Israel Part 9: Rehovot

It says Rehovot. Trust me. 

(Apologies that the text in this post is black instead of white. I wrote it from my phone in transit and something got lost in translation. I'll accept advice on how to fix it.)

Rehovot was the centerpiece of my trip. It was also the starting place of my planning. A few months ago when I tentatively reached out to my friend there and asked what she thought about me coming, her response was that she was crying.

I knew the trip was blessed somehow because I looked at the nose of my plane when boarding at JFK. I didn’t know they named planes, but apparently they do. And as Ofra said later, it would make sense for them to name the planes after well known cities: Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Haifa. But no, my plane was named Rehovot.

Ofra Wind has been one of my most precious friends since I came to Englewood almost two decades ago. I’ve made many wonderful friends of all kinds, but Ofra is one of those gems that knows me on an extra level. Our conversations are deep, our laughter hard and I feel I can tell her almost anything. She’s the first person I call for parenting advice, the person I called, shaking, after witnessing a child being beaten in a parking lot, the person to whom I send the funniest memes and most beautiful pictures.

Ofra’s and her husband, Robbie's, lifelong goal was to make aliyah so that they, all four of their children, and all of her grandchildren could be in Israel together. That goal became a plan five years ago when the first grandchild was born. The last time I saw Ofra in person was in June, after the going away Zumba party and shortly before her flight. She was shaken, unsettled, not the rock I usually knew. This was a very big transition.

No sooner did they arrive than our world turned upside down. Until there apartment could be completed they planned to sleep in a rental. But after the October 7, her oldest son was called up. So next thing she knew, Ofra was sleeping at her daughter-in-law’s house, helping full time with childcare so the DIL could work. Construction of her new apartment was put on hold and everyone switched gears. I can only imagine that Ofra has been a mountain of support and I know she’s been happy to do it. I also know that this wasn’t what anyone planned.

When I got to Rehovot on Monday—her “day off”— we started by going out to breakfast (and I drank way too much coffee). We talked for an hour, then walked to the new apartment and got to work. Ofra showed me around the place —a brand new building and a space she was able to design herself. Apartments come in standard sizes. She and her husband had to decide between fewer larger rooms or more small ones. They took the latter so their children and grandchildren would always have a place with them. I’ve always enjoyed efficient furniture that can fold or have hidden compartments. This place was full of these, maximizing every cm of space.

So Ofra gave me a dust rag and directed me where to empty different boxes and suitcases, stacking their contents clearly enough so that she could locate and rearrange everything later.

The work went fast and we sat down to lunch and talked. Then went back to the rental and talked even more. 

It was painful. It was healing. It was exhausting. It was invigorating.

There was so much to discuss that it’s mostly a blur. But there’s one part that hit hard and that I think I’ll be working through for a very long time. It’s a very vulnerable piece so I’m going to be sparing in how I write about it.

Ofra was raised by Israeli parents. Her father knew the worst of the wars. He warned her there would be an even worse war and it arrived right on cue. So Ofra has always known a time like this was coming.

And I would never have believed it.

Ofra tells me that when she was sitting in their safe room on October 7th realizing that something much bigger than a rocket blast had sent her there she thought of me. She knew that I, and other friends like me, were about to have our idealism destroyed. 

I wondered if what she really meant was, "I told you so." I hoped not. No one wants to hear that. Plenty of people are saying that now, but I hoped my friend wouldn't. She clarified that what she meant was only what she really said. I’m grateful that Ofra remains curious of my journey just as I am of hers.

We talked about the word hate. I avoid the word because it seems to cause so much damage to the person who has to say it.

Ofra uses the word with care but also with force.

As I explore to find out who I am now, I’ll try it on for size.

I hate this war. I hate waking up every morning and remembering it is happening and I hate knowing that our kidnapped family are being brutalized and that we can’t get to them. I hate that social media has sided against us. I hate that people justify our suffering. I hate that Jews are expected to compromise and sympathize with others but that Hamas can get away with whatever the f*** it wants and it has the blessings of others. I hate that this has changed me. I hate that I’ve had to push away from people whom I thought were my friends. I hate the people who started this. I hate what they did to my people. I hate that I’m having to experiment with hate.

This goodbye was a hard one. Every goodbye was hard. But I’ve gotten used to going long periods without seeing those other friends. I can only hope that things will get easier for Ofra and her family and that, when they do, it will be easier for me to be so far away.