This is how it feels to be a Zionist
What it feels like to be so excited to get on a plane to travel to a tiny country on the other side of the world even though it is in the depths of a brutal war.
It is fairly straightforward to give a dictionary-type definition of Zionism, but it is often difficult to explain what it is to feel like a Zionist. What it feels like to be so excited to get on a plane to travel to a tiny country on the other side of the world even though it is in the depths of a brutal war, and only the day before had been under serious attack by a crazy nuclear-powered enemy.
Sometimes describing a contrast can help convey an emotion and so I’d like to compare the experience of participating in a fun run in Melbourne in March to the experience of participating in the recent Tel Aviv Night Run.
In March, I signed up with my son’s girlfriend and we hit the streets with more than 20,000 enthusiasts in Melbourne’s iconic Run for the Kids. We decided to run in T-shirts with the bold words “Run for their Lives. #BringthemhomeNOW.”
It was a glorious day, a well-organised event and an enjoyable course through the city. Yet despite having run in more than 50 Melbourne events over the years, I felt so alone and out of place. Although I was determined to wear the top, I doubted that many would be at all interested and, if anything, we were at risk of verbal abuse and condemnation. Something so at the forefront of my thoughts 24/7 is irrelevant to most Melburnians.
Fast forward a month, and tragically the hostages are still in captivity, war is still raging, soldiers are still being killed and injured, border Israeli towns are still under constant attack by terrorist organisations, internal tensions are high and to add to the mix, Iran has launched an aggressive missile attack on our homeland.
Against this backdrop, I arrive in Israel and am registered to run that night in the Tel Aviv Night Run. It is less than three days since the petrifying Iran attack and I am sure that the event will be cancelled for security reasons. Yet the race goes ahead and as we travel to the event location by train, I am very unsure what to expect.
As the crowds descend onto the start line, I realise that my nervousness is dissipating and my excitement is growing – and what I am feeling is a great sense of belonging. I have never participated in a fun run in Tel Aviv, but I feel an integral part of the event along the shores of the Yarkon River. It is very clear that the war, the hostages and the very threat to our existence are forefront of every racer’s mind.
There is an official event T-shirt but more than half the participants are wearing tops dedicated to someone’s memory, or calling for someone’s release. Every kilometre of the race is dedicated to a different division of our army and special forces. Songs of the war are blasting all along the 10-km course and the ubiquitous Israeli flags are waving high and low.
I pass hundreds of photos of the hostages. Amongst the sea of blue and white are thousands of yellow ribbons of all sizes, and buildings are lit up with messages of unity and fortitude.
I jog along feeling so emotional. But I soon realise that it is not sadness that surrounds me, but resilience – a strong and powerful buzz of resilience. Three days ago, everyone was in bomb shelters. Tonight, we are pounding the streets.
Life goes on, fun runs go ahead and it’s not because no one cares – it’s because everyone cares so much. And I feel so proud to be part of my people, and so connected to everyone out running in
Tel Aviv that night.
Usually, I listen to podcasts about Israel when I run, but this night I turn off Spotify because I don’t need to listen to someone opine about Israel – Israel is all around me.
I want to hug the gorgeous children who line the sides putting out their hands for high fives.
I want to hug the makeshift bands playing nostalgic songs along the way.
I want to hug everyone calling out Am Israel Chai as people jog past them.
I want to hug the families all wearing T-shirts with the same beautiful face on the back.
I want to hug the people pushing participants in wheel chairs.
I want to hug the volunteers who shout words of encouragement in Hebrew.
I want to hug the lady who handed me snacks, because it is after all a Jewish event. I want to hug the handsome young men wearing shirts emblazoned with the visage of faces I recognise after six months of despairing for them.
I want to hug the young girls with blue-and-white face paint and tutus who dance and clap on improvised stages.
And most of all I want to hug my two children who have chosen to become Israeli. That’s how it feels to be a Zionist. Am Israel Chai.
Atida Lipshatz is a board member of Zionism Victoria.
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