The sight of two teams in full gear playing tackle football in the middle of Jerusalem may seem a bit out of place. After all, this is a soccer country [Technically, Israelis call it football -Ed.] where the instinctive impatience of Israelis may seem to go against the controlled violence that is at the heart of a football game. I remember once back in Maryland trying to teach an Israeli friend to play. He liked the tackling part but couldn’t get used to the concept of letting the tackled player get up and waiting for the next play to tackle him again.

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The crazy thing about the hill was that you could see it from miles away. We had ridden from our campsite in the middle of the Negev and had seen it off in the distance, rising from the desert floor to the sky. At first there we lots of discussion among the riders whether it was possible to get up it while staying on the bikes.

We tried to guess the factors that would determine whether the climb was feasible: The angle of the grade, the condition of the trail surface, the amount of loose rock, etc. As we got closer, everyone stopped talking and began thinking about how much they were willing to suffer to go up without stopping.

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Run.

Put on a pair of sneakers and just run.

Running in Israel is more than just exercise. Every step you take, every hill, every trail has some history behind it.

Get your heart beating fast, it feels good. Gaze out at the views and think how incredibly fortunate you are to be right here, right at this point in history.

Work up a sweat and reflect how many people throughout history longed for every square inch of land passing below your feet. Reflect on how many people made the ultimate sacrifice so that you could live here freely.

Run faster with your arms pumping.  You feel like nothing can stop you as the kilometers fall away one by one.

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I have decided that were I to try and convey the words my mother just wrote to me, I would be accused of writing what I wanted to hear, not what my mother really thought. Many of you will remember from columns written over two years ago how the most difficult part of our decision to make Aliyah was leaving our families. We left amidst much bitterness against us, against Israel, and even against friends who had helped us make our decision. That is why the following is so stunning.

Isn’t Chanukah a time of miracles?

“CROSSING THE CONTINENTS”
By Yarden’s Mom

Having just returned from a trip to see my children and grandchildren in Neve Daniel, I find myself full of thoughts that are so overwhelming I must put them to paper (even though it’s now e-mail). When my children decided to move to Israel, I was very angry and sad. They would no longer be close enough for me to enjoy the everyday experiences of life and the growing moments in my grandchildren’s life. Like the gymnastics shows, dance classes, and games: soccer, baseball and any other sport the grandkids would choose to try. And, of course, those music concerts when you wished your ears would shut down!!! They would forget who their grandparents were and would miss having incredible family knowledge passed on to their generation.

Yes, I still miss them desperately, but I see how they have found a life that is so right for them I must salute their choice. They live in a community that enhances all they believe in (even though it does have some quirks). The grandkids are doing well: despite the normal prejudices they encounter – not so different than the ones I encountered when I was growing up in South Wales. The house they have built is so perfect for them – it truly is their home. And in a few days, we managed to catch up and reminisce enough to keep us going till the next visit.

I have tried to think about what went into their decision to make this incredible move. My parents’ generation struggled to make sure their children got the education they would need. My father used to call education the Jewish life insurance. My generation worked hard to succeed so that our parents could be proud of us and not worry about our future. But my children’s generation did not have to worry – we provided for them to the very best of our ability. We gave them the great life insurance policy – a first rate education. But, without meaning to, we depleted their drive to achieve. That is what they are now doing in Israel. They are driving to achieve a land where all Jews can go, if they wish. A land where our people will always feel safe and secure. Will this ever be achieved – who knows? But my children are trying to ensure that it will happen. And so, Jordan and Stella, I salute you.

With much love and respect, Mom

Anthea Frankl lives in San Mateo, California when not visiting Neve Daniel.

Since the subject of this column is about mothers, I am dedicating this column in memory of my friend Paul’s mom, who in his words “made everyone she spoke with feel truly special.”

Shabbat Shalom from our blessed nation.

Welcome home!

This morning I went to the airport to greet the latest Nefesh B’Nefesh flight bringing Jewish “refugees” from America to Israel. It was not all that long ago when we were stepping off that plane into such an unknown life. I remember feeling physically and emotionally exhausted as we stepped out into the bright sunshine of our new lives.

I felt so wonderful that day because we were about to start living our dream. A dream that had started as a crazy thought and grew to a full fledged plan over many years of careful nourishment. It was an amazing feeling because, let’s face it, how many times do people actually get to live their dreams?

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