January 26, 2012 | 7:56 am

A Kibbutz State of Mind

Posted Shoshana Rosen, Masa Israel's Kibbutz Ulpan alumna

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Do me a favor. Take a quick trip with me. Our first stop is a lively bus station with people talking loudly and grazing your shoulder as they pass.  Breathe in the smell of exhaust and fresh fruit. Feel the sweat trickling down the small of your back. It’s 90 degrees outside and the weight of your bag is pulling on your shoulder. Push past those distractions—we need to find our bus! Can you see the departure board amidst the ruckus? When does our bus leave?

Oh, that’s right, the signs are in Hebrew. You can’t read them yet. It feels overwhelming doesn’t it? You’re uncertain of where you stand. Take a deep breath. You’re in Israel and about to begin a trip that will change your life forever.   

Wait, let’s take a step back. In fall 2009, I quit my job, applied to business school, and moved from Los Angeles to Israel.  Admittedly, these were all fairly impulsive moves for an overachieving workaholic.  But then again, I was 24 and thought my quarterlife was the perfect time to test my comfort zone. I spent my half-year abroad enrolled in Masa Israel’s Kibbutz Ulpan program at Kibbutz Mishmar Haemek, studying Hebrew and working in the makbesa (laundry). While I knew it would be an adventure, I couldn’t have anticipated how much my perspective on life would change. 

While there, I adopted a “try it at least once” philosophy to immerse myself in the country. I traveled from the Galilee to the desert. Along the way I tried new foods, took my first sherut (unofficial group taxi), hiked my first crater, danced in my first punk rock nightclub, and even acquired a taste for Goldstar beer. 

Through these adventures I found my personal priorities shifting. Israelis taught me to put relationships first. Rather than shackle themselves to Blackberries, Israelis don’t bring their work home with them.  Perhaps more importantly, Israelis express their affection for each other openly and often. My adventures in the country and connections with its people helped me readjust to how I valued my own relationships. 

With my shifting priorities came a shift in world-view.  I had been a myopic American most of my life and Israel adjusted my lens.  My ulpan mostly consisted of new immigrants in their late teens and early twenties.  We had Venezuelans, Turks, Belgians, South Africans, Mexicans, Brazilians, and more! 

I was one of the few “tourists,” one of two college graduates, and definitely on the older end of the spectrum. Ostensibly, I had little to nothing in common with my fellow ulpanists. I was on a journey of self-discovery, which seemed indulgent when compared with those who had left their homes because of anti-Semitism and socio-politic instability. 

Working and studying alongside such a diverse group of people opened my eyes to the rest of the world.  Unlike my new friends, I had never been afraid to go out at night, never experienced a culture that suppressed women’s rights, and never been afraid to hide my Jewish identity. Talks with my ulpan friends enhanced my cultural literacy, empathy, and gratitude for the life I had lived. What’s more, these people helped push me further out of my comfort zone.  They taught me how to make their native dishes, encouraged me to take advanced Hebrew, and even translated through Spanish when I couldn’t understand our mora (teacher). Most importantly, they taught me to look outside myself and approach life with a global perspective. We were different, but we were the same—young Jewish people looking to improve ourselves. There’s nothing more uniting than that.

So now, a year and a half later, I’m back in Los Angeles finishing up my MBA and ready to get back into the workforce. Only now, I look at business and myself quite differently. Today, I understand that relationships can’t take a backseat to professional success. My experience in Israel taught me how interconnected we all are as world citizens, and as Jews.  We work to build our communities, protect and enjoy our loved ones, and experience the richness that the world has to offer. As different as we are, our journey is the same. 

So how about it… ready to take a trip?

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December 6, 2011 | 7:52 am

Teaching English Underground: My Gap Year in Southern Israel

Posted Michal Shany, alumna of a Masa Israel gap year program

“Your classroom is just down these stairs,” the principal of Amereem Elementary School in Be’er Sheva, Israel told me. I smiled and briskly walked downstairs. The time it took me to reach the final step was well coordinated with how long it took me to translate the sign posted on the wall: ‘bomb shelter.’

A throng of smothering, excited children blocked the path to the makeshift concrete classroom. We were underground and the only ventilation came from a slow-rotating fan. Second-hand smoke wafted in through the long-since useable vents from the adjacent teachers’ room. Sweat poured down the nape of my neck as I stuttered, “Shalom. My name is Michal and I arrived from California to help you learn English.”

