Tuesday this week was very emotional. I did something that I wanted to do for years, something that I probably should have done many years ago. But better late than never, no?
Tuesday morning I boarded a bus heading south. My computer was with me so I could work on the bus and attend an online work meeting off the bus (with G-d's grace, the bus reached my stop just a couple of minutes before that online meeting was scheduled to begin and I could participate in it sitting at the bus stop, using my ear phones and my phone's hotspot internet connection). From there, I boarded another bus and then another bus, heading for my childhood village in the Negev, my first home on planet earth. I had two big plastic bags with me, in addition to my everyday bag. One of the plastic bags contained a big box, with something I had bought a few weeks earlier. That package was the reason for this trip.
It all began when I was a child, of about 10 or 11 years old. I grew up in one of the communities in the Negev. It was peaceful, and very green. Our school looked like heaven - so many lawns, flowers and beautifully decorated classrooms. A local artist painted the outer walls of the caravans that served as classrooms. We had a fruit garden, a swimming pool near-by and a beautiful library as well. My teachers all loved me, and so did my fellow students. It was home. One of the beautiful things about this school was that they had a music school, and all the students learned how to play the recorder in the 2nd grade. I remember our teacher, Anat, and how she used to teach us. Later, when we grew up a bit, they allowed us to choose another instrument. I chose to play the clarinet. Why? Because it was such a 'cool' instrument. How I wish I had chosen guitar instead - I would have loved to play the guitar professionally today! But I chose a 'cooler' instrument, one that I don't use today and don't have any inclination to use any more. The school lent each clarinet student a clarinet to take home. I still remember the taste and texture of the clarinet's 'leaf' in my mouth, as if it was today.
I developed this unhealthy, foolish habit of playing with the instrument (not playing it, but playing with it) - placing it on the palm of my hand and walking around my home trying to stabilize it on my hand, like a juggler in a circus. I was very good at that... Then, one day, the inevitable happened. The clarinet, as you can imagine, fell down to the floor. And it broke in two, in a way that cannot be fixed, in its middle part. You can imagine how I felt. It felt like my life had just ended. It was very irresponsible of me to play with it like that, especially since it wasn't mine - it belonged to the school, but it happened, nonetheless, and now I had to face the consequences. But...
No one was around me when it happened, so it lead to the next act in the play...
My father was very sick back then, he was at the hospital. My mother wasn't working and went daily to the hospital to be with him, so our financial situation was really bad. I couldn't ask my mother to pay for the broken clarinet, because I knew she didn't have the money for it. Even when an ice cream car was visiting our village and I was hearing its music and craving the ice cream, I never dared suggesting that I wanted ice cream. Simply because I knew she didn't have the money, and I knew it would make her sad if I said I wanted ice cream. How could I even tell her that I broke the clarinet? She would be furious beyond measure. I knew that the school knew of our situation and therefore, they would have surely let it go, but I didn't want to put her in that situation, life was too hard for her as it was, I didn't want to add more suffering, and I surely didn't want to face the consequences of her furious reactions.
So I did something... I'm very ashamed of it, of course, but now it's behind me, so I can talk about it. I don't think I would have done this today. I devised a plan - to take my broken clarinet to school, go to the music room and replace it with an intact one when no one was watching. This way, I thought, no one would know, and the problem would be solved. And so it was. It was really solved! I walked into the music room when no one was there, and replaced my clarinet with another. The other clarinet didn't belong to any specific child, so it's not like I was putting the blame on somebody else, but still, I didn't tell anyone about the broken clarinet, and I took a new instrument instead of the broken one, without specific permission. It worked. The problem was solved...
... Externally, but it gave birth to another problem, a much bigger one, internally. I was plagued with feelings of guilt, anxiety and shame. Yom Kippur was around that time and I was tormented, I was so sad. It was the saddest Yom Kippur I've ever had. I was ridden with anxiety and guilt. Strangely, no one discovered what I did. I never heard anyone talking about a broken clarinet that was found in the music room. It all went smoothly. Outwardly. But not inwardly. I wonder today if they knew back then - did they check the serial number? Did they have a list of instruments given to students, with their serial numbers? I don't think they did. I'm almost a 100% positive they didn't. But still, the thought sometimes bugs me. Did they know it was me, but because they knew of our situation they let it go? I was such a GOOD girl, really, as good as a girl can be. And then, suddenly, something like this... Could it be that they knew but felt pity for me and spared me the humiliation and shame? I mean, the school principle could have easily announced in the morning gathering (we gathered next to the flag every morning) that a broken clarinet was found... but he didn't do that. Did he even know of that? I don't know the answers to these questions. I have a feeling they saw the broken instrument, but because it didn't belong to anyone specific, no one really cared that much. Except for me, of course.
