.jpeg)
July 5, 2023
The inviting scent of my mother's schnitzel cooking on the stove wafts into my bedroom as I sit before my laptop, resisting the urge to scurry off to the kitchen. I have been staring at the blank screen before me for longer than I'd care to admit, but I mention my writer's block because I truly do not know where to begin. Every blog post I write seems to harbor a different style. Some are casual and lighthearted. Some are poems edging on haiku. Others seem to inhibit nothing more than an itemized list of grievances I have against a troubling day; I seem to have several posts about being incapable of doing laundry correctly (still working on it). I'm not sure what genre the following blog post will occupy (poetic, political, professional), but regardless, I have some things I want to share.
Back to the schnitzel. They say that scent is powerful and can unlock memories we often forget our subconscious was carrying in the first place. But I think there is more to it than that. I think scent carries emotion. As I am writing this, there are two chicken cutlets marinating in egg yolks, coated in Italian seasoning, frying on a pan of olive oil, and the scent unlocks a feeling of Judaism I have spent my entire life trying to articulate. Every time I attempt to use language to express what the cultural connection of Judaism feels like, I am unsuccessful. It is a feeling I had in my childhood when I attended Hebrew school. It can be heard through the classic preschool song "Shalom Haverim," a tune which is engrained in the memory of just about every American Jew (and is currently stuck in my head). It is a feeling which can be unlocked by the smell of sunscreen at Camp Alonim, moments before hurdling into a swimming pool. It is a feeling of togetherness when a group of young American Jews gathers before a campfire to sing "Dayenu" and "Echad Mi Yodeah" at completely the wrong time of year (what is our year round fascination with Pesach?) It is a feeling that lasted the entire duration of my time in Israel, and I feel it now as the smell of schnitzel travels from the kitchen to my bedroom. Despite being unsuccessful in my many attempts to describe what it feels like to be connected through Judaism, I think it is time I try one more time as I blog this series about my ten day journey with Birthright Israel.
Birthright Israel is a once in a lifetime opportunity for Jews from all over the word to visit Israel (as a Jew it is your 'birth right' to visit the holy land). All Jewish people (there are some caveats, visit https://www.birthrightisrael.com/ to learn more) are eligible for one free trip through Birthright Israel, paid for partially by generous donors and partially by the Israeli government. I chose to travel through Mayanot, one of the more religious experiences, though Birthright has a variety of options with different itineraries based on your preferences. I chose Mayanot because I would be attending with members of the Chabad house at my university, and felt most comfortable doing so.
Our journey began at Tom Bradley International Terminal of LAX, where my dad dropped me off thirty minutes early. I stood outside the terminal, clutching my luggage, anxiously awaiting the others' arrival, and having absolutely no idea that what lie ahead would be ten of the best days of my life. None of us are wearing name tags yet. The men aren't adorned with kippot and the women aren't sporting their hamsot yet, but we Jews have a way of finding each other. The terminal is jam packed with people from all over the world, scurrying from corner to corner of the building, and yet we can spot each other in the crowd. This is another aspect of the connection I cannot seem to explain, but walla, it happens time and time again.
Seeing as we flew El Al, security consisted of more than just metal detectors and routine pat-downs. El Al security consisted of one-by-one interrogation in which several people were asked to recite their Bar Mitzvah Torah portions from memory. Needless to say, stress filled the air as everyone realized this may be a bad time to crack jokes with the Israeli security for fear of detainment. Everyone made it through security successfully, though slightly frazzled and confused as to why the security guards needed to know where we stopped to get coffee this morning. By my return flight home I understood that the reason for the procedure was to assure that nobody could tamper with your luggage in between leaving your home and arriving at the airport, so my return flight questioning was milder, but more on that later.
They say that there are six degrees of separation between people. Well, with Jews, it's closer to two degrees. The next hour spent at the gate consisted of discovering that this group of forty strangers was all connected in one way or another. If you didn't go to Camp Ramah, you went to Camp Alonim. And if you didn't go to Camp Alonim, you went to Camp Kinneret. And if you didn't go to summer camp at all, your cousin went with my cousin who's mom went to high school with my uncle. Also, your rabbi knows my rabbi. I"m not kidding, my future second cousin twice removed was on the trip (it took us the entire trip to figure out how we're related). This is just another aspect of Judaism I cannot explain, but hold so near and dear to my heart. We all seem to know each other, even when we're complete strangers. And we don't remain strangers for very long. I can't pinpoint exactly when we became family, but at some point we went from introductions to calling ourselves "Mishpacha 276."
The fifteen hour flight went by relatively quickly. The flight attendants operated primarily in Hebrew, and it occurred to me that this was essentially my first time hearing the language outside of my own home and in the real world. I have to admit, it made me laugh. It's a strange sort of culture shock to be caught off guard by something familiar.
The flight felt eternal in the moment, but eventually the time passed and all of a sudden, the wheels touched the ground. I have a tradition of commemorating every new country visited in my notes app the moment the wheels hit the ground, not a moment sooner. So as soon as we landed, I pulled out my phone and added Israel to the list. In the blink of an eye, this far away place that I had begged my parents to take me to my entire life but never quite made it, was right before me. Seemingly out of nowhere, I was in Tel Aviv.
Stepping off the plane was a comedic experience, as we were hit with the gust of heat associated with the country, and a scent that implanted the same thought in just about every one of us. Practically in unison, I could hear people saying, "Israel smells like my grandma's house!" while I myself said, "Israel smells like my aunt's house!" Again, it's a strange paradoxical experience to step into a completely new atmosphere and be immediately struck by the familiar, in this case the scent of Israeli shampoo. Landing at Ben Gurion is an emotional experience for many Jews. Most of us had never been to Israel before, but with every step, we were welcomed home.
Welcome home.
It feels silly at first to be welcomed home to a place you've never been, but there was an "aha" moment where it hit us all. The state of Israel exists not just for Israeli Jews, but for Jews all over the world. As Zionists ourselves, this was a fact we already knew on paper, but in that moment, we felt it. We made our way down the iconic ramp, and were welcomed home.
Comments