The teacher, armed only with her own two feet planted firmly on the ground, and a voice that could compete with that of Zeus calling from the Heavens, tried to quell the situation. But the children continued to shriek.  So I decided to do the only thing that a lifetime of suburban schooling had taught me—change my tone and the level of regard in my voice. I waited for a pause in the turmoil to politely tell the children that if they helped me with Hebrew, I would help them with English. I knew that to gain respect from others, one must be humble and empathetic. I also knew that slight bribery in the form of stickers produced completed homework assignments, and that often, hugs were more important than the lessons themselves. In exchange for love, the students might increase their level of performance.

Five months into my Volunteer National Service Year for the Israeli Government through Masa Israel Journey, I have realized that accomplishments are all relative. Society says that good grades should instill a certain sense of pride. The only selfless volunteering I knew was always supervised—with ‘thank-yous’ flowing freely. And so, when a sixth grade boy named Tomer asked if I could tutor him more after school, I felt a new sense of pride.

When Tomer arrived for his lesson, he was still dressed in his soccer uniform.  Panting, he explained that he had left his practice early. I was dumbfounded that the youngster had left an activity he loved in order to respect my schedule. This was an accomplishment in itself.  But there was still more to come, I realized when his mother called to thank me later that week. Her foreign accent thick with rolling r’s, she apologized for not being able to help Tomer herself. I later learned that Tomer was Muslim and received refugee status in Israel. I was astonished and thrilled that his mother felt comfortable enough to send him to my home—a Jewish girl’s home—for the extra help he needed.

Flash forward two months.  I am still living in Beer Sheva, but the backdrop has changed as missiles literally pound my front doorstep. Operation Cast Lead is underway, and the slow churning sirens of “Red Alert” creep into every household, finding the cracks in Jewish and Arab windows to reach the residents and warn them of impending danger. Our school has been closed for nearly two weeks and the irony of teaching in a bomb shelter has all but lost its humor.

A month prior to Operation Cast Lead, I was relocated to volunteer in a village for adults with Down Syndrome. Luckily, I continued to see Tomer, as he was one of my neighbors in the densely stacked apartments of Schoona Daled. His mother still greeted me with her foreign tongue, and Tomer still sat beside me in the community center as I helped him with his English homework.

The interpersonal respect I experienced in the developing Negev desert affected me deeply. I know that my contributions towards Tomer, regardless of discriminatory prejudices he may face in his life, will help him become a better student. I hope that when he is older, he will remember the patience, respect and study habits I showed him, and possibly feel more positively toward Israel. While accomplishments may be relative, I feel a great sense of pride for my work in southern Israel.

Michal Shany is an alumna of a gap year program through Masa Israel Journey, a project of the Government of Israel and the Jewish Agency for Israel.

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November 23, 2011 | 1:11 pm

Putting My Learning Into Practice: Tikkun Olam in Jerusalem

Posted by Michal Meyers, alumna of Masa Israel’s Midreshet Harova

We learned from the wee hours of the morning until late at night, but Torah study is incomplete without chessed, or acts of kindness. This was a lesson I learned while a student at Midreshet Harova, a Masa Israel-accredited seminary in the Old City of Jerusalem.

Coming from LA, there was no shortage of interesting experiences happening right in my backyard—like that night when I was walking through the corridor-like streets and saw a guy carrying a live sheep on his shoulders because, as he said, “I have the strength, so why not?”

Still, I chose to fill my Tuesday afternoon elective slot by leaving the Jewish Quarter behind to get my dose of chessed. My first volunteer spot was Lifta, which got its name, my friends and I joked, because we had to “lifta lot of rocks.” The six of us took a bus to the entrance of Jerusalem and then stumbled down a dirt road to reach our site: a neglected building that we were renovating to turn into a drug rehabilitation center for teens. We painted doors, removed stones and debris, and generally tried to make it look more presentable. It wasn’t quite as vigorous as digging out the Kotel tunnels, but we definitely earned the falafel dinner that awaited us back at seminary.

Later in the year, I volunteered at the soup kitchen, Chazon Yeshaya on Rashi Street, near the Machaneh Yehuda shuk (outdoor market). From my first day of volunteering until the day I sadly told them I wouldn’t be back the next week, I felt like they were doing chessed for me instead of vice versa. Tamir, the head of the kitchen, referred to me as tzadika, saint, and the other senior volunteers always asked me about school, how things were going, and when I was planning on making aliyah. Mostly, I followed the directions they fired off in rapid Hebrew to hand out trays to the people who came for lunch, pack food for them to take home, and clean up the lunch room afterwards.

