Survivor's Guilt?

I had planned on writing this post as a sort of detailed agenda of what I did during my first week in Israel. I had a title picked out and everything. But as I am learning to go with whatever life throws my way, and be ok with changing even the best laid plans, I find myself thinking, and therefore writing, about Survivor's Guilt.

I have always had a little nagging feeling of guilt not being in Israel, especially when there is some sort of war or attack happening here. I think, why should I be at home, comfortable, watching CNN or reading YNetNews while other Israelis are living in Israel, defending it, ensuring it will always be here so the rest of us can come for a vacation every too-many-years, spend our dollars and euros, and then go back home, where we don't have to walk through metal detectors before we enter a mall, or sleep in bomb shelters for a month straight because it's easier than having to run down the stairs every single night when the sirens blast, or worry that if we only have two children then we are running a huge risk of leaving one of our kids as an only child? Being here for only a week has turned that nagging feeling into full blown guilt. It's not Survivor's Guilt by definition, but it makes me feel guilty that other Israelis have had to live (and fight) through wars and terror attacks while this Israeli is leading the typical American life - with her blond hair, blue eyes and not a callous on her freshly manicured hands.

For the last week I've been going out every night dancing, drinking, talking, laughing, eating and simply being among Israelis. Between chasers (what they call shots here) or bites of shawarmas I find myself thinking what gives me the right not to live in Israel and still claim to love it as much as I do? Before the calls start coming to my pelephone (cell) convincing me not to make Aliyah, let me say I have not made any decisions to live here. But I do find myself at odds.

On my way from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv I found myself sitting at the back of the bus with a clear view of the rest of the passangers. As it was a Thursday afternoon the bus had quite a few soldiers on it who were on their way home for the weekend (which is Friday and Saturday here, not Saturday and Sunday). The bus was packed and people were squeezing by to get a seat or a more comfortable place to stand. It's a dance any New Yorker knows...The Dance Of The Crowded Bus...hugging your purse into your body, or placing your packpack on the floor between your legs - anything to minimize the space you are taking up. And here, in Israel, these teenaged soldiers have also mastered the Dance Of The Crowded Bus, except their dance partners are M16s instead of backpacks.

It was second nature for them to move their gun this way or that to let someone pass. Just as it is second nature here to open your purse or bag to be checked by security before entering any building. Just as it is second nature to look for a place to protect yourself when you go to a new restaurant during war-time should an airraide siren blast. Some people think this would be a reason to never want to live here. For me however, for reasons that only a trained professional could explain I'm sure, it draws me in.

I suppose I am comparing this to Survivor's Guilt because when all is said and done, it comes down to the fact that I don't think I have the right not to go through the trauma other Israelis have had to endure and still call myself an Israeli.

And though this post is a bit darker than I had hoped I have to say what an amazing time I am having here. It's incredible to be surrounded by family, having more cousins than I know what to do with! Looking around the room on Friday nights, between the kiddish and dessert, seeing the 20+ faces whose names one way or another have a spot on my family tree, it reminds me just how important family is to me. Perhaps more important than I ever realized. Yes, being in Israel is openning my eyes to many facets of myself. And I love every second of it.