202 (originally written April 25th, 2024)

I only know what day of the week it is when I look at my pill organizer. But I can tell you exactly how many days it’s been (202) since I learned who my true friends are.

The Body Keeps The Score (Originally Written June 24, 2024)

I’ve been feeling nervous all day. Heart racing, head swimming, stomach in knots. 

The typical stuff when I’m feeling very nervous. But I couldn’t understand what my body was picking up on that my conscious mind had not.

And then it hit me.

I’m flying alone today for the first time since October 7th.

I wear my Magen David (Star of David) necklace proudly, always. Today will be no different. But today Alex will stay behind with the boys in the safety of our sweet little home.

But I’m flying into LGA and New York feels like the least safe city to be a Jew these days (or at least a close second behind LA).

I guess my brain is trying to get my body ready to run. Or fight? Either way, to stay alive and unharmed.

This feeling, my body’s understanding how to prepare me to survive, is deep in my DNA. It is doing a good job. I am thankful for its wisdom.

From the Spanish Inquisition, to the Pogroms in Lithuania, to the ghettos in Germany. Somewhere, someone in my lineage ran or fought, or I suppose hid.

But I won’t hide. So I’ll do what I tell my boys to do every day. I’ll be scared but I’ll do it anyway.

A Cry For Help I Didn't Know I Made (Originally Written October 7, 2024)

MEDVIEDENKO: Why do you always wear black?

MASHA: I’m in mourning for my life. I’m unhappy.

-The Seagull, Anton Checkhov

One of my teachers at The Hartt School told us that acting is the only art form that you can only get better at with age. With acting, your instrument is not reliant upon the dexterity of your hands, precision of your eye sight, quality of your vocal range. It is your lived experience that seasons the actor; allows them to marinate and bring forth all of the complex notes of emotions that only a life fully lived can. It took me 42 years, but I now understand Masha’s famous opening line.

I, too, am in mourning for my life. The life that I had before October 7th, 2023. Before the underbelly of humanity exposed itself through people I thought were my friends. Through strangers who called for my death. Through teachers who made my children unwelcome in their school.

This depth of understanding is something that a person cannot fake. Cannot channel. You’ve either lived it or you haven’t.

I have put one foot in front of the other for a full year now. And I have nothing to show for it besides a beating, if not battered, heart. Sure, I’m alive. But I live in mourning.

My children deserve better, G-d knows that. But something is better than nothing. So I pack the lunches, and read the books and feign delight in the run-on sentences they use to describe their latest discovery in Minecraft. And they do fill me with joy and with life and for moments I am in color again. But inevitably, it fades and I am Masha once again, always wearing black.

The hardest part is that I know that this shall not pass. The bell cannot be un-rung. The toothpaste will decidedly never go back in the tube. And while I know that the only way out is through, I cannot comprehend what is on the other side of this nightmare.

I will never be able to live in a world where October 7th did not happen. And when I realize that, the trees of the deep dark wood that I am so desperately trying to get through fall down all around me. And I am trapped in an actual living Hell. And not the one I was condemned to as a child by my classmate for being Jewish.

My father told me on more than one occasion, typically in response to one antisemitic experience or another, that the world will never be short of people who want us dead. I thought it was hyperbole. What a life I lived to believe that it was. How blissfully unaware I was.

In Judaism we have many rituals and customs surrounding mourning the death of a parent, child, spouse. The intensity with which our customs call us to mourn allows us to immerse ourselves in grief. And in doing so, we can then get up and start to live again. But what is the ritual for mourning one’s own life? How do I get up and step foot into the reality that I was alive when they came to slaughter us? That my children were walking the earth when my friends were walking by beheaded neighbors, and huddling with 10 other kibbutznikim in a bomb shelter, taking turns pissing on towels in the corner, and driving through the desert, rockets falling, shielding their children’s eyes from the carnage along the roads, and and and…

So, while my dream was once to play Nina, it looks all roads lead to Masha. And I will forever be in mourning for my life.

Fire

 Fire.

It’s a theme in our lives. Woven through our history. Sometimes flourishing with beauty. 

Shabbat candles. Havdala candles. Chanukah candles. 

Miraculous fire that refused to die until our Temple was restored. 

Bon fires on Lag Ba’Omer. 

Yortzite candles to honor our dead.

