I had no way of knowing just how right he was until my arrival in the City of Eight three short months ago. I never expected to see everyone completely settled back into their homes, the town’s businesses and schools up and running, and Katyusha damage more scarce than a taxi on Shabbat.
But, to put it bluntly, living in Qiryat Shemona sometimes feels like being trapped in an animal cage at the zoo – or as we say here, the safari. Of course, not a dangerous one like the grizzly pit or the lion’s den, but maybe the sea otter lagoon or the newborn nursery. You’re sitting in there, trying to help the animals do their thang, and then you look up and realize that there’s a flock of humans staring at you with their arms outstretched, tapping on the glass with their index fingers and cooing at you in condescending baby-talk, all while taking a million photographs and blinding you with their red-eye offsetting flash.
Week after week, it’s the same routine: colorful tour bus parks in front of the middle school, crowd of Americans files into the auditorium, principal delivers her “thank you for your support” speech, peppy group of girls performs a touching yet generic song and dance routine, and then the lights go out for the feature presentation, “The Danciger War Story,” a 15-minute film comprised of interviews with students and faculty from Danciger High School who were personally affected by the Lebanon War. Sometimes there is a Q and A schmooze session in the beit cafe following the demonstration, but more often than not, the tourists are ushered back onto their bus so they can head to their next destination. I often wonder how the students and teachers are able to tolerate this nuisance with such dignity.
I suppose it’s appropriate that my final week here is decidedly my most emotional one yet. The seventh grade advanced English classes are currently reading a chapter about backpacking and touring, so it has been my job to ask them about their own individual travels. It’s a great exercise for the children to practice past simple tense as well as relevant vocabulary, but they generally tend to say everything in present simple, using their friends as makeshift translators when they forget a word here and there. And let me tell you, these kids are the exact embodiments of the infamous “sabra” stereotype: unyielding and aggressive on the outside, but gentle with a watermelon-like sweetness on the inside, complete with digestible seeds thrown in for the proverbial black humor. Whenever you ask a kid in Qiryat Shemona about the last trip he went on, he will most likely tell you about where his family sought refuge last summer, be it Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Eilat, or a relative's house somewhere in between. Alternatively, if you specifically ask about his experience during the war, he will inevitably tell you about his travels to exotic locations in the South, and perhaps the size of the swimming pool or the number of stars of the hotel (“Do they have 7-star hotels in America?” I was once asked). Rarely do kids here divulge the emotions they felt when they heard the first explosions, the choices they made as they packed their bags, or their first impressions of their homes when they returned at the end of the summer. For that reason, my other assignment of the week came as a great challenge.
A few days ago, we got word that on Wednesday, a group of seventeen Americans from a conservative congregation in Westchester, New York, would arrive at our school to deliver a check for $600 and meet the students whom their money would directly benefit. We had a two-hour block of time to work with, so Sharon asked me to assist five strong seventh graders with writing a short speech about how they reacted to the war. “None of this, ‘I went to Eilat and the Dead Sea and camped out with my friends’ business,” Sharon instructed. “Ask them about their feelings.”
I guess feelings are different for everyone. Matan told me about how his family decided that the best place to run to was his grandparents’ kibbutz near the Kinneret, and that the elementary students from Qiryat Shemona almost had to change schools because of all the damage – but that fortunately they didn’t have to in the end. Yochai recounted how his family’s initial escape to Haifa was cut short when Katyushas landed there too, so he ended up joining his friend, Matan, on the kibbutz. Ariel explained that the war was bittersweet for her because she got to visit a childhood friend who she had not seen in years, but at the same time she was always on edge from the constant "boom-alarms." Eli illustrated the terror he felt as he stood on his balcony and watched a Katyusha fall roughly 50 meters from his house, as well as how much he enjoyed relaxing at a resort in the desert. Aviv recalled his first reaction to the sounds, plus his added anxiety because his parents were in Thailand at the time. I later found out that Aviv’s older brother was one of the two soldiers from Qiryat Shemona killed by Hezbollah.
