Returning to Israel and remembering to breathe

My flight into Israel was lively. Somewhere between a Jewish wedding (minus the food) and the waiting room at Monash Clayton. By that I mean, no one was in their assigned seats, everyone was walking around, about 15 different languages were being spoken, including lots of hand gesturing to complain about the lack of food and also to play Jewish geography. But then, as we began to fly over Israel, the entire flight went silent. Suddenly no one was talking. Even the babies stopped crying. The beautiful Colombian Christian woman next to me (flying to Israel to study the Old Testament) was clutching the cross at her neck and only broke the silence to marvel that, “the buildings are all sparkling” (solar panels on every roof). I’m not sure if the silence was out of fear – exactly one week prior a Houthi Missile had hit the grounds of Ben Gurion airport – or out of awe  – that we were all finally finally arriving into Israel after so many cancelled flights and trips and travel warnings. As the wheels touched the ground and everyone began to cheer, clap and even sing, I let out a breath that just then I realised I’d been holding for over 18 months.
Three months previously, I had had Rachel Goldberg Polin’s words “hope his mandatory” tattooed on my right arm as a reminder to hold onto hope –  tikvah. A hope that is as fundamental to my DNA as it was to those who held onto it for 2000 years in exile. Since then, I have been doing everything I can to hold onto that hope when the fear sets in and when the Australia I thought I knew has, at times, been unrecognisable. When I worry what it will be like to raise my kids as proud Jews in this climate. I’ve been trying my best to hold onto that hope but just then I realised, I’d also been holding my breath.

Arriving in Israel, it felt like the weight began to lift off my shoulders. Every day I felt lighter despite all the food and the Magen David necklaces that I continuously, and somewhat compulsively, had been adding around my neck.

With every day and every “only-in-Israel” experience, it felt easier to breathe as hope filled my lungs. Being in Jerusalem for Yom Yerushalyim and seeing the streets filled with hundreds of thousands of people waving their Israeli flags without fear, dancing in the Shuk with the unbreakable Israeli youth and being at the Kotel to witness tekes hashba’ah the swearing in ceremony where new IDF soldiers receive both their gun and their Tanach – it was clear that hope was and is alive in our homeland. Despite the trauma, the sirens and what anyone else in the world has to say about it’s ongoing existence. The hope is everywhere and apparently it’s contagious.

During this particular trip to Israel, the 8th trip I’ve booked but only the third that has gone ahead, I had the privilege of meeting some of the strongest women imaginable. Women who literally light up with purpose when they talk about their lives, their jobs, their families and their communities. Women who have not just crept right into my heart but have each helped me breathe easier while rebuilding my hope in their own unique way.

It was only on my second-to-last day, that I felt the breath catch in my throat and the hope falter in my chest. On the 600th day since October 7th I went to Kfar Aza and there I witnessed first hand the very worst of what humanity is capable of. I entered one of the most devastated of the Southern Kibbutzim guided by Mazi Alon – who is easily the strongest women I have ever met. A women who lost her husband and her home in 34 hours of hell. Who saw and heard every single thing that happened just outside her safe room window on that day including the murder of her bravest neighbours. And yet, in Mazi, the hope is still alive. Mazi still smiled as she guided me gently through the devastation. Making sure to not only tell the story of each person who lost their life there but also the story of how wonderful their kibbutz life was. She even showed me the kibbutz “dummy tree” where parents hang their children’s pacifiers as they transition out of babyhood. Abandoned for over 18 months and set against a background sprayed with bullets and spray-painted markings – even this sweet tradition was a reminder of the lives that were shattered here.

Mazi took me from her own house which her family had just finished building, and barely had a chance to live in, before October 7 to the young people’s homes where she gave me time and space to bear witness to the utterly unimaginable wreckage and ruin. I have heard this part of Kfar Aza described as a scene out of a zombie apocalypse film but honestly, that doesn’t do it justice. Because Hollywood could never have imagined each of these minute moments of horror. The devil truly in the details. From the burned out rooms to the bullet ridden walls and the army-coded spraypaint inscriptions detailing which rooms have been cleared of human remains and which rooms still have blood on the furniture. But none of these scenes hit me as hard as seeing my own reflection in the same Ikea hexagon tiles that I once used to tile my St Kilda kitchen splashback. Here the very same tiles were surrounded by bullet holes. A shattered mosaic of misery. A mass produced ikea product that directly connected me with the beautiful young person that used to live there. There but for the grace of God go I.

At the end of the young people’s devastated homes, when I was clearly struggling to breathe through the tears, Mazi said “I don’t want you to leave here sad. I want you to hold the hope with us. I have something else to show you.” She then took me around the corner to the newly built young people’s village.  She explained how hundreds of volunteers came and worked together to build these new homes for Kfar Aza. How they worked tirelessly to do everything to make them perfect…. All except for one unpainted square on an external wall. Left without paint or render this square will remain incomplete until Gali and Ziv Berman come home from Gaza to finish it themselves, “As a reminder that we are not complete without them.”

To leave the shattered ruins of Kfar Aza with that spark of hope was a gift from Mazi and from the diaspora community that showed up and continue to show up to put words into actions. Going beyond thoughts and prayers as we so often say at UIA. Indeed, I feel so privileged to be working with UIA and to know that our communities2gether project will be part of this rebuild. To continue to bring hope back to this incredible community.

I was able to catch my breath and even blow gently on that spark of hope as the day progressed and I was also able to witness firsthand the very best that humanity is capable of. Ofri, my brilliant colleague, guide and translator from the UIA office in Jerusalem, took me to three more of the UIA-supported projects in the region – a youth mentorship program for primary school-aged kids, an absorption centre for Ethiopian Olim and a Youth Village for teenagers who are rebuilding their lives. In each of these places, I met people who embody the idea of living with purpose. Israelis who have dedicated their lives to the betterment of their communities and Israel at large. People who remind me what true courage, faith and hope look like.

People like Aviva at the Ethiopian Absorption centre who talked about moving to Israel at 10 years old and explained the bravery and dedication it takes to leave everything you know behind in order to come to the country their ancestors have been praying towards for thousands of years. And, in doing so having to learn an entirely new language and culture. Aviva shoulders each and every burden of her community but talks about the confidence that comes from knowing she has UIA and the Jewish Agency behind her all the way.

I met so many women who have found their calling and keep persevering despite all the challenges they face. Women like Reut and Orit at Youth Futures in Sderot whose faces light up when they talk about the students that they have mentored. I didn’t even need Ofri’s translation to understand that these were people who run towards every need, who genuinely love and value each student that they work with and see their student’s progress as their life’s achievements.

By the time I left Kiryat Yearim Youth Village, after meeting teenagers who have the strenth, tenacity and enthusiasm to turn their lives around in order to better serve their county, the spark of hope was more like a bonfire. I understood that its only when we are so far away that we can fall into the trap of holding our breath, waiting for the next tragedy, the next attack of words or swords. We tend to forget just how remarkable and resilient this country is.  They are not broken. Far from it. Sure, like our ancestors in the desert, they carry with them the pieces that are broken, they are even vulnerable enough to show them to you if you ask but these broken pieces do not make them any less whole. And neither are we.  With this knowledge tucked into my already bursting suitcaser how could I not leave Israel with my head clear and my heart full to the brim of hope?

Instead of trying to sleep on my red-eye flight out of Israel, I looked out the window and tried to take it all in – already calculating how long it would be till I would be able to come back and breath the air of my homeland once again.

Justine Pearl is a freelance writer, creative, crafter and proud Zionist, currently writing for UIA.