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May 19, 2000/14 Iyar 5760, Vol. 52, No.37
Bonfire of identity
For Israelis in U.S., Lag b'Omer kindles yearning for home
RONIT SARIG
Jewish Family & Life
The first time I set foot in a synagogue I was 29 years old.
No, I'm not a Christian or a Muslim. I'm not a convert either. I am, very simply, an Israeli.
I grew up in a country where being Jewish was a given and where no one I knew questioned this basic fact of identity.
As a kid I was only vaguely aware that there were other people in the world, and it was only because my father worked with military attaches from other countries that one year, when I was 8 years old, we were invited to a Christmas tree-decorating party.
I remember staring in awe, in the middle of someone's living room, at what seemed to be the biggest tree I had ever seen. There were decorations too, shiny balls in different colors, gold and silver chains and little trinkets, which were so beautiful and fascinating to me. My parents tried to explain Christmas, but it was a hard concept to grasp.
My favorite holidays were not, as someone who did not grow up in Israel might assume, Hanukkah and Passover. Hanukkah was not a big deal and Passover was a bit of a nuisance.
The best holidays were Lag b'Omer and Yom Ha'atzmaut - Israeli Independence Day.
Lag b'Omer, the big bonfire holiday, was a night for which kids all over Israel prepared weeks and sometimes a whole year in advance. Collecting pieces of wood, logs and old furniture was a major undertaking, but an even more important task was finding a good place to hide these treasures. A shed in someone's backyard or a shelter with easy access in an apartment building was considered best.
On the big day the loot was hauled out of its hiding place by boys and girls alike, and taken to the traditional bonfire place in the neighborhood, where it was carefully piled into the shape of a teepee. A guard was assigned to keep watch and make sure that not even a twig was stolen from the treasure.
As it grew dark the excitement mounted, and everyone ran home for some potatoes and onions to bring to the bonfire. There was usually an adult around when it came time to light the fire, but not always, and as the fire grew bigger and more wood was thrown in, everyone gathered around to sing songs, tell stories, and enjoy the warmth.
A little later the potatoes and onions were thrown into the coals and the job of digging them out and checking to see if they were done usually fell to the coolest guys. When they were ready, they were eaten like rare delicacies, their taste savored until the next year.
Yom Ha'atzmaut was also a day when kids asserted their own independence. From the relatively young age of 8 or 9, we were allowed to stay out as late as we wanted, running around with our friends and watching the performances which took place on a temporary stage built a couple of days before in the local community center.
Our parents never feared for our safety. We were in a place where we knew everybody and where everybody knew us. I remember staying up to watch the fireworks and feeling very grown up as I walked home with my friends late at night. All this was before television, a time when people were more naive and poor, and when the world was not a global village, but a great big place out of our reach.
In time all of this changed except for feeling secure as a Jew in a Jewish country. I have always been first and foremost an Israeli, and then a Jew. I did not have to go to synagogue or know a single prayer because it was all around me, from Bible study lessons in school to living in close proximity to ancient historical sites.
I have lived in Los Angeles for 13 years. During most of this time my husband and I have been trying to reconcile our Israeli identity with our Jewish identity for the sake of our children. When our girls were young we sent them to preschool in a Conservative synagogue. We became members and participated in all the events and holidays.
Things started to change when our girls went to public school, and their Jewish education took place exclusively in Hebrew school.
We quickly learned that Hebrew school had little to do with Hebrew and everything to do with religion and prayers and getting ready for a bar or bat mitzvah. When Hebrew school turned into a three-day-a-week obligation the girls began to rebel, and pretty soon it was a challenge to get them to go.
Lacking religious conviction and feeling like outsiders in Jewish-American culture, we gave in, telling ourselves it is not a big deal since we would be going back to Israel in a couple of years anyway.
Our girls are now 10 and 11 years old, and we are still in California. When I look at my daughters I realize what a great gap there is between being an Israeli and being a Jew. As Israelis, our Jewishness is a given. We celebrate the holidays in traditional ways that most often involve food, songs and some family customs - but not prayer. We see ourselves as the sons and daughters of the halutzim - pioneers - who came to Israel with nothing and made it into something.
Our children are exposed to so much more in America that their Jewish identity needs to be much stronger than ours was. They need to spend time with Jewish kids, participate in Jewish activities and know more about Judaism if they are to marry within the Jewish faith and create a Jewish home for their children.
Theoretically, I understand it well. But as someone who first walked into a synagogue at the age of 29, I am still trying to find the delicate balance that will enable my kids to bond with Israeli culture and take part in the Jewish-American experience.
Is this an impossible mission for a Jewish Israeli mother? I hope not.
Ronit Sarig is a writer based in Los Angeles. She wrote this article for the on-line magazine Jewish Family & Life - www.JewishFamily.com.
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