It was so fulfilling to take part in such beautiful service that I was unsure if I was really doing it for them or for myself. Tuesdays soon became my favorite day of the week, and of course it didn’t hurt that afterward I often moseyed over to the shuk to pick up dried dates and other delectable treats.

Now, back in the US, there’s a lot about Israel that I long for, but one of the main things I miss is that sincere concern that each Israeli I met had for me and every Jew. While volunteering, I not only learned the importance of tikkun olam, doing our part to fix the world, but I also grasped the importance of being united with the community and truly caring for the well-being of one another.

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November 16, 2011 | 2:32 pm

Healing Hearts in Tel Aviv: How One California Woman Spent Her Post-Grad Months

Posted by Ashley Berns, alumna of Masa Israel's Oranim Tel Aviv Internship Experience

“Ashley, if you weren’t here with me today I would have spent the day in the shower, crying.” These words, uttered through tears of relief, have remained with me during the last two years.

Four weeks after graduating from the University of Southern California, I was on an El Al flight to Tel Aviv, unaware of the impact the next five months would have on my life. While living in the heart of Tel Aviv as a participant in Masa Israel’s Oranim Tel Aviv Internship Experience, I spent my days volunteering with the Israeli charitable organization Save A Child’s Heart (SACH). SACH brings children, at no cost to the children’s family, from developing countries to Israel for life-saving heart surgery. Once they are brought to Israel—sometimes with a relative, other times alone—they live in the SACH house before and after surgery. This house is no ordinary house. It is filled with children and relatives of diverse cultures who speak various languages. During my first visit to the house, I watched as women who spoke all different languages stood side by side, cooking their children’s favorite meals. For the children, language was not a barrier. A little boy from Angola, who spoke Portuguese, played the board game ‘concentration’ with a boy his own age from Kenya, who spoke English. They talked to each other in their native tongue, without concern for the fact that the other one did not understand him.

In addition to helping out at the SACH house, I also visited Wolfson Medical Center to entertain the children who were both preparing for surgery and recovering. At the Wolfson Medical Center, doctors volunteer their time to save children who would not have a chance at living a full life without their help. But even more amazing is the fact that 49% of the children come from the West Bank and Gaza, Jordan and Iraq.

My life changed the day I met 11-year-old Ian and 8-month-old Brian, both from Kenya. Ian’s mother was pregnant and unable to travel so his Aunt Rose accompanied him to Israel. From the moment I entered this house, Ian and I instantly connected. We both missed our families and began sharing stories of our homes. In the weeks leading up to his surgery, Ian and I played games, ran around the playground and colored. He even taught me how to whistle. I spent days in the waiting room as he had two surgeries to correct his heart defect. I walked the colorful hallways of the hospital with him as he gained his strength back. And I was with him when he was given the news that he was healthy and strong enough to return home to Kenya. But I dreaded the day we would have to say goodbye. What do you say to someone who has come to mean so much to you, and who you may never see again? As my final visit came to an end, just days before his departure, I told him to take care of himself and that I was going to miss him. We hugged and I walked away, tears streaming down my face.

Another adorable little boy I got to know was Brian. Full of life, he was always smiling and laughing. I quickly became close with Brian’s mother, Meredith, who like me, was 22 years old. Meredith is a courageous woman who felt guilty that her son was born with a heart deformity. I spent 8 hours with her in the hospital the day of Brian’s surgery. We paced the waiting room, took short naps on each other’s shoulders and prayed for the best. We talked about the wonderful things that Brian would be able to do as a healthy little boy. Minutes after the surgery, we held each other as we visited Brian in the neonatal ICU. Practically speechless, Meredith thanked me the only way she could—by telling me that she would have spent the day crying in the shower had I not been there.

Over the next weeks, I was with Brian and Meredith through the ups and the downs as Brian’s body adjusted to the improvement. Meredith showed me an inner strength that I have never seen before. It was an unlikely friendship that taught me that one can get through any obstacle as long as there is someone by your side. To this day, Meredith and I still correspond by email.

Even though two years have passed since my time at Save A Child’s Heart, there is not a day that goes by that I don’t think about Ian, Brian and Meredith. I imagine how much they have grown and matured. I wonder what their futures hold; maybe one day they will become doctors who save the lives of others.

