Shabbat Shalom V'shaket

Something very strange happened to me today. I stopped and smelled the flowers. And the flowers, well, they made me cry.

I was walking up a hill, watching the cars drive by me, admiring the beautiful flowers along the fence next to me. I stopped to smell them. And suddenly, an intense feeling of happiness -- or maybe it was contentedness or inner fullness washed over me. I smiled.

And then I decided to smile for everyone to see. I wanted to smile to cheer up anyone driving by who needed to see a smile. And more than that, I wanted to smile so people driving by could see that someone was feeling really happy to be here in Israel. It just seemed to me that we who are living in Israel right now might appreciate that sentiment. A well-known Israeli song says, It's good to live here in Israel. But most people I talk to don't really feel that way right now. Not that they don't still love Israel. But it's just not the overriding feeling right now, that it's good to live here in Israel.

Mostly people are tense, worried, afraid, angry, many things. But happy? Content? No, not now, not in these times. How can we feel content when this country feels so vulnerable right now, when WE feel so vulnerable, when Israel's very existence is being battered around by those who still wish it didn't.

So I started to smile. You know, to cheer people up.

And then I started to cry.

Just like that. Crying. I had to turn my back to the drivers while I cried. Because I was really crying, actually I was sobbing. And in this country, people would stop their cars and ask what’s wrong. So I turned my back and sobbed. I was sobbing from a depth of emotion that I am rarely in touch with because it is that deep, that intense.

I was sobbing because - now this is going to sound corny - because I was feeling such a very deep love for the people driving by. Strangers, but My People. My People in My Country. I loved them. And I wanted to cheer them all up, I wanted to stop them all and shout, IT'S GOING TO BE OKAY! IT IS! I KNOW IT IS! PLEASE DON’T WORRY! IT WILL BE OKAY! I wanted to not just tell them but to convince them. Probably, what I really wanted was to be convinced.

And so for a few minutes there along a main street of Jerusalem, I sobbed. I was sobbing because I care so deeply about this country that mere words were far too inadequate to describe this feeling. Even my sobs couldn’t do justice to the depth of the feeling. I felt such a strong love, such a binding connection, toward every person driving down that street. That they are here, living in Israel during this painful time, risking a bit more than most people, risking a bit more emotionally and physically, living in a country where every news item touches you deep within, where every day you hope it will get better, living in a country where the news anchor ends Friday afternoon newscasts by saying, Shabbat shalom v'shaket. (A peaceful and quiet Shabbat.)

You see, the v'shaket part is new. Shabbat shalom is a common greeting on Friday afternoon. But the v'shaket part is extra, unique to Israel, special for people who don't want to blow up in a terrorist attack, who don't want their sleep disturbed by hearing shooting and mortar attacks in Gilo all night long, who don't want to hear another news announcement that an Israeli was killed for driving in the wrong place at the wrong time, who want to walk on their neighborhood sidewalk without wondering if one of the parked cars will blow up and take them with it, who don't want to hear another Arab leader condemning the “Nazi-like” practices in this country, who don't want to face another Durban in the daily headlines or another attempt to equate Zionism with Racism, special for people who have to stand guard at their child's kindergarten class or arrange a carpool because they are afraid their child will blow up in a bus, who have their purses searched for a bomb when they walk into a grocery store, for teenagers who don't want to fear their life when going to a disco and for families who want to feel safe while eating pizza at a restaurant.

Special for people who simply long for quiet.

On the way back home, I was listening to a local radio station on my Walkman. I heard a DJ introduce a song, a song about your country calling to you -- by talking about the upcoming Rosh HaShanah holiday.

The DJ talked very softly and movingly about the strange feeling of listening to commercials telling us Happy New Year when people don't feel so happy. He said it's strange to celebrate when you don't really feel like celebrating. When, he said, families are waiting for their kids to come home from the army, yet many won't be able to come home this Rosh HaShana.

Once again I started to cry. Because I want this country to be here, to exist, forever and ever and ever and ever and ever. But not just exist, not just survive. Rather to thrive. To be happy. To be safe. And I am afraid. Afraid it won't happen. Or not for a long, long time. And it's hard. It's hard to be here right now, when one is so afraid, and when that fear makes your gratitude for this country so powerful and so overwhelming that you sob on a busy street filled with strange drivers that you love.

But this DJ encouraged us to try to celebrate a bit anyway. To try to do small things to sweeten our year. It can't hurt, he said. So why not? And maybe, just maybe, he said, this coming year will actually be a little bit sweeter.

And so, through our tears, we promise to celebrate. Even if it's just a little bit.

Shabbat shalom v'shaket.
Laurie Goldberg, Graduate student at Hebrew University in Jerusalem and at Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies