That Second Most Important Day

This article is dedicated to my students, past, present and future

“The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.” – Attributed to Mark Twain

The gift of Life is a miracle though there are those who may not always perceive it as such.  As Life unfolds itself, many are in search for its meaning, the question of “Why was I born and what is my purpose in this Life?” preoccupies many. Philosophers, writers, poets and great minds as well as ordinary people have often pondered over it through the years. Some have offered answers, others gave up. Though the answer may not have always been the one many yearned for, finding out the “Why” has certainly changed their life forever.

For me, the day I discovered the “Why,” was when my life turned into a bliss.

It happened one cool morning, in October 1973. Earlier that year, I was accepted at Tel-Aviv University to commence my studies towards an undergraduate degree in Philosophy and Greek Studies (not my first choice, English was. Why I was not accepted to the English Department is a topic on its own and for another article. I was devastated for rwo reasons. The first, English Literature is a great love of mine. The second, I needed to work for a living. From experience, it also occurred to me that I had never come across an ad in the “wanted Section” of any paper, an ad which read “A Philosopher needed”).

As many of you may recall, October 1973 is when the Yom Kippur War was raging. The academic year at the university was postponed until further notice. It was a difficult and uncertain time both nationally and personally.

Since I could not picture myself sitting helplessly with folded hands during the long days of war, I decided to enlist some of my skills and contribute, in my own small way, to the war effort. I elected to volunteer at a local school and teach our young ones in place of those teachers who had to join the army in defense of our Homeland.

That was when I experienced the second “most important day” of my life for the first time. As I was watching those beautiful innocent faces, living under the shadow of war and at no fault of their own, in the only place that Jews could call “Home,”  I suddenly realized “Why” I was born. I was born to be a teacher. 

The following day, I called Tel-Aviv University, informed them that I would not attend their institution and applied to a nearby Teachers’ College where I was accepted and where I eventually earned my Teachers’ Certificate.

I have never looked back.

Since then, I have had many fulfilling such “most important days,” each reaffirming what I discovered on that dreary, sad day in October 1973. And for that, I can only thank those who have made that day more and more significant, meaningful and soaked with great learning curves with each passing year: my wonderful students.

You, dear, precious souls, have enriched my life immensely!

I Love you all and send you a big "Thank you" wherever you are. 🇮🇱 　 🇮🇱

When a Child's Toy Becomes a Weapon of Terror

“Childhood should be carefree, playing in the sun; not living a nightmare in the darkness of the soul.” 
― Dave Pelzer

Is there anyone here who does not recall the song of joy that filled their heart upon seeing those brightly coloured rubber sacs inflated with air and then sealed at the neck, used as a children's toy or a decoration? 

We call them Balloons. 

They have been an inseparable part of and associated with happy events and the celebration of special milestones in our life. They come in different shapes, colours and they generally carry a cheerful and optimistic atmosphere.

That is and should continue to be the sole purpose and sole use of balloons.

Some, unfortunately, have transformed this token of bliss into a weapon of terror. They have burst the legacy of these playthings and turned them into a nightmare, an inferno. We have witnessed it in the recent antics of some Gazans as reflected in the thousands of acres of scorched fields on the Yisraeli side of the border.

I cannot help but compare this new form of warfare to a similar phenomenon some had been through a couple of years ago. Surely, many remember the movie “It” about an evil clown that causes havoc and destruction. Any child would tell us that clowns are meant to bring only joy, laughter and pleasure.  Imagine turning clowns, the source of bliss to many children be it at parties or hospitals, into a subject of dread and apprehension.

Can we even begin to fathom the effects of such antics on the hearts, minds and souls of those who witness the metamorphosis of their childhood symbols of happiness and elation into a vision of destruction and death? Do we even have the tools to measure the damage inflicted upon young lives and the shattering of dreams of a bright future? How will anyone ever be able to explain to them that at the end of the day, we have failed them? Will we ever be able to rectify the denial of hope, of aspirations and the fantasy lining of the fabric of their innocence - all privileges that no child should be deprived of?

I was among those young souls a few days during Operation “Protective Edge,” several years ago. I witnessed their pale faces, their sad expressions. That was war. Every child knows that war is bad. I doubt they have had any expectations then, even at their young tender age.

However, to depict symbols of innocence, toys and tokens of joy and reassurance and turn them into weapons of terror is a measure that NO children, wherever they dwell, should ever experience.

Hoping for better days for all.

They Are All My Children

Grieving over a departed loved one, be it a parent, a spouse, a partner and worst of all, a child is one of the most excruciating experiences anyone could ever go through.

Grieving and mourning has become an inseparable part of our daily life here in Yisrael. Unfortunately, this experience has touched almost every family here. We all know someone who has been inflicted and tormented by this pain. The words “he was, she was, they were” send shivers through my spine. The younger the departed ones are, the greater the pain.

Generally, we talk about breaved parents, a bereaved family, friends or acquaintances. Last week I encountered another category, the grieving teacher. I am one.

Several years ago, I taught English at a local high school. I remember the bright day that I walked into my twelve-grade class. As I was looking around the room, I was suddenly overcome with a concern, a fear for my beloved students. With welling eyes, I examined their faces as if trying to commit their features to memory.

“What happened Bat-Zion?” one of them asked me as they noticed the waves of grief that overcame me and simply refused to subside.

I gathered my strength, regained my composure and said, “Next year, you are all going to be members of the IDF. You are all my children. I love, care and worry about each and everyone of you like a loving parent. All I ask of G-d is that He watches over you and brings you back home safely.”

What made me walk into that class that day, say what I did and act the way I did? Was it premonition? Was it my love and concern for the well being of my students? Or perhaps it was my motherly instinct that gave rise to the surge of emotions?

Several weeks later, Operation Protective Edge started. Its first victim was one of my former students. I became a bereaved teacher. True, my pain would never be that of a biological parent, but it was still a deep pain. It still is.

He was one of my sons. They are all my sons. They are all my daughters too. They are all my children. May G-d watch over all of them, keep them safe and bring them back home unharmed.