A Year in Galut

It’s been a year.

This time last year, I was in a Midrasha on a Kibbutz in Emek Bet She’an. This time last year, I was learning Torah in Eretz Yisrael. This time last year, I was home.

Right now, I am completely stuck in Galut, and my surroundings do not care to stop reminding me of that. I feel so alone, as if I am the only one not in Israel, I almost feel abandoned. Two of my friends left less than an hour ago on the El-Al flight that is taking them to their summer program, where they will learn Torah LiShmah in Israel for six weeks. For one of them, this is the first time in Israel in a very long time, and I am anxious to hear how the land will strike him, if she will reveal her ultimate beauty to him, as we are taught by Rav Kook zt”l, among other Rabbis, that she does so to those she chooses to. The other friend, he lives for Israel. He breathes the love and the longing for the land every day in everything he does, and this trip will be his first time there in four years. I am so jealous of him. I think of the last time I was in Israel, last summer, how I watched the screen on the airplane show the painfully slow approach to the dot marked “Tel Aviv,” the way the illustration of the plane seemed to be only inching along the screen. I remember looking out my window and finally, suddenly, out of the cover of the surrounding fog, seeing the jutting of tall buildings from shorelines beneath. Finally, home. I know this is how this friend of mine will be feeling, this overwhelming ache of the temporary end to suffering, an ultimate joy, as tears threaten the eyes and the soul feels the true emotion of the words “Vishavu Banim Ligvulum.” This is what my friend will be feeling in a matter of hours, as I sleep unaware in my bed. I know this, and for the past two days, a weight has been added to my heart, knowing that these friends of mine will be experiencing this purest of joys as I remain in America, trapped by my reality.

The magnitude of this sorrow has gotten so great that I feel I cannot keep it in; I must talk with someone. I pick up my cell phone to call the friend who would come over, take me out, try to distract me, and then I realize that my call will go unanswered. She, too, is in Israel, on a ten day tour with the Israel advocacy program she’s a member of, “Write-on for Israel.” I remember this with pain, like a slap in the face, as I remember the itinerary of her trip, which she showed me. Border checkpoints, archeological sites, government offices, Sderot…places immersed in our national history, and the history our nation is making now. We both despaired looking at her itinerary, she for fear that she will prove to be the least intelligent in her group, which will not be the case, and I for longing to be in her shoes.

I left on a walk to escape the chaos of my house, and saw the house of my neighbors, a family of seven children, thank G-d, who will be making Aliyah this summer. I sit in the park, and can see the house of one of my campers. Her family, as well, will be making Aliyah this summer, G-d willing. I rejoice for these families, for their devotion to Am Yisrael, despite the difficulties involved in the process. I rejoice most for the children: they are still so young, their childhood memories will be in Israel. Their culture, their thoughts will be in Hebrew. They will naturally speak the language of our land, our Torah, the same way I speak English. This is amazing. This also causes me to feel depressed. What all these children are gaining, it was almost mine. My parents packed us up and moved us to Israel in my infancy. This, however, was before the days of Nefesh B’Nefesh, and, to my perpetual sorrow, we had to move back to the States. The experience of growing up in Israel, of speaking the language with perfect fluency, was almost mine, but I lost it. I grew up dreaming of Israel. She is part of my essence: my heart and my mind are forever focused on her. Libi bamizrach vi’anochi basof ma’arav. Centuries later, the Riha”l’s statement rings true with me. The only consolations I can give myself are that my upbringing in Galut must be a part of G-d’s ultimate, divine plan. Gam zu litovah. This is how it is meant to be.

I have to remember that in a year’s time, G-d willing, I’ll have graduated from High School and have a lifetime of great potential for closeness to G-d in His eternal home for us, in Israel. This is the dream. This is worth the pain, the impatience that is not my fault, that is out of my control. After all, this suffering will add to the ultimate joy of reaching Israel permanently. And that thought fuels my desire for Israel, for the truth that she holds, for the layers of Torah that she can reveal, every day of my life.

Gam zu litovah.