Other times, there is fire reminding us of the devastation it brings. 

I was 6 or 7 when I learned about the other kind of fire of my people. 

Of course I’m talking about the Holocaust. Images of smoke stacks and ovens were just part of my life. I thought that was it. I had no idea how fire was used against us time and time again.

When I was a tween/teen I learned about the Spanish Inquisition. At least during the Holocaust we were spared the feeling of our flesh melting off of our bones. But during the Spanish Inquisition, we felt every agonizing second until, mercifully, we died at the stake.

But my education didn’t stop there.

I then learned about the Pogroms and the burning of our homes and all of our worldly possessions (I’m looking at you Fiddler On The Roof). I also learned that this was the direct history of my family tree on my father’s side (that’s when I learned of the Pogroms in Lithuania and Latvia).

And of course, a big nod to the South of the USA, for the not-to-be-forgotten sight of burning crosses on lawns. We got to share that one with the Black community. You get a burning cross. You get a burning cross. Everyone gets a burning cross! (Unless you’re white and Christian of course).

But I never felt the flames touch me. I looked at them at a safe distance. 

And then October 7th. Waking up to see my beloved Kibbutz Holit on fire as I scrolled my Facebook feed. Seeing my friend Shir’s cell phone footage of the carnage that was left behind, after she hid for 12 hours. And her retelling of breaking the bars from her neighbor’s Safe Room window, to drag her out and bring her back to life after the smoke from the fire that was set in her house rendered her unconscious.  

And now Boulder. And an 88 year old Holocaust survivor, along with 7 other Jews, was set on fire. And so, it is full circle.

But, you see, we are a mighty and resistant people. When they go low, we go to Etsy and buy every single Judaica-themed accessory we can put on our bodies, cars, clothes and water bottles.

So we still celebrate with fire. We light the candles. And we say the prayers. And we remember those who came before us. And we sit around the camp fire on Lag Ba’Omer, but this time we are the ones who gather the wood and set it aflame. And we are burning baked potatoes wrapped in tin foil instead of people. And we are thanking G-d. Because then there was light. And it was good.

15 years later

 I needed a space to put my writing that was not social media. So I came back home. If you've somehow found your way here, welcome. 

Maybe Thomas Wolfe Was Right...

...when he said "you can't go home again."

Habaita in Hebrew is a command word meaning home. As in go home. As in the name of this blog Habaita Y'all. I have always felt that Israel was my home. And for the last 20 years all I've wanted to do was to simply go home. If you've read my other posts you will know about the pull and love I feel for Israel. About the feelings I have of belonging here yet feeling a total stranger at the same time. About knowing that my past, my history is here yet not actually feeling that I've participating in said history and the guilt and confusion that it stirs within me.

For the last 20 years I have put Israel on a pedestal. It was a magical place. It was a place that I belonged. Not just because here my name is common. Not just because I am Jewish. Not just because the national language here is the language of my childhood. It was an indescribable feeling of simply belonging. Of knowing that Israel is the place I am supposed to be. It just felt...right. It was home.

But then something shifted (and my relationship with Israel shifted right along with it - a topic I will be exploring in a later post). I realized that part of the reason I so longed to be here all of these years was due to good old fashioned nostalgia. We all idealize that time in our lives when we were children and things were simple. So when we smell, see, taste, etc things from our childhood all of those memories of carefree summer days and slumber-party-filled winter nights flood our memories. The only difference for me is that I have to travel 5,600 miles to experience those sensory driven memories, whereas most of my friends still live in the same town where they grew up, or at least get to visit it more than twice in two decades. You see, for me, once I left Israel, eating a borreka while watching Alf with Hebrew subtitles wasn't readily available. Hearing Hebrew wherever I went wasn't a reality. Introducing myself without having to explain how to pronounce my name ("I-Yell-It, like I-Scream-It, Ayelet") was a rarity. Not to mention that my first month of being back in Israel this summer was like a honeymoon. I got to spend time with friends and really get to know my family. I got to go to the beach during the day, party at night and really relax. So of course when I got to experience all of these things I was overwhelmed with feelings of belonging and love and happiness. But then, after a month or so, the nostalgia wore off and the honeymoon ended and I was just another woman in another country. And I had no idea where home was.

So now what?

Now...

