Crossing the Yarden

By Yarden Frankl

Klafim

My oldest son Max turns 10 this week.

Max did not want to make Aliyah. The night before we left, he refused to leave his best friend's house. While we had been counting down the days, he had been holding on to them. Our dream had been his nightmare, and he couldn't just accept our answer to "just trust us."

I don't blame him. He had a great life in Maryland. He played sports, had good friends, could actually understand what his teachers were saying.

Today, we are very relieved that he is happy, he plays sports, has a bunch of friends, and attends a school where he has figured out how to communicate even if he sometimes needs to be creative to do so.

His teachers say he is picking up Hebrew fast. I didn't quite believe them so I dropped by his school on the first day of Chanukah. I found him in a room with the somewhat alarming title "Misahek Im Aish." He was holding several burning objects (none of them really resembling a menorah) having a spirited discussion with a teacher. Despite my concern that he was a budding arsonist, I was pleased that he was not only speaking Hebrew, but doing so with an Israeli accent. I asked if he had been talking with his science teacher, "Nope, art teacher," he said and hurried away to light more fires with his friends.

He is obsessed with the game "Klafim" or as I refer to it "Floor Smacking." As far as I can tell, this complicated "game" consists of lying on the floor and slapping one's hands against the ground in an effort to make soccer cards flip over. Stop by the school during recess and you will see a whole sea of loud boys pounding the floor and shrieking with delight. I don't get it, but similarly ridiculous games have been added to the Olympics over the years, so who knows.

He does not seem concerned that Arab villages now are as common as doughnut shops used to be. In fact, as I tried to melt into the car seat, he proudly explained to my mother that the barriers along Route 60 were to prevent shooting. And no, he did not really reassure her when he said "Don't worry Grandma, all my teachers have really big guns."

Whether in Maryland or in Israel, Max is just a kid. But every day, I think about the fact that in another 8 years, he won't be just a kid, he will be a soldier. I can't imagine the mix of pride and fear that Israeli parents must live with while their children serve. To be an Israeli soldier today is to be constantly faced with physical threats and ethical dilemmas. He will have to make his own decisions, while all I will be able to do is pray every day that he will be o.k. I guess I have another 8 years to really work on my davening.

So until then, I will be happily annoyed by "Klafim" and the innocent craziness that characterizes a kid's life in Israel. The Army can wait 8 years. I don't need him to grow up too quickly.

Shabbat Shalom from our blessed nation.

© 2006 Yarden Frankl