Pain, Passion, and Prayer

I’m supposed to be reading, in order to have all my sources read by the end of tonight, in order to write my Israel Seminar paper tomorrow. Hwoever, my stomach has decided it does not want to cooperate, so instead, I will write about the past few days (really 24 hours or so).

            Sam, Max and I were all sitting in services, ready to participate in our own unique way. We had already lit the Hanukkah candles as well as the Shabbat candles, and were each doing our own individual review of the week. I was looking around the Beit K’nesset, surprised by how many people were there, but only until I realized that there was a Bar and Bat Mitzvah class and most of the kids and families were from that. My eyes settled on the door, where I saw Someone standing, looking frantic. She gestured at me and I came immediately, unsure why I was being summoned.

            In the fore room to the Beit K’nesset, Someone’s 8-year-old daughter was throwing a fit. She was screaming and hitting, seemingly miserable with something. However, this is not a typically developing girl. Rather, she has PDD and therefore doesn’t always express herself in the most proficient way.

            I immediately knelt down, to be on her level and tried to talk to her. Although my Hebrew is not great, I can communicate with a child in meltdown. She wasn’t happy, so slammed herself in the bathroom. Fortunately, she doesn’t yet know how to lock doors, so I went in and sat on the floor with her. Eventually, I restrained her, to keep her from both hitting me, herself, and her mother. We sat there, in a stand still, each waiting for the other to make a move. Every time I slowly released her, the girl pushed against me, flailing her fists.

            Finally, I needed to let her go, because holding her simply wasn’t working. She simply crawled outside, howling. Getting to her feet, she walked around the bushes, seemingly desiring her mother’s and my attention. Neither of us were going to follow her, but nor were we willing to let her sounds out of our awareness. After a little bit of coaxing (and a short walk with her brother), she came back, not calm.

            Deciding to ignore her, I zeroed in on her little brother. He was being ignored and the two of us had fun playing games of Hebrew language and communication. Finally, the little girl came back, pouting and desiring attention (as well as still frustrated). This time, I treated her like I would any other child: teasing her and then throwing her on my back. That one caught her by surprise, so I then just ran with it, almost literally, and we walked around the Kibbutz for a while. We walked and talked, me mostly making sure I wasn’t going to drop her and focusing on understanding her words. She was having a blast, away from the commotion of the Beit K’nesset and getting individual attention.

            Once we returned, I was able to re-enter the Beit K’nesset, with my little monkey firmly attached to my back, for the noisiest part of the service. She sat on me quietly, simply observing, knowing that I would protect her. When I tried to set her down for a quick moment, just to receive a glass of juice, she balked and almost began screaming again. Picking her up, I quickly replaced my hand on her back and she calmed almost immediately. We remained until the end, where I made a retreat back to David and Miri’s house (after Sam decided to do the one bite sufganiyah challenge that Em Hy, Rachael, and Max had done the night before and Max dared Sam to do).

            Dinner was, fortunately, uneventful. Well, minus the fact that it was absolutely spectacular and that the dinner guests included someone with whom dad attended ELEMENTARY school! She didn’t have any good stories, but she did know him, and his siblings, which was really neat!

            After dinner, someone ended up looking at the news and we found out that there had been a shooting at an Elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut. I was stunned. It seemed strange, that something like this affects people, even from halfway across the globe. We turned on the television around 11pm, all remaining glued to the screen until around one in the morning. I was fascinated and distraught by the destruction, both in the same instant. I wanted to do something, but knew not what. We talked about it, about the fact that this was breaking news, yet very little information was actually available. We discussed that parents would hug their children a little tighter and a little longer, just to ensure that they get that hug. Truly, we were in shock.

            This morning was typical, spent reading, running (for me), and relaxing. During lunch we talked about Zionism, the separation between church and state, whether the Israeli army should be an army for all Jews or just for the state of Israel, and much more. Within David and Miri’s home, life is constantly revolving around discussion and discovery, with people always finding new ideas and impressions. David is never without something to say, and often offers profound words to prod and provoke, attempting to help people shape their opinions.

            Later in the afternoon, after Alon had finally returned home for the first time in a year (everyone was INCREDIBLY excited), we settled down and were waiting for our afternoon activity. The television was turned on, simply to find out if anything new was happening. Honestly, not much had changed nor had more information been released. People were grieving, parents were preparing to bury their children, families were in shock. But no new information on the shooter or the people who were actually killed within the school was released.

            Sam and I talked about this kind of reporting, where the reporter is on the scene and has to keep talking, to keep people interested, even though no new news is actually being released. They interview parents, teachers, friends; trying to ascertain both who the shooter was and what actually transpired within the walls of the school on Friday morning. The talent that it takes to report on that is unbelievable. Even more incredible is that a viewer truly sees the rough edges, recognizes that this is not all polished and pretty, but rather, the reporters are also straining to keep themselves together.

            At some point, I couldn’t take it anymore. I got my phone and called dad. It just wasn’t a situation I could process alone, while I was stuck in Israel, finishing school. Something about the fact that I was halfway across the world, but felt a need for action propelled me to call dad. We discussed the fact that there is nothing I can do from here, nor would there be anything I could do in the states. In fact, I am in the right place, in a place where I will gain the tools in order to help in this kind of situation if, God forbid, it happens again.

            And then, we packed up and went off to the Emmaus Catholic Monastery at Latrun. We watched a prayer service that they performed in their beautiful chapel (with a painting reminiscent of medieval Christian art, incorporating biblical imagery (Jacob’s ladder and the angels), high and low Jerusalem, Mary Magdalen, and many more biblical figures like Abraham and Isaac and more. The entire service was beautiful, but felt very strange. Regardless, I was glad to be able to experience it.

            We all walked down the hall (made me feel like I was in a haunted house, with the cracked walls and old floors and doors), entering a giant dining hall. We did Havdallah in a circle, all these people from all over the world, representing the Czech Republic, France, Poland, an East Asian country, Israel, America, German, and likely more. It was pretty incredible to be with so many people, many of whom didn’t really know the ritual, but participated in the song. After that, we all joined together in lighting the Hanukkah candles for the Eighth and final night. The beauty of the light shone in everyone’s face and emanated throughout the room.

            The holidays are supposed to be a time of family, of love, of joy, of beauty. Yet tragedy struck a small, well-to-do down in Connecticut yesterday. One girl asked her mother if this was her 9/11, as she had not been born at that time. Although I do not recall the mother’s answer, the question is poignant. We all turn to those around us who are wiser in times of need, of pain. Some turn to spirituality, some to parents, some to inflicting pain on others. I choose to write, to reach out. Today, I wish peace on this earth. For Israel, for the citizens of Newtown, Connecticut, for the families who are grieving. But most of all, for everyone. Everyone deserves peace. I don’t expect this planet to suddenly wake up and embrace everyone who walks among it. But at least, learn what tolerance looks like. Learn that love is powerful, much, much more powerful than hate. Amen.