Now it's time for me to create my home, instead of going on an epic journey looking for it. Now I know that home can be anywhere in the world, as long as love lives there. Now I know that home is wherever I am happiest. Now I know that home is where I set my roots and create a family and community.

I think this song explains perfectly where home is. And when you listen to the lyrics of the chorus the "You" is my family, my friends, my partner (whomever he turns out to be).

I've been writing and re-writing this post for over a week now. At times the post got me down, confused, frustrated. Now I just feel ready. Ready to go home.

The Answer

In my last post I had a lot of questions for myself. One that has been sticking out was "Am I supposed to go through life with moderate to low expectations so I'm not disappointed as easily or am I to stay true to my nature which is to love and smile and laugh and get excited over anything, from delicious chocolate morsels to helping save a dog's life? "

I found the answer. It's the latter.

As it turns out life can be as wonderful as I imagine it to be and there is nothing wrong with loving and laughing and getting excited over silly small things or truly important things. Going through life with low or moderate expectations will just make life dimmer. And if I keep searching for what I am looking for I won't be disappointed because it's out there. In the past I was held back by fear. Fear of leaving Comfort. Fear that moderate happiness is really the best that is available (so why bother looking for better?). Fear that I will walk away just before things become good. But I know now that Comfort is a wolf in sheep's clothing. Moderate Happiness is an oxymoron. And that if I wait for things to become good I'll never find that something that already is good.

Since arriving at Kibbutz Holit life has turned around. I have found a calm happiness that I didn't know I ever craved. Before life on Holit I could never imagine myself living anything but the crazy busy city life, but being here has shown me that life can actually be more fulfilling with less. For the first time in I-don't-know-how-long I've felt stress free. Truly and totally. I'm not worried about meeting quota for my job or if I have enough cash to go out for Happy Hour. I'm not concerned with who is doing what to whom and who is winning. There is no TV show that I am rushing to get home to watch (or DVR as it were). No racing heartbeat when I hear the subway coming and I don't have my metro card out to catch it in time. Life is simple.

I supposed I should give you a glimpse into my life here on Holit to paint a picture of my new summer life.

Sundays through Thursdays:

Wake up at 6:30am (which I don't even mind so you know something is special here)

Have breakfast with my bosses and co-worker from 7:00ish-7:30ish.

Work in the orchards from 7:30ish - 12:00ish (with a 30ish minute break at 10:00ish).

Lunch with everyone on the kibbutz from 12:00ish-12:45ish .

Work in the orchards from 1:00ish - 2:30ish

I use "ish" because that's how time works here. The world doesn't end if you take a 32 minute break. Somehow we still manage to go on if we start lunch at 12:03. And low and behold the world doesn't end if we don't get picked up from work to go home until 2:41.

After work we (the volunteers) hang out, go to Computers (the computer room), play Corn Holes in the back yard, kick the ball around (or in my case watch the boys kick the ball around), watch TV, read (we do that the most), nap, catch up on phone calls, etc.

Then at 6:30 we all (the entire kibbutz) have dinner together in the dining room until about 7:30.

After we eat most of the people from dinner hang out together in the court yard watching the kids play and the dogs nap as we eat our ice cream and candy and talk. (And a lot of the talking is in Hebrew which only adds to the happiness).

After sunset we do more of the same that we do between work and dinner. Sometimes the volunteers (there are 5 of us) and some of the other younger people on the kibbutz also play cards, watch movies, or just hang out together as someone picks up the communal guitar and sings. The conversation flows and at times so does the wine and beer.

The weekends are just as relaxing.

Fridays and Saturdays:

We have a pub on the kibbutz (which is actually a bomb shelter) so we sometimes drink there. We go down the cement stairs as someone turns on the music and yet another pours the drinks and opens the bottles. Or we'll take a day trip to the beach or maybe find a small mountain/hill to climb and look over to Gaza and the other surrounding areas. Sometimes we'll just climb a building (the laundry room, a monument in the area, etc) and make tea and talk. This past Friday night we went to a Moshav about 15 minutes away from the Kibbutz. We parked the cars by the reservoir, turned on the music, fired up the hookah and star-gazed.

It just goes to show that not giving up the search to find what I was looking for was the right move. Settling is never necessary. It's out there, what I want, what you want, we just have to be willing to look for it, and sometimes create it.