Just as I had mastered the art of pushing to the front, running late for everything and knowing the cheapest market stands to buy from, the week of Israel’s 60th anniversary came along and threw me completely off-track. Over the past week, strange sirens woke me up, fighter jets boomed through the skies and everyone I know is attending memorial ceremonies here there and everywhere. I was feeling very much in the dark and no matter how much I asked for explanations and warnings of the next ceremonial ‘occasion’, things kept catching me off-guard. It seemed I still had a long way to go to shake my British-tourist status and become a real Israeli.
It all began last Wednesday night, which marked Holocaust Memorial Day. Every single shop, kiosk, eatery and entertainment place was closed, TV station suspended and person sent home to spend the night commemorating the six million victims of that awful genocide. Tel Aviv was completely silent, apart from the specially-broadcasted Holocaust movies and documentaries that were playing out quietly from each living room.
Not quite knowing how sombre and respectful this night would be, but wanting to play it safe, I’d luckily stocked up at the usually open-24-hour supermarket earlier in the day.
It was unbelievably depressing, as I sat there, the stillness of the city hovering around my apartment, watching ‘Schindlers List’. But as I munched on chocolate biscuits (my only comfort) I felt satisfied to be feeling this way and to be a part of such a nation-wide tribute to the Jewish people’s suffering. The internet reported the next morning that while I was still rushing from work, the Prime Minister had been broadcast in a special ceremony at Yad Vashem to hail in the evening. Strike 1.
The next morning I was awoken to a haunting wail but thought it was simply someone practicing an unidentified musical instrument. I continued to roll around in bed, until a friend called to check if I’d stood and kept silent for the 2 minutes it resounded throughout all of Israel. Strike 2.
Over the next few days I saw the Israeli flag popping up on cars, balconies and shop-fronts in preparation for Israel’s Independence day, which was to fall exactly a week later.
Another morning in bed. The sound of the sky caving in interrupted my slumber. I lay there a few seconds, trying to attribute the mega-watt rumbling to something I could understand and return to sleep, but I couldnt. I peered out of the window to see an aircraft like I’d only seen in movies, an almost-flat, triangular death-machine whizzing low above the city. Convinced I was about to be bombed and inwardly cursing myself for not calling the number that had been posted through my letterbox for a gas-mask, I found I couldn’t move. The rumbling sky had me fixated to the spot. I eventually snapped out of it and frantically dialled my cousin, who swiftly hung up on me (she was at work). I ran to the other window and saw people in the streets clapping as the death-machine flipped 360 degrees and performed aero-gymnastics. Turns out it was just practicing for a military air display that had been scheduled for Independence Day. My heart-rate returned to normal. Strike 3.
And then it was the following Tuesday evening, when the city shut its eyes and its amenities to pay tribute to the 22,437 Israeli soldiers who died defending their country since its birth. It’s also a night to remember the 1,634 civilian victims of terror attacks that have plagued the country and its people. This time I was prepared. When the siren sounded at 8pm for one minute, I stood and was silent. However I failed to expect a third and final one, which howled the next morning while I was still mid-dream.
By the time the soldiers’ memorial day ended, at 8pm on Wednesday, and gave way to the 60th Independence Day, the mood of the city had lifted to the height of the Israeli flags that were flapping from the top of every building. The city was a blanket of blue and white. All week a buzz had been building around people’s plans for the night and I’d been hearing of street party after street party. Wanting to stay in Tel-aviv and see the city celebrating, but with a group of friends who had ‘been there done that’ for the past twenty something years, I was talked into going to a kibbutz party 40 minutes from the city. Strike 4. We did however manage to join the rest of Tel-aviv in attending a barbeque beforehand, during which the entire city smelt like burgers and barbequed onions in the hours leading up to the real celebrations.
We exited Tel Aviv after a half hour trying to find a route around the temporarily pedestrianised streets and I waved goodbye to the fireworks and music stages I could glimpse from my car seat. But hey, I was going to a kibbutz party!
It was overflowing with Israeli-ness. Messy field-parking, a ramming-the-crowd exercise to reach the ‘selector’, also known as the rude girl disallowing entry due to age/looks/ anything in particular she wants, another Tetris of bodies surrounding the ticket booth and another exercise in shoving your way through the slim gap in the fence to the party.
Turns out I’m really not as good as I thought at any of the above and by the time I was inside I wanted to leave this awful place and hitch-hike home.
But we stuck it out and ended up drowning out our initial trauma with some unbelievably potent Israeli-vodka. Soon the place was a whirl of lights and music and we were having a great time. I was running over to every uri, avi or udi to dance my flip-flops off with and suddenly, after a year of living here but refusing to speak the language, caught the wave and was rambling on in pidgeon-Hebrew to everyone in a ten-metre vicinity. However, I ended up being a little too smiley to a guy my cousin had had her eye on and ended the night apologising profusely, like the British girl I am. Turns out I can’t handle Israeli vodka but at least it brought out the Israeli in me. For a short time anyway.
The next day brought the week’s ceremonies to an end, with an awesome naval and IAF (Israeli Air Force) display. Thousands came out to watch the show that covered the skies and seas with planes, jets, helicopters, parachuters, ships, sailing boats, submarines and a million other aircraft and navel models I couldn’t name. My old jet-fighter friend showed off in a heart-stopping routine, whereby it broke the sound barrier as it accelerated full-throttle vertically into the sun, then turned off its engines, free-fell towards us and then slid into its fancy 360 degree flip-trick. The sun was beating down the entire afternoon and good energy sweated out from the crowd, proud to see the air and naval force that has protected them for the past 60 years.
It’s been an incredibly eye-opening and unforgettable week. While I indeed started it a little ‘in the dark’, it seems it was meant to be that way. At least now I can certainly say I ended it immersed by the hot sun, newly-informed and proud to be a part of this seemingly young, but in fact thousands-years-old nation.