I am currently in my second year of rabbinical school at The Hebrew Union College in Los Angeles. The lessons I learned at the SACH house and my experiences in Tel Aviv prior to rabbinical school will undoubtedly have a positive impact on my rabbinate and the way in which I interact with others. My time at SACH taught me the power of one person—I have the ability to change the lives of others, just as my life has been changed by my interaction with these incredible children. 

When I first walked into the SACH house, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. After my first visit, I realized that the SACH house was exactly where I was supposed to be. I went to Save A Child’s Heart with the intention of having an impact on others and in the end they impacted me.

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November 9, 2011 | 10:32 am

Achieving Progress Through Friendship: An Experience of a Lifetime at Tel Aviv University

Posted Daniel Dokhanian, alumnus of the Masa Israel-accredited Tel Aviv University

“Do not go where the path may lead.
Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Jewish day school. Jewish high school. Jewish summer camp. Jewish family. Jewish friends. Jewish student groups in college. Jewish Studies 10. Jewish fraternity. It may go without saying that my upbringing could be called, well… biased. That bias had unfortunately fostered arrogance, an arrogance that would be humbled and, truthfully, shattered during my semester abroad at the Masa Israel-accredited Tel Aviv University. While at the time, I was no novice to the Arab-Israeli conflict, having visited the region on three separate occasions, there is one experience that has and will always stand out to me as one of the most memorable, life-changing experiences I have ever had.

Wait… is that a (gasp) Keffiyah???

That’s right. This is a picture of me (grey coat) in the city of Bethlehem with my friend Alex (white sweater). Between us, you are looking at one of our good friends, Fadi, a Palestinian living in the West Bank, Judea and Samaria, Palestine… whatever you call it, who invited us to stay over his house in a Palestinian refugee camp. That night was one of the most memorable experiences of my life. A small anecdote might help explain:

“Fernbach?” asked Fadi, looking at my friend Alex’s passport. “Isn’t that a Jewish name?” My heart dropped as I looked around the open-roofed (or should I say, no-roofed) house with cracked walls showcasing paintings with foreign Arabic script.

“Yes,” answered Alex quite confidently—in sharp contrast to the way I felt.

“You are Jewish?” Fadi asked with his thick accent and broken, hesitant English. My heart began to pound faster. The outdoor air must have grown colder, I thought, shaking.

“Yes,” he said again. A look of bewilderment – not hostility – crossed Fadi’s face.  “Is that a problem?” Alex asked.

“Of course not. I guess I am just a bit surprised,” said Fadi, as though hurt that he’d been left out.

Manning up, I cut through the tension: “You have to understand—we did not feel safe telling you at first, but we came here to put ourselves out of our comfort zone and to see a different point of view,” I heard myself saying.

“Yes, I understand,” said Fadi. 

My uneasiness suddenly began to evaporate. I continued, “Perhaps after tonight, you can tell your friends here that you had two Jews stay over your house, and that you’re now friends with them.”

“Absolutely,” Fadi said.  He seemed to be having an epiphany. “You know, I hope you will tell the same to your friends.” He smiled.

“No doubt that we will.”

                          ———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Israel, to me, is not just Birthright, the Dead Sea, the clubbing and beaching in Tel Aviv, nor the Western Wall in Jerusalem. Israel, to me, signifies tolerance. This anecdote breathes life into my convictions: progress can be achieved through understanding and tolerance. In this picture you find two Jews together with a Palestinian Muslim standing next to the Church of Nativity (where Jesus is said to have been born). What this picture means to me, is what Israel means to me: it is the heart of the movement toward religious, cultural, and ethnic tolerance in the Middle East.

Ever since my return from the Holy Land, I have had a deep yearning to spread these beliefs to my surrounding Jewish friends and family in an attempt to help them recognize that stubbornness holds you back, hostility begets division, and hatred can only breed more hatred. It is through the acceptance and understanding of others’ differences that we see progress.

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November 1, 2011 | 8:48 am

No Such Thing as a Regular Routine: My Experience at Hebrew University

Posted Leeor Brahms, alumna of the Masa Israel-accredited Hebrew University of Jerusalem's International School

Eight months is a very long time to be away from home, and it seems even longer when you’re in country like Israel. Most of what I remember are mere flashes of images or sounds shuffled together like the Mizrachit music on my ipod. Like many students studying abroad at the Masa Israel-accredited Hebrew University of Jerusalem, I came to Israel for a break from my normal routine.

