Who Knew I had Israeli Cousins?

Thanks to my Uncle David and Aunt Elaine Gill, we had the extraordinary opportunity to meet cousins in Israel about whom I was previously completely unaware. We were excited to be invited for Shabbat dinner (actually, the kids and I were excited—Adam, not so much), and were expecting a pleasant, if somewhat awkward evening of stilted albeit polite conversation. Our expectations were far exceeded.

We were warmly greeted and immediately embraced by a wonderful family who, thanks to a chart scratched out by Aunt Elaine on a hotel notepad, appear to be mostly 4th cousins. In truth, I didn’t completely understand the chart (in my family, family trees tend to be more like spread out bushes that one needs a PhD to figure out), but Elaine has promised to do a more complete version and it quickly became obvious that the official connection was irrelevant—really a happy technicality. My cousins are somewhere in between my age and that of my parents with kids in their teens and 20s. Two of the son’s are currently in the army, some of the children are currently living in America and one, who was there for dinner, works for the Israeli Prime Minister.

My cousins, like the majority of Israelis, are completely secular and the evening included no blessings, candle lighting or singing. Yet, there was something incredibly spiritual about this family gathering that happens almost without fail each Friday night with any family members who may be in the near vicinity. Indeed, in many ways it felt more spiritual than many extremely religious Shabbat dinners I have attended in my life time. This is clearly a sacred family time that they set aside each week—many travel more than an hour to do so—in order to stay connected, enjoy each other’s company, and, of course, eat delicious food. In my mind, this is the very essence of Shabbat. One of my cousins graciously offered to drive us back, practically an hour out of her way. We were all sad to say goodbye (even Adam managed to be a bit charming)—and thrilled to have found such wonderful new relatives. As we walked into Aloni’s that night well past midnight, Maya said “that was the most incredible family I have ever met.” I had to agree.

Despite the fact that they were thoroughly Israeli, they seemed entirely familiar. It occurred to me that we all started out in Russia—but their grandparents decided to turn South, and ours West. It is an interesting thing about being in Israel-on an hourly basis I pass someone who reminds me of someone with whom I went to Jewish camp or religious school, or sat next to in shul. In America we are among friends and compatriots, but here, almost everyone could be family in some way. The evening prompted me to imagine what my life would have been like had my great grandparents chosen Israel, or Palestine at the time, over America. I frequently find myself envious of those who grew up in Israel—living as one of the majority, directly supporting, perhaps even fighting for the Jewish state, and living in a place where being Jewish is just a matter of being rather than something requiring a constant affirmative commitment. This is not to glorify life in Israel. They face challenges that I can’t begin to imagine. Indeed I spoke to my cousin about how difficult it is to live with the fact that her sons, who currently serve in elite army units, are not only constantly in harm’s way, but are forced to work within, indeed support, a cycle of violence that they wish did not need to exist. I am not ready or even willing to make Aliyah (immigrate to Israel), but there is a part of me that wishes that my parents had done so and raised me in Israel, making it unnecessary for me to grapple with the decision.