We Are Here

My childhood Rabbi survived Auschwitz. I can still remember the day he showed me the number on his arm--a memory, etched in ink. A burning reminder of what he lost. He was a small man, but in my eyes he stood tall. I looked to him, and saw the definition of courage. The number that branded him, branded me. It was etched into my mind, and the impact it had on me would be as permenant as the ink itself. 

I promised him, and I promised myself that I would never forget.

Today is Yom HaShoah, and I find myself wondering once again whether I am living a life of honor, in memory of the Six Million. Growing up, there were never any special ceremonies to recognize the day. I always found my own way to observe the day. In my teens, I wrote a story called "Hannah," about a girl's life in the ghetto and camps; it won a short story contest for Jewish Education. In college, I organized a Name Reading Ceremony to commemorate Yom HaShoah. Unto every face, there is a name; I wanted to make sure each name was heard. A small group of friends and strangers read names with me for over an hour. After they left I kept reading, determined to finish the list. As I neared the end the skies opened up; sorrow burst through the clouds, and I let the rain fill my heavy heart. I wept, my tears mingling with raindrops. "We are still here," I cried. "Am Yisrael Chai."

This year, as I walked to school I could see the Old City on the horizon. I felt an overwhelming connection to the land, the people, the language--it was beautiful, but there was a heavy ache in my chest, a reminder of what the day represented. At 10:00 this morning, a siren wailed throughout Israel. Silence spread through the room, and as we stood the voices of the Six Million slayed echoed across the land in a single note. My body absorbed the sound as it became a part of me, pulling the ghosts of a slaughtered generation from deep within my soul. I felt pain, anger, frustration, despair, and confusion. The entire country stood, united, to recognize and remember. To weep together, and then continue living together. It was surreal. 

When I decided that the next big step of my life journey would be to go to Israel, I felt elated. My heart had been leading me there for years, and I finally decided to trust that little tug that said "go." I came up with a project--a story about the value of Shabbat in familial life--and got on the plane. I've been in Israel for nearly ten months, and sometimes I just want to quit and go home. But when I remember the child who sat with her Rabbi and asked "Why?", a flame erupts inside my soul. I didn't chose this story. It lives in my bones, and it's begging me to tell it. When something is so deeply a part of the fabric of your own existence, it belongs to you, and you belong to it. 

Our childhood experiences shape us into the adults that we become. From the moment I saw the numbers on my Rabbi's arm, I knew my future would involve Israel. I knew it would involve protecting the memory of the Six Million, and I knew that it would involve protecting future generations. Those numbers are etched in my memory, and have followed me in every stage of my life. Something inside of me cannot be stopped. 

All roads lead here. I will not let those numbers disappear from my mind. 

"I Will Never Forget"

April 2012

Please accept my apologies for the inadequate video quality. This was recorded two years ago. 

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Never before have two words meant more, carried the weight of a nation, lifting us out of war.
Never again, we cry. We are the brothers and sisters, the daughters and sons of those who died.
WE are the echoes of silenced voices that scream to be heard-cries that yell: “I once lived!”
Can you hear them?
I do.
I hear them in the darkness of night, from the warmth of my bed.
I hear them-six million voices resonate in my head.
“Unto every person, there is a name.”
Tell me yours, child. Who were you when you were slain?
Tell me, so that we can share your pain.
What were your hopes? What were your dreams?
What was your life before the screams?
You need to be heard.
The world needs to know…
Tell me, child. How did you go?

"Shema Yisrael Adonai Elohainu, Adonai Echad.
Hear, Oh, Israel. The Lord is our G-d. The Lord is One.
Do not forget me.” She begs, as her prayer echoes in my head.
I swear to her that I will Never Forget.
Never forget.
I will Never Forget.
I will remember, every minute of every day.
I remember each time I pray.
I will teach it to my child, too.
Because I am proud to be a Jew.

Crossing the Bridge

I'm going to admit something. It's the reason I don't blog as often as I should, and the reason that when I do--it's solely based on my grand adventures. I'm homesick, and I don't like to talk about it.

I was disappointed to find that I am not the adventurer I thought I was. It takes a brave soul to leave home, set out into the world and put themselves at the will of the universe. But I came here for a reason: to be the globetrotting storyteller. I have a story to tell, and I am going to tell it.

This life is not for everyone. Surprisingly, it did not take me long to get used to the fact that I hardly ever know what people are saying around me. The cultural shock, (while yes, was quite a shock) did not scare me. I found it exciting, and still do. It's a challenge. I just never expected to miss home as much as I have, and it sinks in the most during the holidays. Needless to say, the past few weeks have not been easy. There is something about the smells and sounds of your own home that are irreplaceable. They blend into your consciousness with memories of childhood, of family gatherings, of dinners and brunches, of barbecues, birthdays, and holidays... Every Friday night, as the Sabbath sun sets over Jerusalem, I can hear "The Phantom of the Opera" playing from the worn out speakers of my parents old record player. I can see my mother in the kitchen; the gentle flicker of the Shabbat candles. The house smells of roast chicken, and my entire family is there. When your life has been built on a foundation of familial traditions, new experiences are difficult to compare. The every day events that you left behind, become the extraordinary ones--the ones you find yourself longing for. The grass is always greener.

I've always dreamed of traveling the world--of discovering strange, far-off places tucked away in hidden nooks and crannies across the globe. "The world is too big, and too beautiful to ignore." I'd say. Despite desperately missing the familiar, I have found that I thrive on the unpredictable. My creativity flourishes when the world unfolds before me like a pop-up map. Every morning as the sun climbs across the sky, I see the Old City on the horizon. The crisp mountain air is laced with hints of wild rosemary and sage, and everywhere I look there is beauty to be found. I remember how unhappy I was working in Manhattan. I can still see the gray skies, and the towering buildings whose enormous shadows blocked the warmth of the sun from my face. I can still hear the subway screeching to a stop as a gust of warm air rushes by. I don't miss that.

I do miss my family.

Every year Jews from all over the world sit down with their families to retell the story of the Exodus from Egypt, and every year we say "Next year in Jerusalem." Last year was different; when I said it - I meant it. I wished and prayed that my life would somehow lead me to Jerusalem; that I would find a way there, and spend my time exploring the city and land that I yearned to be a part of.

This year when I said it -- Jerusalem of Gold shone brightly in my eyes. It was everything I had wanted, but something was missing. I felt unsatisfied. I missed home. I've come to the conclusion that I cannot be the wandering gypsy I always thought I was. I need the comforts of home every once in a while. But on days like today, when the wind is wild and I feel the breath of freedom pulsing through my veins--anything is possible. There are endless adventures to be had. Millions of stories to be heard, waiting to be told.

I came to Jerusalem nearly ten months ago. In my mind, this was it. The game-changer. In Jerusalem, I would finally find the answers I'd been looking for. What I've realized is that everyone experiences fear. It comes to us right before we cross the bridge. We can see the path ahead--it is obscured by clouds of doubt, the bridge is unsteady. It would be so easy to turn back, but instead, we must inhale deeply and push on. We must move forward, if only to find out what lies on the other side of the quarry. Perhaps we will be met by another bridge. Perhaps not.

Sometimes, I find myself longing to be home. I want to turn back to where it's safe; where it's easy. But I came here to learn, explore, write and make good art...and I'm not giving up on myself. Not this time.

"Onward!!!"

PS: Today will be a double feature. 

Please check back later for my special Yom HaShoah piece--

"We Are Still Here: Remembering the Holocaust in Israel"