Rough, Tough, and Tender

When I was eighteen I came to Israel and made a big discovery. Within a few hours I realized that Israelis were uncool. For me, a self-conscious American teenager, any public display of emotion was embarrassing. Where I came from, people made a concerted effort to remain unflappable at all times. I stood riveted on Dizengoff Square as taxi drivers shouted, soldiers hugged, and girls screamed from bus windows at friends in the street.

I watched in fascination as Israelis argued over coffee, offered unsolicited advice to pregnant women, complained aloud about merchandise in stores, and screamed out prices in the market. I was secretly thrilled when observing people unabashedly expressing themselves and I became an absolute voyeur. Sometimes I would stop walking, in order to witness an argument in the street, or move my seat closer to people having a heated conversation on the bus. I was entranced by the way Israelis seemed to go from one emotion to the other so fluidly. Many times I witnessed confrontations that seemed to verge on violence and end with laughter and slaps on the back. I could not imagine such an interaction in America, especially between a clerk and a customer, but in Israel that was business as usual.

It took me a long time to learn not to get offended when someone yelled at me, a while to understand that most Israelis are naturally emotional and not ashamed to voice their displeasure, although they often reprimand one another by demanding “Ata lo mitbayesh?” “You’re not ashamed?”

It’s not always easy to live in such an environment. It can be rough on the nerves. But what can you expect from people who constantly live on the edge? So many Israeli parents have children in the army, one can only imagine the constant worry they feel. Young couples are facing enormous financial challenges due to low pay and sky-high rents. Religious families with many children need lots of money for private schools and weddings. All this and the ever-present threat of terror lurking everywhere, anytime, every day.

Whenever I return to America I am struck by the comparatively relaxed attitude that exists there. The people that work in stores are cordial and pleasant. There is never any pressure to buy anything because the stores are usually not owned by the salesmen. Shopping is an enjoyable experience, you aren’t expected to pit yourself against the owner and negotiate for a lower price. If someone bumps into me he apologizes. In Israel this is not necessary, it would be wimpy to need an apology for that. In the States, I never have to pause at the entrance to a shop and have my purse checked for weapons There are no soldiers in sight, no need to be on alert for suspicious objects or people. And customers stand quietly in line as opposed to the push-to-the-front method so common here. In short, it is more civilized. But for me, it lacks drama, it lacks Divine providence, and it lacks punch. In Israel, you cannot survive without a sense of humor, in so many cases it’s either laugh or cry. I was once riding in a taxi and the driver would not slow down. I finally told him that his driving was scaring me. “Close your eyes” he said, “and work on your emuna.”

Life can be raw in Israel and emotions ride on the surface. The first time I was in Jerusalem when a bomb exploded, I was about to meet my twelve year old daughter and take her to the dentist. The explosion occurred on a street near her bus stop. The deafening boom was followed by complete chaos. A teenage girl in jeans collapsed on the curb and began to weep. A woman in a headscarf bent down and pulled her out of harm’s way. People were running in all directions, many towards the explosion, most the other way, yet I saw a man stop to help an elderly woman from getting knocked down. I was terrified for my daughter. Choking with fear I ran into a hat shop and asked the owner if I could use his phone. He handed it over immediately and brought me a cup of juice. He hovered beside me until I confirmed that my daughter had made it to the dentist’s office and rejoiced with me that she was safe. He insisted I wait inside the store for a few more minutes in case of a second explosion. I was grateful for his kindness and compassion but I expected no less. He’s my Israeli brother.

Jews are family, and subconsciously we all know it. That’s why we let our hair down with each other, for better and for worse. Sure it can get rude and annoying. But Israelis are the people I want around me when the going gets tough. They have the very warmest of hearts and there is nothing cooler than that.