believe in Israel's right to exist and thrive.  (This, in no way, means that I do not want us to live and thrive peacefully next to our neighbors, but that, my dear readers, is for another post...or from posts past.)  I appreciate each and every soldier who puts on a uniform and serves his or her time in the army.  I appreciate each and every Israeli who chooses to serve his or her country through national service instead of the army.  I appreciate the other immigrants, who, like me, came here because of desire, beliefs, ideology, and love.  I appreciate the vast diversity of this small place, from her landscapes to her people to her beliefs and desires.  I respect what has been done in order to keep her safe and to keep the dream alive.

I am, however, in the midst of a huge identity crisis.  I think every new immigrant must go through something similar.  I am not blind to the problems that exist here.  I am not ignorant to the bad decisions that this country has made or will make.  But still, somehow, I am able to feel so strongly the pride of being Israeli, the power of being an Israeli hell-bent on change, and the courage that it takes to stay here and to continue being Israeli.  I'm not ready to give up on it.  And my heart still sores when I sing the Tikva, our national anthem.  It's a beautiful identity crisis that not all have the pleasure of challenging themselves with, and I'm thankful for the chance every day.

So, as you can see, these two days that are in such stark contrast with one another yet so strongly connected, bring a little of the good with the bad and a little of the bad with the good.

Now, go out there and celebrate, Am Yisrael!  Happy Independence Day!