Theme song: “leaving on a jetplane…”

Theme song: “leaving on a jetplane…” | June 2, 2010

It’s a little strange to be approaching the end of my stay in Israel. End of a frame, end of another chapter. This end inevitably brings with it the vision of an uncertain future filled with big hopes, underscored by secret doubts. That’s the nature of the beast I suppose.

A couple weeks ago I went to יום הסטודנט- “Yom haStudent” (Student Day)- a holiday marked by big celebrations in the major cities of Israel. The highlight was a concert by Shlomo Artzi. The career of this famous Israeli folk singer spans 4 decades. He is as old as the Arab-Israeli conflict and his music continues to win the admiration of both young and old. During my first week in Israel I was watching late-night TV with friends and eating home-made hummous. Food= delicious, TV= obnoxious. Shlomo Artzi came on, his unmistakable motifs in part veiled by the grainy reception. I knew nothing back then (and arguably little has changed), so a friend explained to me the artist’s significance. On Yom HaStudent, standing in the middle of a huge Israeli crowd, listening to Shlomo Artzi live gave me a keen feeling that I have come full-circle. This brought an emotion of satisfaction, punctuated by sadness.

Why sadness? Because below me and above me I saw a giant crowd of people, citizens, natives swaying rhythmically back and forth, their mouths shaping the patterns of soulful expressions as one. These people were sharing a moment in time and space, the energy of the common bond seeping into every heart and forming an invisible network of interconnected, interdependent lights (like bulbs on a Christmas tree or candles on a menorah…whichever fits the setting best).

And I? Where was I in all this? In this familial experience I am inevitably an outsider. My role is to observe and take in, to study and remember, to internalize and capture. But, my mouth cannot shape the Hebrew words, nor can my brain comprehend the poetic meaning. I do not have flashbacks to childhood, perhaps sitting in the family living room, mother backing fresh Challah (braided Shabbat bread) and humming under her breath to the tune of Shlomo Artzi on the radio. I do not have the necessary background to truly connect to and melt into this moment.

I feel this all the time really. And everywhere. The most poignant (or painful) time I can remember was in Tanzania in 2006. I was there for my friend Aasiya Somji’s wedding (I hope she reads this, I have never shared this with her). The whole trip was truly out-of-this-world. Amazing, fascinating, educational, unforgettable. I keep going back in my mind to the evening before the wedding. The whole family was assembled at Aasiya’s parents’ apartment. Young and old, women in colorful saris, skirts, hijabs (veils). I too started to gradually blend in. I mastered a long blue skirt out of a beach pareo; the day before all the women (me included) got beautiful henna on our arms; my legs didn’t feel as sore from eating while sitting on floor pillows; and I was slowly beginning to relinquish the childhood manacles of my commitment to a knife and a fork. However, the mirage of my ability to fit in began to crumble as soon music was introduced. Aasiya’s family began to softly sing songs in Swahili. Then followed rhythmic dancing. Then the grandmothers took over with mournful tunes in Urdu, the language of their ancestors. When I noticed slight moisture forming around one woman’s eyes…I had to step out.

I went to the roof of my apartment and stood in the middle of the night overlooking the quiet African neighborhood. I was touched to the core by the solemnity of the evening. Members of this family are dispersed all around the world but today, as they were giving away their daughter, they had the opportunity to share this night together, to reconnect, to learn each other anew. I admired this evening, these people. I was filled with so much respect and gratitude for being allowed to be a guest and a part of this celebration. But also I became overwhelmed by my own yearning to feel like a part of something bigger than me, to reconnect also, to melt into this family unit or this community. I craved to also feel like an inseparable part of this greater soul-organism. But then too I lacked the tools…the background.

Their joy in sharing took me back mentally to the last time I felt really at home. I was young, maybe 14 or 15. I was in Russia, in деревня Патриаршая- “derevnya Patriarshaya” (my grandma’s village home). It was night. We were sitting on benches around the fire. There was one guitar, there were fifteen to twenty voices and we all sang. One of my favorite songs is called Выхода Нет- “Vyhoda Net” (“No Escape”) and the lyrics go: Девочка с глазами из самого синего льда, тает под огнем пулемета…должен же расстаять хоть кто-то… (“ A girl with eyes of bluest ice is dying under bullet fire…will noт one being melt…”)

You see, I knew exactly what a special, meaningful, rejuvenating and grounding power some evenings have. It is so important to be able to once in a while feel these in your own blood.

Its interesting how this narrative is revealing that the true meaning behind experiences for me is somehow viscerally connected to music. Even now as I think about my home in Minneapolis…the word HOME is punctuated by a clear Salsa beat.

So one might ask, what is the problem with feeling out of place in a foreign country in Africa or in the Middle East? Girl, why do you go there if not to observe and learn?

I so much appreciate all my opportunities (and by God, I am the one diving head first into all these places!). In the last couple weeks I have been coming to terms with leaving and trying to mentally organize my thoughts and feelings. The truth is, as I sit here today, I am feeling that all the travelling is making me yearn more and more to find my own roots. For a short while I would like to quit the struggle of a tough little weed temporarily thrown into someone else’s lush garden. I want to find a place in my own flower bed. I am feeling that we can only blossom into our full and brilliant bloom when nourished by our own rich soil. A soil that will not hold anything back, which will not leave any nutrient hidden. Now all I gotta do is discover that kind of soil for myself….

(Coming up….some zesty reflections on the Israel/Turkey/Gaza/flotilla business..)