Crossing the Yarden

By Yarden Frankl

The Kosher Garage

Of all the fun, exciting activities I can think of, nothing really beats waiting in a garage while your car is being fixed. Between the pleasant atmosphere and sounds of constant machinery, you really could not come up with a more relaxing way to spend an entire day.

Of course, it does not matter whether you are in America, Israel, or anywhere else. It's hard not to crack a smile when you ask a mechanic (in any language) how long it will take to fix your car and he answers "about twenty minutes." I have confirmed with our ulpan teacher that the phrase "about twenty minutes" when said by a mechanic means "possibly today."

So I had to sit in the waiting room for a few brief hours. At first, the only difference between sitting in a garage waiting room in Israel and America is that the outdated magazines are all in Hebrew. I tried flipping through them, but you can only spend so much time looking at articles you can't read or seeing advertisements of really happy people with their new cell phones.

That's when I started to look around, and I did notice some differences that made me smile. There was the old coffee machine in the corner. Of course the coffee was awful, but what was interesting was that taped to the side was a piece of paper announcing that the coffee in the machines was not just kosher, it was as glatt as you can get. Next to it was a peanut dispensing machine with another teudah.

In America, you can certainly get kosher food. But you are not likely to see certification on little coffee makers and peanut dispensing machines from organizations on whom even the most demanding can rely. Although I was pleased that I could safely eat, since neither the coffee nor the peanuts looked that appetizing, I looked around some more.

I noticed on the wall a photograph of an Israeli Navy ship. There was a handwritten note in the corner. While I couldn't understand the note, it was obvious that there was a connection between someone in the garage and someone on that ship. And the connections between average people and the military here are very typical.

In America, of course people are proud of the soldiers who serve in harm's way in places like Afghanistan and Iraq. But most Americans have not served themselves and do not have friends serving. The regular progression for most people from school to working lives does not include an interval of military service. We are saddened when there are casualties, but most of us do not have a personal relationship with the soldiers, which makes it easier to move on.

In Israel, things are different. Almost everyone has served. For many young people, the goal is still to serve in elite units. "Elite" in this case does not mean running around like James Bond with a fancy suit drinking a martini. "Elite" means jumping out of airplanes praying that a parachute will open or laying in the cold mud for hours to stop a terrorist. I look around shul on Friday night and think about how many of my friends have kids whose Shabbat will be spent in the cold with a rifle, eating food from a bag.

It is a tragic fact that that everyone knows at least one person who has fallen in the defense of our nation. Because there is no separation between the military and ourselves, when a soldier dies, we all have lost someone close. Pictures and notes from family and friends serving in uniform are common because we are the Army, and the Army is us.

I found one more thing in that garage waiting room that reminded me why I am in Israel. On the bottom shelf of the magazine rack was a set of well worn Mishnayos. While there may be many people in America who know friends in the military, I doubt very much that you will find a garage with Mishnayos to learn while you eat your glatt peanuts.

And the fact that the picture, the Mishnayos, and the kosher peanuts were all available for people "doing time" while a mechanic decides when and whether to fix your car speaks volumes about the country we live in.

Shabbat Shalom from our blessed nation.

© 2006 Yarden Frankl