Anyway, for years I wanted to rectify the misdeed. I wanted to call the school and tell them I'd like to give a new clarinet as a gift to the school, but I was afraid they would ask me why, so I didn't. Until this week. This year I decided that I have to do it, no matter what. I called the director of the music school and without giving any details, I just told her that I'd like to anonymously gift a clarinet to the school, and added: 'Please don't ask me why, it's a long story...'. She said: 'It sounds like there is a very moving story behind this'. And I just replied: 'Not really...'. Anyway, I asked her what kind of clarinets they use, and where I can buy one. She was so happy to hear that they are going to get this gift. She told me they are using the Jupiter clarinets and that it can be bought in a big chain of music stores called Kley Zemer. I was so relieved. That part was now behind me and all I had to do was purchase the instrument and get it to them. And so I did. I bought it in the Jerusalem branch of this chain, and a few weeks later, two days ago, I boarded the bus to go there.
I haven't walked those streets in some 30 years. I was so moved to be there, in my childhood home village, to walk there anonymously, on my own, to see the sights, hear the sounds, look for familiar faces, names on doorways, common areas. First, I went to the library. It is the exact same building, just the interior is different now (or so it seems to me? It seems so small now, but maybe that's because I'm older now?). From there, I just walked across the lawns of my childhood school, looking around, flashed with memories of childhood friends and playing games during recess. The school changed so much, and while it's still nice relative to all other schools I know, it is not the same as it was. It still has lawns, but perhaps they are not as green. It still has flowers, but perhaps not as many. The fruit garden is now gone. It's still pretty, but not even half as much as it used to be. Or maybe it's just because the magic powder of childhood is no longer spread on it. Still, it was so emotional for me to be there. I felt I needed a few hours to just soak it in, and I took the time. But before all else, I went straight ahead, the box with the new clarinet in my hands, to the music school. It wasn't at the same building anymore, but I could find it nonetheless. A trumpet teacher was there and received the instrument from me. He wanted to know the story... And at that point, I felt less ashamed, and told him the main part (that I had broken a clarinet and would like to return it now. I skipped the technical part of how I did it...). He told me 'but you were just a child, children do such things...', and I said 'yes, but for that child - I'd like to return a new instrument today, so that her heart would be quiet and at peace'. He smiled a broad smile and took the box from me. I asked him to open it and see that everything was OK. He did, all the parts were wrapped in their original plastic wrappings and it looked shiny and new. That circle was now closed, Baruch Hashem. I originally wanted to purchase two instruments for them, but then remembered that there is a prohibition on interest in the Torah, so I didn't.
After completing my mission, and with a lighter, cleaner heart, I opened my computer again to do a Hebrew class with a student of mine, a Law professor at an American university. It was nice to do it in my childhood school, on one of the lawns.
Then, I took a walk around my village - looking at the houses, the name signs on the gates, looking for the old grocery store (which was dislocated to another part of the village), for the synagogue (still where it was, called Ohel Menashe - my father's name... by chance...), for the family clinic (still at the same place), the kindergarten - still in the same place and looking exactly the same... I went to where my house used to be. Another family lives there now, it's now the home of a female lawyer. They changed the house completely, beyond any recognition. I think they may have rebuilt it from scratch. I walked all the streets: the old ones from my time twice, and the new ones - once. I recognized the homes of two of my old friends, still in the same place, near mine.
Everywhere I went, I saw big, fancy houses (especially in the new streets), with gates, and dogs barking behind every gate. Very different than the place it used to be in my childhood. In my childhood, the homes were modest, no gates, everything was open and community ties were close, and I don't remember that many dogs... There were not many names on the gates. Instead, lots of warning signs 'Beware, a dog in the house!' and security cameras. I feel the place is more materialistic and less idealistic than it used to be, but I know it is not the end stop - all of the people of Israel are going through transformation and are becoming closer to Torah and spirituality, and I think that they will too. When I was there, and just before I left, I did something that I hope would help. I wanted to do it long time ago, and specifically there. I really hope it helps them.
I also walked the short distance to the local cemetery to visit my dad's grave. I washed his tombstone and felt so relieved after that. I read some psalms near his grave. It was good to be there on my own.
Mission accomplished, really. It was such a good day, and it did me good, I think.
Then, when all the different missions were accomplished, quite late at night, I went to road 293, the road just outside my village, took a taxi to the closest highway, and 2 minutes later my bus to Jerusalem arrived. I think it was the last direct bus for that night, and I feel it was Hashem's hand that guided me to be there at that time and not later, so that I could return home comfortably. It was like receiving His approval for that day and everything I did in it. When I arrived in Jerusalem, I felt like my real home is in that village. It's strange, because I always feel most at home in Jerusalem.
This week's Torah Portion is VaYetze, in it, symbolically, Jacob leaves Be'er Sheva (my village is not far from there), and after a long journey and a few significant dreams, he returns home again. In a way, walking in the streets of my childhood was returning home again, and even though I don't live there anymore, this place is now with me, and I can return to it in my mind any time I want to and have a fleeting feeling of 'home' once again in this life.
Shabbat Shalom!