These images first came into view as I neared the departure floor of New York’s Kennedy Airport and beheld men, women, children, babies, seniors, porters, reporters, security officers, ticket agents, cameramen and photographers; and heard speaking, shouting, whispering, crying, laughing, whistling, singing, crooning and praying as some 250 Jews went about the business of taking the last bureaucratic steps that would put them on a one-way flight that would finally bringing them home.
In front of me were the couples and the singles, the young and the old, the religious and the secular, who had made up their minds to take the great leap forward and make aliyah. These North American Jews were closing the book of exile and embarking on a new chapter in their lives, set in Eretz Yisrael.
Their complicated way back was simplified and facilitated by Nefesh B’Nefesh, an organization co-founded by Rabbi Yehoshua Fass and businessman Tony Gelbart to help new immigrants to Israel through the endless red tape and rampant misinformation with logistical, financial and emotional support. Any move is a daunting and draining experience under the best of circumstances; uprooting oneself and/or one’s family and going to a country thousands of miles from everything familiar is a thousand times more complicated and overwhelming. Nefesh B’Nefesh tries to minimize the stress and help ensure that the initial move and adjustment is as trouble-free as possible.
I looked at the sea of humanity around me, at the mothers and fathers and grandmothers and grandfathers and siblings and friends and neighbors who came to say goodbye to their loved ones. Their tears and their smiles competed for face time, as they alternatively cried and laughed. Their immense pride and admiration in their loved ones’ imminent departure to Israel vied with their searing awareness that the sharing of their loved ones’ lives – weekly Shabbat dinners, family Chanukah parties, Pesach get-togethers – was about to be unavoidably curtailed.
Then it was time to go, and the moment for that last, desperate hug, the “I want to hold you forever” embrace fueled by the cold fear flitting just beneath the surface, suppressed but not totally subdued. “Will I ever see them again?” “Will I wake up one morning to the news of a suicide bombing on a bus and call a cell-phone that just rings and rings and remains unanswered?”
They are all heroes, I thought to myself – those ho go and those who let go.
Feeling weighted down by the mix of powerful emotions (and by my heavy carry-on bag), I made my way to the departure gate – and was instantly buoyed as I rounded the corner and confronted a breathtaking sight. On the other side of the glass wall, reaching defiantly to the sky, was the glistening metal fin of an airplane emblazoned with the blue Star of David, the insignia of the Jewish people. It was the El Al airplane – the airplane of the airline of the State of Israel – standing like a majestic yet maternal eagle, waiting with pride but impatience for its brood to climb onto its wings and be transported above the clouds to the welcoming nest awaiting them.