I spent much of my time on the back of my Israeli boyfriend’s motorcycle. It was my first time riding one, and I wrapped my arms tightly around his stomach as he drove me down the arteries of Jerusalem. No one knew me. Often I worried about feeling accepted and how I sounded in Hebrew, but when I was on that bike I stopped caring. It was the only time when I could see the world without anyone seeing me back. I spent a lot of time on the back of that bike, and to put it simply, I fell in love in Jerusalem.

When I met him the summer before, he told me that he was a commander in the Israeli air force. He didn’t have to say more. I was taken almost immediately by his natural charm, good looks, and cute accent—or maybe I was just allured by his foreignness. Regardless, he was new and exciting, and for a girl traveling from the outskirts of Hollywood, he was the perfect start to my Israel experience.

I lived with four Israelis in a small apartment near Hebrew University’s campus. One of them, Matan, and I became very close. We talked about many things, and when I started to get homesick, he was there to make me feel better.  Living in Israel wasn’t as easy for me as I originally thought. Fears of growing up and not being good enough started to surface. When I complained, Matan simply looked at me and said, “Yihiye beseder. It will be okay. I’m 25, I’m only in my first year of school, and I still don’t know what I’m doing. I didn’t have the luxury to go to university after high school.” He was right. I was worrying about things that hadn’t even happened yet. I had friends in Israel my age still serving in the army. While I had the freedom to go out on the weekends, they were stuck on a base smoking cigarettes in a pair of army boots.

On the Mount Scopus campus at Hebrew University there’s an amazing view of East Jerusalem. One time I was standing with a girlfriend and a security guard while heavy protesting picked up at the bottom of the valley. We could hear the firecrackers and even the faint echo of shoes hitting the pavement. The guard lit a cigarette and told us stories, detailing his time in the army, and how things like this happen every year. He told us how he’s used to it, and how he can’t sympathize with people who would kill in the name of God. I couldn’t relate to him because I only knew Israel from TV. Even within Israel’s borders, I felt like a spectator and as I watched, I started crying as tear gas blew in our direction. To the left of us were two Palestinians sitting on a bench watching the same scene. I wasn’t afraid, but I wondered if they hated me.

The last month of my trip is still vivid in my mind. “Don’t take the buses,” my boyfriend called to tell me. I was on the other side of the city and I needed to get back home. “Don’t leave.” The sun was dipping into the horizon, and hesitantly I set off for the bus station. I took two different buses to avoid the city center. I sat in the back so I could keep tabs on the people entering and exiting. There was word going around of a possible attack in Jerusalem. I told myself nothing would happen. Yet, for some reason images of crying babies trickled into the forefront of my mind. I knew I was imagining things. But I also knew that I wasn’t. A few days earlier a bomb blew up a bus in Eilat. There were shootings in Ramallah. Perhaps today there would be an explosion in Jerusalem.

On my last day in Israel, I went to a free concert on the beach. I sat with some girlfriends drinking frozen mojitos while singing along to the band’s rendition of Beatles’ songs. For me, that single night alone epitomized everything I had experienced during those past eight months. I thought to myself, “This is life in Israel.” It’s a life where uncertainty hangs in the balance, and where futures are shelved for a more convenient date. It’s a life where you enjoy the moments riding on a motorcycle.  It’s a life where what you and I agree to be normal is very much skewed. 

I chose to come to Israel because I wanted to leave a routine that I thought was, for lack of a better word, boring. I didn’t think that when I returned I would bring with me a more realistic view of life and an appreciation for people in other parts of the world. What began as an innocent exploration turned into a conflicted yet loving relationship with Israel.

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October 17, 2011 | 1:10 pm

Striving for a New Israel Education

Posted by Mike Schwartz, alumnus of Masa Israel's Young Judaea Year Course and Hebrew University of Jerusalem's International School

Like most American Jews of my generation, my first encounters with Israel were cultural. I saw pictures of people reading the newspaper while floating in the Dead Sea. I wrote notes to be placed in the Western Wall. I ate hummus and falafel at Israeli Independence Day parties. My “Israel is Good” education certainly did its job. I was in love before I even stepped foot in the Holy Land.

Then, when I finally did land in Israel after high school for nine months of study, volunteering, and experiencing Israel through Masa Israel’s Young Judaea Year Course, I immediately felt at home. As a first-timer, everything I did that year was new and exciting. Only now, years later, do I realize that this should have been my first sign as to how much deeper I still had to dig in order to discover the real Israel.

During my junior year of college, I returned to Israel to study for a semester at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. It was during those five months that I began to uncover much of the information that was absent in my earlier encounters with Israel.