My summaries do little justice to the original words of my students, so I’ll add a few notable lines:
“At the start I was scared because every moment could be the last. We were at Kibbutz Deganya Bet when we heard our elementary school, ‘Metsudot,’ had been hit. Even though we didn't study there anymore, we were concerned about it. I felt unsafe because even the place where I felt safe, like my school, was hit.” – Yochai
“One morning, I woke up and heard a big bang. Then I looked through the window and saw white smoke coming from the mountain. When we got home we saw most of the houses were OK. But still we are never going to forget the war.” – Matan
“I was at my house when we heard the booms. I thought it was ordinary, I didn't believe that a war was coming. I was in panic because I saw all the damage and my parents were not in the country. I went away from home and we didn't plan to stay there long, but then the war started.” – Aviv
“The worst experience I had during the war was hearing, for the first time in my life, a boom alarm. I was terrified and I cried until my parents came and said that we are going to a friend who lives farther south. To this day I'm still afraid because there have been a lot of talks about another war starting. But right now I'm enjoying the peace and quiet which I hope will stay.” - Ariel
“I really really missed my house, my room, and all my stuff, and I want to stop running from the war. The war was very fun for me but very sad and scary. It was like an emotion storm – there were many emotions all at one time.” - Eli
On Tuesday, Sharon called the tour coordinator from Westchester to find out what time we should expect the group, but she was told that they only had time to meet her somewhere and hand her the check, that they were unable to visit the school or to talk to any students due to scheduling conflicts. She begged him to please give her twenty minutes, just to talk to the kids who eagerly awaited their arrival; she explained that the money didn’t matter, but she simply couldn’t let everyone down when they had planned so much for this visit – however, her requests were to no avail. As she hung up the phone, she stared down at the tentative schedule sketched into her notebook and the rough outline of an introductory speech I had helped her write out. “All this for nothing,” she flatly murmured as she combed her fingers through her hair. “At least now there won’t be a balagon.”
Fifteen minutes later, he called back to say that we would have thirty minutes, from 11 to 11:30, so we set to work on what we should drop from the agenda. Clearly the speech must be kept, and the movie is too heart-rending to exclude; unfortunately, there would be no time for the students and visitors to mingle. At that moment, I realized that although this whole circus-like production may be a disruption to their daily lives, at least it is a welcome one at that.
The big day finally came, and I stood aside as Jewish Americans oohed and ahhed over the real live war survivors. “Look, honey, they’re all getting ready for their bar mitzvahs just like you!” I caught a mother whispering to her apathetic son. One elderly man asked me in broken Hebrew how many students were in my class, to which I politely explained that I’m American and definitely not a seventh grader. We later discovered that we both graduated from the same university, albeit a couple hundred years apart.
Together, the Diaspora and Holy Land Jews, side by side, watched “The Danciger War Story” – it was my second time seeing the film, but the first for most of the Israelis in the room. Sharon kept rubbing her eyes under her glasses, and I couldn’t help but notice a tear running down Aviv’s cheek as he watched his older sister on the big screen, choking up as she recounted her last interactions with their brother before he was killed. Everyone was visibly affected by the poignant narratives, and in the end our guests chose to postpone their next event because they deemed it worthwhile to spend some quality time with the students.
Perhaps the old philosophical question, “If a tree falls in a forest and there's no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?” is relevant. Do animals continue to eat, bathe, and play when the zoo is closed? Did streetlights in Qiryat Shemona still change color even when the entire population had fled south? I assure you that in the absence of curious spectators, the City of Eight undeniably operates on a normal schedule. But when there is an audience present, something special happens: the school releases some steam, the sabras shed their tough exterior, and everyone is finally able to expose a little vulnerability without the pressures of day-to-day life holding them back. Looking back on this experience, it’s hard to believe that six months ago I was overcome with apprehension about living in the North; and although the OTZMA volunteers must leave town on Sunday, I will always be proud to call Qiryat Shemona my home.
2 comments:
yeah, that's a better title.
really enjoyed reading your blogs,e-mailed by Aunt Barbara! You are a gifted writer and the vigenets are very interesting! csf
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