Leaving

For the last week I've been longing to express myself in a way that my present lifestyle does not allow. I've been craving a scream, a holler, an explosion. Something to make my nails dig in deeper to this life, to peel back the hairy rough kiwi skin and suck on the green fruit of this life, crunching the black seeds quickly. Unfocused and lamenting that I am leaving Tel Aviv. At the same time, my eyes are focused like an arrow on the date on the tiny calender on my Israeli cellphone, that date on which I'll lift off and fly away from here, onto my next adventure.
"I'm a lucky fuckin shiksa"
It has been such a mixed blessing that I came here in the first place. A kind of sweet incarceration. Skipped the Minnesota winter, avoided the responsibilities of my life and ducked out of many a relationship that wasn't making me happy. Got to explore a new country, live in a new foreign city, and tried my tongue on Hebrew. Learned about a new culture, immersed myself in it, and experienced a unique lifestyle: living with someone else's family. There is nothing like being an au pair in the world, and I would not do it again for all the pretty faces and single-speeds you could offer me.
A month before I left Minneapolis someone dared me. He didn't do it kindly or even intentionally, but he dared me to put myself out in the world, to make connections without fear, and to face myself fully. Israel has been one hell of a backdrop for this internal scuba-diving. Taking deep breaths.
Learning about Jewish culture and tradition has been wonderful. It beguiles me. In my Catholic upbringing I had not much in the way of Jewish friends or exposure to the faith. Brooklyn-born Nana spoke some Yiddish, that's the extent of it. The faith and history fascinates me and brings questions into my heart. Here I am in the state of Israel. What a conundrum. After nearly five months of living here, I have reached no conclusions. It is a terrible situation, but like my friend Andrew in Arad says, "everyone should just relax. drink a beer. make some art. have sex. chill out. get bored, then create some more."
Do I think peace is possible? Yes. But I that softly, in a cold room on a windy day in north Tel Aviv, where the nay-sayers and fear-mongerers can't hear me. Where the sleepy security guards who sit, armed and ready, outside every school, shopping center, gym, bank, bus station, can't hear my deep compassion and empathy for the people of the Disputed Territories. Where the shwarma vendors and school girls of East Jerusalem can't hear my love of the Israeli people. Where the Orthodox teenagers who stand behind barricades calling out "Shabbas, shabbas" outside Damascus gate won't rile up my irritation with their lifestyle.
Where my employer, who served as a captain in the IDF and killed countless Palestinians, won't look at me sideways. Where my Zionist acquaintances won't have another opening for their pro state of Israel monologue. Where the little girls I take care of won't spout the values taught to them at school, "We hate Palestine, don't we?"
Where the complications of my heart can sing along with the music the speakers, and the realities of this harsh world of the Middle East can't change my mind.