There was a bombing in Jerusalem. Not somewhere outside Jerusalem. But in the city. Across from the central bus station. Because I lived in this city for five months, this is very real to me. It's not some far away city. It's not a small city that I passed through. It's not even a city that I toured for a week. This is a city where I got to know the people and feel the essence. A place where I walked up and down the streets until I no longer needed a map. I place where I was no longer a visitor. I was there and I have an exact picture of the street. I became a part of Jerusalem and a piece of Jerusalem.
I have friends who are currently living there. Some of them are still working at their internships and take the 74 (the bus route that was hit). My friends from work take the bus to and from the central bus station after work. No one I know was hurt and everyone is ok. There are people there that I care and worry about when things like this happen. However, events like this build a community bond. This is why Israelis know their neighbors and are so friendly with each other in the private of their homes. Because when someone needs help, you can't rely on foreign allies to help. Being across seas only adds to the distance and only helps with rebuilding. You need a neighbor and a friend, or even a stranger, to rely on because if something happens you have help.
While this does shake me a little bit, it also pulls me closer to the country. I have a need and a want to be there. I want to be in the middle of the action. To know exactly what is going on. American news sources over exaggerate the events so how do I know what to actually believe? Never for one moment was I afraid or scared of an attack. The fear of a terrorist attack is part of the Israeli lifestyle. You have to take the good with the bad. However, while an event like this is higher in Israel than the United States, statistically, there is a small chance of getting hurt. "Only" 30 people were injured and one was killed after being severely wounded, but in a country of 7 million, that's almost nothing. The statistics of getting hit by a car crossing the street is higher.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Simplicity
I miss Israel. That's a fact that everyone knows about me. Sure I miss hearing Hebrew swarm my ears and the Jewishness of the country. It's more than the connection I have with Israel, though. I miss the simple things of Israel. I miss the essence of the country. The details that make Israel what it is.
I miss the juice stands that squeeze of fresh orange, pomegranate, and/or carrot juice. The guys behind the counter, whether old or young, were always friendly despite my indecisiveness. They always complimented my friends and I, but not in a creepy manner. In a genuine "I'm Israeli so I notice American girls" kind of way. That still sounds creepy, but you have to be in Israel to understand. Hence, my point of why I miss the country.
I miss the Jerusalem stone roads that I always slipped on. I miss walking to the bus stop with the sun rising over the Old City and sparkling against the Dome of the Rock. I miss the bus drivers and their crazy driving. I miss the honking. The shuttling to Tel Aviv every weekend via Sheirut. I miss the beach (though I think that's mostly a general thing because it is so cold here!) and the tire playground. I miss the cafes. I miss the Aromas and the Angel Bakery. I miss the kindergarten. I miss my misinterpretations. I miss the Israeli accent. I miss the "telawivtelawivtelawiv" of the sheirut drivers at the Tachanat Mercazit (Bus Station). I miss the sea of black, also known as the religious. I miss the pita. The hummus. The tahina. The falafel. The chocolate and its spread. The persimmons and the fresh fruit.
But most of all, I miss the silence of Shabbat. I live in the suburbs so everything is always still and silent. But there is no way to describe the busy, overcrowded, overpopulated, pushing and shoving citizens of Israel right before the beginning of Shabbat. As soon as sundown sets, it's like someone put a silencer on the country. You can see families at their kitchen table saying prayers over candles, wine, and challah. From my window in Jerusalem, I could see into the apartment complex next door and every Friday I would see a father blessing his little girl. Everyone in Israel is with family and friends. No one is worried about anything except what to eat for dinner. The closest you get to this warm fuzzy feeling of familial ties is Christmas of Fourth of July. You don't (or at least I don't) even get this feeling on Shabbat in America. There's just an essence about knowing that everyone else in the country is doing exactly what you are doing at exactly the same time that gives you a sense of security and warmth.
I miss the juice stands that squeeze of fresh orange, pomegranate, and/or carrot juice. The guys behind the counter, whether old or young, were always friendly despite my indecisiveness. They always complimented my friends and I, but not in a creepy manner. In a genuine "I'm Israeli so I notice American girls" kind of way. That still sounds creepy, but you have to be in Israel to understand. Hence, my point of why I miss the country.
I miss the Jerusalem stone roads that I always slipped on. I miss walking to the bus stop with the sun rising over the Old City and sparkling against the Dome of the Rock. I miss the bus drivers and their crazy driving. I miss the honking. The shuttling to Tel Aviv every weekend via Sheirut. I miss the beach (though I think that's mostly a general thing because it is so cold here!) and the tire playground. I miss the cafes. I miss the Aromas and the Angel Bakery. I miss the kindergarten. I miss my misinterpretations. I miss the Israeli accent. I miss the "telawivtelawivtelawiv" of the sheirut drivers at the Tachanat Mercazit (Bus Station). I miss the sea of black, also known as the religious. I miss the pita. The hummus. The tahina. The falafel. The chocolate and its spread. The persimmons and the fresh fruit.
But most of all, I miss the silence of Shabbat. I live in the suburbs so everything is always still and silent. But there is no way to describe the busy, overcrowded, overpopulated, pushing and shoving citizens of Israel right before the beginning of Shabbat. As soon as sundown sets, it's like someone put a silencer on the country. You can see families at their kitchen table saying prayers over candles, wine, and challah. From my window in Jerusalem, I could see into the apartment complex next door and every Friday I would see a father blessing his little girl. Everyone in Israel is with family and friends. No one is worried about anything except what to eat for dinner. The closest you get to this warm fuzzy feeling of familial ties is Christmas of Fourth of July. You don't (or at least I don't) even get this feeling on Shabbat in America. There's just an essence about knowing that everyone else in the country is doing exactly what you are doing at exactly the same time that gives you a sense of security and warmth.
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