While visiting a Jewish Israeli friend studying at the Technion, the MIT of Israel, situated in the mixed Arab and Jewish city of Haifa, I experienced an encounter that illuminated a rift in Israeli society. In a conversation about the student population, my friend revealed his resentment for the large number of Arab students at his university. “It’s fine if they want to study here,” he said.“They just have to remember that they’re foreigners.”

“Foreigners?” I repeated. Didn’t they hold Israeli citizenship? Hadn’t their families lived in Israel for generations? His response was that Arabs were foreigners because Israel is a Jewish country. “That is something that family history and citizenship cannot change,” he said.

Instead of keeping me away from Israel, this experience only compelled me to return. I wanted to continue my search for a bigger picture. A year later I had the opportunity to travel to the Palestinian territories. In Jenin, a Jewish friend was volunteering to restore a cinema that had been closed since the first Intifada over 20 years earlier. The only movie theater in an area with over 50,000 residents, it was intended to provide an outlet for the people and to foster cultural development. The cinema could help the residents develop artistic appreciation and not turn to violence.

During my visit, I met my friend’s Palestinian host family. As soon as I introduced myself, they asked me if I was Jewish. Unaccustomed to being so far outside my bubble, I was nervous. My friend sensed my discomfort and made it clear that there was no harm in telling the truth. I answered their question and the topic never again resurfaced. Instead, what followed was a straightforward conversation using a fair amount of Hebrew with the patriarch of the family. He told me that he longed for the days when he made a living working for Israelis who were now on the other side of a barrier that he was not permitted to cross.

In the two years that I have been fortunate enough to live in Israel, I gained a more comprehensive understanding of the region’s history and can confidently say that it’s time we rethink the “Israel is Good” educational paradigm.

It isn’t always easy to be honest, but it’s time to trust in youth to appreciate the nuance wrapped up in the Israel we love. With the core Jewish value of Tikkun Olam in mind, we must take on the responsibility of teaching the difficult truths. After all, we’re given an imperfect world and it’s our duty to work to make it better.

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September 20, 2011 | 10:02 am

24 Hours in Tel Aviv

Posted Sharona Rosen, alumna of Masa Israel's Young Judaea Year Course

It is the 3rd of April around 10 P.M. and the city of Tel Aviv is more alive than ever. People are walking the streets, laughing and talking. Then suddenly a siren sounds, and the city freezes. It is Yom Hazikaron, Israel’s Remembrance Day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terrorism, and every single person, whether walking or driving, stops what he or she is doing and stands for a moment of silence in respect of the soldiers and families affected by war. One minute of nationwide silence and prayers, and then the city is back to normal.

It’s the 4th of April, 11:00 A.M. and the cities of Israel are bustling. Like any normal morning in the city, people are rushing to work, cars are honking, and people are walking, talking, and laughing.  Then suddenly a siren sounds. Rapid silence rushes through the streets of Israel, and again, everyone gets out of their cars, stops whatever they’re doing, and stands for a moment of silence in respect of fellow Israeli citizens, family, and friends who have been affected by wars. Though the scene can be described, I know that until I experienced it during my gap year in Israel, I never truly understood it.

At 11:00 A.M. on the morning of April 4th, I was standing on a bridge above the highway. Thirty seconds before 11, cars began pulling over on the road and people began getting out of their cars to await the siren. Chills rushed through my body as I experienced a sense of unity and spirituality that I had previously not known. I was sure that this was the most amazing sight in the world—until later that evening.

Even after living in Israel for close to nine months, I had never seen Tel Aviv shut down—neither at 9 P.M. nor 5 A.M. Tel Aviv is usually rustling and bustling—except on the night of Yom Hazikaron. Every single café, bar, restaurant, store, corner store, gas station, supermarket, and pharmacy was closed. The quiet confused me at first. There I was, trying to find a place that was open for dinner when I arrived at Rabin Square. It was packed with over 50,000 people, Israelis and tourists alike, who had come together for a memorial service. Once again, I was struck by the unity in the city. Not only did the whole city participate, but the instant the speeches began, the city was silent. Not one cell phone went off. Not one child cried. Not one person spoke. Everyone stood still and listened. The city mourned together.

Morning of April 5th: Tel Aviv is itself once again, except for a few details. The streets of Tel Aviv are filled with music, and only 24 hours after the day of mourning, the Israeli people celebrate Yom Ha’atzmaut, Israel’s Independence Day. The mood is celebratory now, but much remains the same. The feeling of national unity is alive in Tel Aviv.

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