By Eden Kraft, #MyJewishIdentity Contest Entry
One summer morning, a few friends and I kissed our parents goodbye in Toronto’s Pearson Airport and left them for a 6 week trip to Israel, with baggage in our hands and fire in our hearts. We were going home.
A few hours into the flight, I decided to visit my friend in first class. It was a surprisingly empty plane, and she had the aisle to herself. After managing to hide out there for half an hour munching away at her mom’s delicious home baked cookies, the El Al flight attendant regretfully informed me that only passengers who actually paid first class could sit there. He was clearly more upset about my having to move than I was. At first, his overly caring attitude shocked me, but after 6 weeks in Israel I realized that this attitude of ahavat yisrael, love for fellow Jews, is what prevails in Israel and shapes the country.
Upon returning to my seat, I found a middle aged man sitting in my place and snoring away to his heart’s delight. Not seeing many other options, I went to join a friend from school with a row all to himself.
As I got comfortable, he began talking to me about Israel; his love for the land was infectious. He went on about how the land that resisted agriculture for so long sprouted full forests practically overnight upon our people’s return. My friend spoke about the cobblestone pathways of Jerusalem, the beautiful glass artwork of Tzfat, and the picturesque beaches of Netanya. The more he talked, the more excited I got.
The flight landed. We joined the 180 other girls on our program, and I took my first steps on Israeli land. My first thought: What if, thousands of years ago, Avraham (Abraham) and Sarah put their feet on this very same place that my own two feet now stood? What if Yaakov (Jacob) and his descendants walked over this land on their way down to Egypt? As I stood there spellbound, many “what ifs” flashed through my mind. However, one thing was certain: Thousands of Jews have stood right here, taking in this very same view. Every step was infused with millennia of our history. Jews for thousands of years cried for this, bled for this. Prayed for this.
I was adding my link to the chain.
Praying in front of the Kotel, the reminder that God will never leave His people behind, I was adding my link to the chain.
Travelling to Chevron to visit Maarat Hamachpela, where our holy forefathers and foremothers lay, I was adding my link to the chain.
Singing in a cave in Tzfat surrounded by 180 proud Jewish girls, I was adding my link to the chain.
A chain going back to slaves who trekked through a desert for 40 years to reach the land God promised to them. To a nation who yearned for Jerusalem through two thousand years of exile. To a people who were burned alive yet never forgot their home. And then to a country formed by young Jewish men and women, practically children, who fought and against all odds established a home for our people. Thousands of years of history converging into one moment. I am a Jew. This is my history. These are my people.
Standing on Israeli soil, my responsibility to live as a proud Jew was at the forefront of my mind. Walking in the land of my ancestors, the question begged: what would they think of me today? Of the Jewish people at large? Would they be proud of the people we have become? This led to the resolution to make them proud, if I had not yet done so.
Moments such as walking through the streets of Meah Shearim, where the vitality of Jewish life was clear as day, seared this connection between Israel and my Jewish identity into my heart. The ancient atmosphere infused even the air with kedusha, holiness, and each breath was a reminder that the Jewish nation lives on.
Travelling through Chevron alongside 50 girls, heads held high and pride on their faces despite the disapproving Arab onlookers, I realized that each girl has her own Jewish soldier within her, ready to go to war for our nation in a heartbeat.
I thought nothing could top waking at 5:00 AM to greet an incoming nefesh b’nefesh flight, filled with courageous souls who had uprooted their lives and moved to Israel. Chanting “veshavu banim ligvulam” (the children have returned to their borders) and staring at the giddy and excited faces of the new immigrants, we couldn’t help but feel a small tinge of jealousy. The Jews were back where they belong.
Finally, my Jewish-Israel identity was cemented as we sang “Am Yisrael Chai” while holding flashlights to illuminate the tunnels in Ir David, our voices reverberating off the stone walls which seemed to join in our song. The unity in the air was tangible. Israel gives the Jew a place to be completely and unapologetically themself, infusing each visitor with a newfound pride in their Jewish identity.
Our country bounces back from war after war and not only survives but thrives, and that legacy has been endowed to me; proof of the power of the Jewish spirit. As we raised our voices together in song, we shouted one message loud and clear: we are here, we are strong, and most importantly, we will not apologize for being who we are.
