Blundstones, Bombs and the Reality of a New Olah

I remember when I got my first pair of Blundstones. I was overcharged by the salesman at Mamilla Mall, but the extra hundred shekels seemed worth it. I couldn’t wait to have them. My friends congratulated me on the boots, as now I was “a real Israeli” — and I believed them.

Being an olah is a difficult thing. I was born to Israeli parents and my childhood was filled with El Al flights to visit Sabba and Safta, but I’m still woefully American. My Hebrew is broken, and I have yet to get used to waiting for hot water in order to take a shower. The shoes felt like a step toward my complete initiation as an Israeli citizen.

The past nine months in Israel have been filled with these small steps. Hebrew conversations with my family, learning to navigate the eged buses, holidays in the Old City. I felt like I was really starting to internalize the culture. I didn’t realize how much I was missing.

My Aliyah advisor called me while I was on the bus into town. I asked her to call me back tomorrow because I was meeting up with friends for Yom Yerushalaim. We were there to have conversations with passers-by about the holiday and the situation at Shimon HaTzadik/Sheikh Jarrah. We met up by the steps to Mamilla and watched as hundreds of Jews sang “Yerushalaim Shel Zahav” and waved the Israeli flag. My heart swelled with joy at the sight. It felt like such a blessing to be surrounded by visibly observant Jews who were able to sing proudly about their holy city and its reunification. I thought about every group that had tried to destroy us and of the resilience of the Jewish people. By all logic, we should have died out thousands of years ago, yet we have achieved the impossible. Against all odds, we survived and returned home.

My friends and I then went to the grassy area outside Damascus Gate and started our conversations. It was interesting to listen to different takes on the situation. I spoke a lot with a leftist Israeli who said that the Yom Yerushalaim celebrations were provocative. She said we must be better at not setting off our Arab neighbors. We went back and forth about it for over an hour. And then…

It didn’t feel real at first. It was a sound I’d only heard coming from my phone’s speakers. I thought it was a sound that only existed in the coastal cities of Ashkelon and Ashdod. I didn’t know what to think. I turned to one of my friends to ask what was going on and saw that he started running. I chased after him. We all did.

It was loud. There was no bomb shelter. We’re huddled outside against a short stone wall. Someone screamed at me to get on the ground and cover my head. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I was never prepared for this. I looked at the sky. I assured myself that I was looking at birds, not rockets. Birds, not rockets. Birds. 

It suddenly occurred to me — maybe this is how Moshiach comes. Perhaps they’ll hit the Temple Mount. Either way, it felt like the end of the world as we know it. At least the end of the world as I know it.

It felt like the end of the world as we know it.

Inside I was screaming at myself to pray. Say the Shema! Say it! But if I said it, is that accepting death? I can’t die. My mom would kill me.

I was shaking. I still couldn’t breathe. Pray, damn it! I could only mumble two words: “Hashem Yishmor,” G-d, protect us. My friends were telling me it’s okay, but how can they know? The woman I was just debating with was now my sister, calming me down, helping me through my first siren. And just like that, the walls between us fell down.

Megillah 14a of the Talmud states that the act of Achashverosh removing his ring (thus giving Haman the power to issue a decree to kill every Jew) was more effective than all forty-eight prophets and seven prophetesses of Israel at unifying the Jewish people. It was only when faced with their destruction that they could come together again as they did at Mount Sinai. Even today, as Israel struggles to appoint a government, our Jewish leaders only divide us. Hamas is able to succeed where we fail. The siren, like a Heavenly Voice, calls out to us to come together.

The past month has been almost too much to process. The wounds of the tragedy at Meron are still fresh. The loss of 45 tzadikim on such a holy day still seems unfathomable. And now, just as the mourners have ended their shivas, we are under attack. The threat of war looms over us. Israel is different all of a sudden. Being Israeli is suddenly real, palpable. Brown boots seem so silly now. My initiation came at a much greater loss than the extra hundred shekels.

The prophets compare the times before Moshiach to the labor of a woman about to give birth. It cannot be coincidence that my first real contraction came after almost exactly nine months of living here. At least that’s what I tell myself. Trust in G-d. Trust in His plan. Try to make sense out of what seems to be senseless.

I think about that woman. In a split second we went from rivals on opposite sides of an argument to family. She hugged me after it was over. I hugged her back. I wish that we didn’t need Hamas rockets to come together. I wish it was more simple to love our neighbors. I pray we all remember the camaraderie that tragedies force to feel. I pray this is the last wakeup call we need to realize that we are all brothers and sisters.

Shavuot is almost here, the anniversary of the giving of Torah on Mount Sinai when we first see every Jew as one man with one heart. Perhaps Meron and Hamas were meant to bring us back to that state. Please, G-d, let us not need any more reminders and may Jerusalem, Israel and the whole world be blessed with peace soon and in our days.

Hila Oz moved to Israel nine months ago from Los Angeles after graduating from UCLA, and she’s currently an activist and educator. Follow on her Twitter @toteskosh.