Heard the one about the war?

Benji Lovitt — Fri, 30 Nov 2012 12:19:09 +0000

Almost as quickly as it had begun, Operation Pillar of Defence wrapped up last week, leaving Israel's citizens to figure out what had just happened.

While the processing is never easy, it is especially difficult for immigrants who didn't grow up preparing for the army or living the Israeli narrative.

As I had made aliyah at the end of the second Lebanon War in 2006, this was not my first war in Israel - it wasn't even my second.

However, one thing remains constant: there is nothing quite as challenging as trying to "become Israeli" and the conflicts that seem to pop up every few years are only a reminder.

It all goes back to my first Yom Hazikaron (Israel Memorial Day), when I became aware of the chasm that existed between the country in its state of solemnity, and me, and realised that I was totally unable to identify with it, much as I wanted to.

Though I would be crazy to wish for something bad to happen, I can't help but feel that until I, God forbid, experience one of those "I was supposed to be on that bus" moments (or worse), I'm not going to get it.

Throughout last week, when I wondered what I was supposed to be feeling, I couldn't help noticing how calm I was.

Casually walking from my couch to the stairwell four times when I had absolutely no fear that an errant missile was going to hit anywhere close to central Tel Aviv did nothing to accelerate my heart rate. If I had been in the South? Well, surely it would have been different.

So what did I do? What everybody else did: produce and digest content on Facebook for what seemed like 23 hours out of the day. And what my fellow immigrants and I wrote reveals one of the big paradoxes of life in Israel.

It is a constant struggle to let people outside Israel know when we are under attack as it is letting them know when we are not (that is, how it is safe to come and that the entire nation is not up in flames).

On the one hand, this country and its citizens are in a constant fight to let the world know that we are under attack while simultaneously running tourism campaigns and fighting the image that this place in its entirety is a war zone.

"Hey, world! We are under attack! But Mom! I'm fine!" After the Tel Aviv bus bombing, I sent an email to my family and relatives, letting them know that everything was ok, knowing full well that some of them probably wouldn't believe me (because they haven't been here).

"I'm fine… I promise… It's not like it looks on TV", etc. How to strike a balance between the two? I have no idea. Nobody said life in Israel was easy.

By the way, I'm a comedian. I make people laugh at the hilarious side of life in Israel (because if you can't laugh here, you'll lose your mind). I spent my week on Facebook, trying to cheer up my fellow immigrants and Jews around the world with statuses poking fun at the sirens, the rockets, the whole situation - and of course, myself.

Here's an example:

"Anyone in Southern Israel need refuge this weekend? Let me know if you need a place to crash. Especially if you are female, single, and between the ages of 29 and 37. I am here for you."

That was my most popular status of the past six years. And this was the possibly the biggest paradox of the week for me: How do you reconcile your country being at war with the fact that your creative juices are flowing, your witty comments are getting more laughs and responses than ever before, and people are feeding your ego by telling you that you must continue to distract them from the news?

Maybe I didn't house a refugee or get called up to defend the border but making my fellow Israelis feel better about life felt like my small (maybe very small) way of doing my bit.

Maybe that seems strange. But no more strange than being an immigrant in Israel. Thank goodness things are back to normal. Relatively speaking.

On yer bike, it's time to atone

Benji Lovitt — Fri, 21 Sep 2012 11:42:08 +0100

As someone who falls somewhere between the Israeli labels of secular and traditional, my US Jewish roots are steeped in synagogue attendance. Growing up in America, I had to attend shul to be an affiliated Jew, especially on the High Holy Days. Chanting prayers in a language that I didn't understand, I may not have loved it but that's the way it was.

Years later, I made aliyah to Tel Aviv. Tel Aviv on Yom Kippur is incredible. As the city's energy slows to a crawl on Kol Nidre, cars are replaced by bikes and pedestrians until not a single moving vehicle remains in sight. By the time shul services have finished, the streets are packed with people, especially children of all ages who take over every available metre of the road.

I believe that if you feel Shabbat in Jerusalem 10 times more intensely than you do in Tel Aviv (that is, you feel the contrast between Shabbat and the weekdays), then you feel Yom Kippur 100 times more in Tel Aviv (my numbers are rough mathematical estimates).

While the Jerusalem streets feel like a ghost town on Yom Kippur, it's not so different from any other Shabbat. Tel Aviv on the Day of Atonement is a sight to behold that comes round only once a year. But every Yom Kippur, as I walk around the city in awe, I can't help wondering: what does spending the day riding bikes have to do with the actual meaning of Yom Kippur? To take it to the absurd, if everyone were to start eating sushi and having hula-hoop contests on Shavuot, while it might be really fun, would it add to or take away from the festival itself?

A friend once told me that "people celebrate it in their own ways and it's nice for so many people to do something together". Many (most?) of these bike-riders and outdoor types aren't repenting, apologising to others, or thinking about what they want to do differently in the coming year.

My perspective is surely rooted in Jewish guilt about what we should be doing. I don't want to judge or look down on non-religious observance (especially as, well, I'm not the most religious guy around and to each, his own) but let's just say it wasn't riding bikes that ensured our survival over thousands of years. If, God forbid, there is not an Israel tomorrow (or more realistically, if Israelis simply move abroad), how will we pass on our heritage to the next generation? Every demographic study shows our numbers in decline. Those of us in Israel may have the luxury of not worrying about these things like our counterparts in the diaspora, but isn't it important to pass on something besides "it's Yom Kippur, grab your helmet"?

But here's what my friend was trying to get across. I'm not in the diaspora. Whereas the Jewish identity I grew up with was defined by religious observance, I'm now living as part of the Jewish nation in a way that I never could do outside of Israel. I grew up with Yom Kippur as a religious commemoration.

In Israel, very few things are solely religious. When Israel liberated the Western Wall in 1967, it wasn't only a religious moment. It was a national victory after 2000 years of exile. I like that I live in a country where my Jewish identity is defined not only by religious observance but also by culture, language, community, and so much more.

Could Israeli society be a little more well-versed in our history, texts, and religion? Sure. Is the broad spectrum of religious observance a natural, expected, and overall meaningful thing in a Jewish state? Definitely.

Now, when I walk down Tel Aviv's highway, amazed by its rare emptiness, I try to let it enhance my spiritual and religious experience, not detract from it. As for others? I guess it's up them to figure it out.

Posts by Benji Lovitt

Heard the one about the war?

On yer bike, it's time to atone