Bliss, Loss, Under Fire, Peace? My Summer in Israel

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On July 6, the dorm is on lockdown. Our program head reminds us where our merchav mugan, safe area, is in case we need it.

Malachi’s first siren blasts the next day, and we miraculously all reach the safe area in under forty-five seconds. They tell us to pack overnight bags for a day or two. As I pack my bag, I’m on the phone with Phil who updates me. In the middle of their search for terrorists, his unit is packing up and getting ready to go to Gaza. In the middle of my packing, our head counselor tells us to bring our suitcases with us. At that moment I knew we weren’t coming back. The counselors call that night “the Exodus.” We left in a rush in the middle of the night to Jerusalem, leaving our campers behind without saying goodbye. We were free to leave, and they would stay, sirens, rockets, and all.

I try to make the most of my time, but I miss my campers, I miss what I came to Israel to do. I don’t think we’re running our second camp in Dimona after leaving Malachi early.

To my surprise, we go to Dimona after all. Objectively, the media knows Dimona by headlines: sirens, rockets, depravity, soldiers at war. But I know my Dimona campers, whose favorite activity is singing “Am Yisrael Chai,” in the most unexpected of places – the safe room of camp during the siren. Death looms over the country, but camp moves on. We make cards, videos and cookies. We give the cookies to soldiers and Dimona residents, “cookies to lift your spirits,” I say, because people don’t like handouts. We were part of the city, more than just working with the municipality and the education ministry. We were with them, lived every red alert with them.

On the last day of the program, we bring our Malachi campers to Jerusalem for the day to finally say goodbye. Our summer comes full circle. They remember the vocabulary words we taught them. I tell them they could do whatever they put their mind to, as they look at me with wide eyes; they’d never heard that before. The counselors can’t help but compare Malachi and Dimona, both development towns in the South, but they couldn’t be more different. And why would I, or any of my American friends, or any Israelis living in the center or north know this? Israel exists beyond Jerusalem and Tel-Aviv, as does its potential and talent.

On one of my last days in Israel, I saw Rachelle Fraenkel at the learning in memory of her son Naftali, and Eyal, and Gilad. Through her gleaming eyes and smile it was hard to see a woman who had just lost her son. I saw a woman who strengthened a nation. Israelis have never felt so close to each other. And while my donated flashlights didn’t find the boys alive, they helped the soldiers through difficult days in Gaza. The light at the end of Hamas’ terror tunnels is the IDF, maybe with one of my flashlights. I don’t know when this operation will end, but I wonder if we’ll be left with something more than battle wounds. In the words of one of my friends who was in Gaza: “The important thing is to increase the love in the nation, and try to maintain the unity that was formed through the Operation after it’s over.” I hope we can do that.