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July 27, 2012
Are we safe living in Israel?
For Jews, there is no other place like this to live, so it’s worth it.
EMILY SINGER
Is it safe to live in Israel? People often ask us this question since our decision to move here two years ago. And, given what you see of Israel on the news in North America, it’s a fair question.
I can’t say I never worry about terrorist attacks or nuclear threats from Iran. There is something alarming about the fact that part of the routine of making aliyah includes a trip to the central post office to pick up your gas masks. But no place in the world is entirely safe.
When I went to college at Columbia University in New York City, located on the edge of Harlem, we were told on the first day in our dorm that the most important thing to remember is “never turn left” (into Riverside Park). We know several people who were mugged during our years in New York. When we lived in Vancouver, we were robbed five times. Safety is relative.
Several years ago, when Palestinians were regularly shooting from the town of Beit Jala into homes in Gilo (literally, a stone’s throw away), a joke circulated about how it was perfectly safe to live in Gilo ... as long as you didn’t live on Haanfah Street. And, even if you lived on Haanfah, it was only a problem on certain blocks. And, only on the Beit Jala side of the road. Even there, you were only really at risk on the upper floors, and only in the rooms that faced the snipers. The real danger was in the kitchen. The stove was fine, but the fridge stood by the window. Still, if you ducked low when you opened the fridge, you were fine. Otherwise, living in Gilo was perfectly safe. But, if you opened the freezer, then you were taking your life into your own hands!
In our two years living in Israel, things have been very quiet. In recent surveys, security and peace fall low on the list of priorities of the Israeli public agenda – lower than the debate about ultra-Orthodox Jews serving in the military, and much lower than the price of cottage cheese.
Even if you are not worrying about war or terrorism, security is a part of daily life here. Whether your bag is being checked at the mall, or your car inspected at a checkpoint into Jerusalem, you encounter security personnel everywhere you go. Riding on public transportation, I find it both alarming and comforting that the buses are teeming with Israeli soldiers dressed in uniform, with enormous machine guns swinging against their hips.
Dads trot off to reserve duty for up to a month every year, leaving their families behind to fend for themselves. Ross does not do this since he never served in the army, but it is such a part of daily life that, when he goes to America on business, people joke with me sympathetically that he is away on his own reserve duty.
On the kibbutz, we have a security patrol every night from sundown to sunrise. Men from the kibbutz participate in a rotation, which is posted on the last page of the newsletter every week. There hasn’t been an incident in the area since the erection of the controversial fence that separates us from the West Bank, but you never know when something might happen. It’s also important to keep the system in place for the next flare up of terrorist activity. For now, it seems from kibbutz Google group discussions that the most pressing security concern is that men stop leaving trash in the patrol car.
Ross feels badly that he is not included in the patrol rotation. He wants to help, but he doesn’t even know how to hold a gun. In order to receive the proper training, he decides to train as a volunteer police officer. The course is only a week long, meeting in the evenings.
Ross’ first day of class, the teacher and the other students spend most of the time swapping army stories. The teacher keeps them late, telling Moroccan jokes (he himself is Moroccan). He tells them about David Levy, the Moroccan foreign minister who travels to America. His advisors tell him speaking English is just like speaking Hebrew except much slower. He gets in a cab, and says,
“La ... Oom ... b... va ... ka ... sha.” (“To ... the ... U ... N ... please.”)
The driver responds, “B ... seder.” (“O ... K.”)
Levy asks in wonder (in Hebrew), “Wow!... You ... understood ... me?”
The driver responds (in Hebrew), “Of ... course!... I’m ... Israeli!”
Levy asks (in Hebrew), “Then ... why ... are ... we ... speaking ... in ... English?”
The next night, the curriculum is much the same. More jokes and stories. The teacher announces there will be a test the following class. What on earth could he possibly test them on? How many Moroccans it takes to change a lightbulb? He says he will let them know tomorrow.
Ross asks the teacher when he will learn to shoot a gun. He hasn’t held a gun since his teenage years in Texas. The teacher assures him they will cover shooting in the last class.
The next day, the test consists of all new material. But, no worries. The teacher asks each question aloud, students share what they think, and then he tells everyone what to write. They get out early that night.
The rest of the week is pretty much the same, with more Moroccan jokes and one more “test.” The shooting lesson gets cancelled. The teacher tells Ross not to worry. Aside from a few hours he will have to make up at the shooting range next week, Ross has completed his intensive training. He is now a volunteer police officer. Our safety is in his hands.
Most Israelis are trained in security at a very early age. My son is receiving his training by being in the seventh grade, and spending his recess time with minimal adult supervision. His school has won awards for their exceptionally low levels of violence and bullying. Still, we frequently receive e-mails from his teacher that read something like this:
“Unfortunately, today one of the holy souls of our class felt curious about the effect an open pair of scissors might have when hurled at someone’s forehead. After a few stitches in the ER, the boy will be fine, but please speak to your blessed offspring about appropriate uses for sharp objects.”
Or:
“In the excitement upon hearing that our classrooms will be renovated next year, some industrious souls took upon themselves to begin construction efforts early by knocking down parts of the walls. The students have been helped to understand the gravity of their misjudgment....”
My favorite part of that particular missive is the end, where he suggests that students who were involved should bring tools such as hammers and X-Acto knives with them to school the next day to help with the reconstruction efforts. I know he means well.
With so much experience and training, are we prepared for a terrorist attack?
I can’t speak for the whole country, but I can give an insider’s view of our kibbutz. Maale Gilboa is located within the “Green Line,” but very close to the border. One of our first Shabbats in Israel, I arrive at synagogue in the morning, and am met by my son’s friend, who runs up to me saying, “Haven’t you heard? Everyone needs to go home and lock their doors! There’s been a breach in the security fence!” Relieved that we have a trusty eight-year-old brigade looking after our safety, I obediently march the kids back home and lock the door until we receive word that all is well. It seems that two Palestinians managed to cross the fence, but were detected and apprehended immediately.
Several months ago, a siren goes off in the middle of the week. I realize that I still am not aware of proper security procedure. Newer homes are built with a “safe room” that is fortified against rocket and chemical attacks but, for people in old apartments like ours, there are still the old-fashioned bomb shelters. So, I step outside, but I don’t see people flocking to the shelters, which, it turns out, are locked anyway.
Instead, what I see are a few neighbors standing outside, looking as confused as I feel, debating loudly over the sound of the siren what it could mean. One guy is insisting that it must be a defect in the sound system. Another suggests there is a fire somewhere because, if it were a terrorist attack, we would have been warned in advanced. A third person is sure that it’s a test. The only sure thing is that, if it’s a test, we have failed, as we are standing out in broad daylight arguing, and not dealing with any of the above situations.
While it may seem from the outside that people live in constant fear, Israelis often suffer from too much complacency. I listen to Army Radio, where they have frequent messages warning soldiers not to hitchhike. They have at least three different public service messages on the subject. In the wake of the Gilad Shalit incident, you would think hitchhiking rates would have dropped. Instead, there are freshly painted covered benches all over the country for soldiers to sit and wait for rides. They are labeled in bright letters, “For the sake of the soldier.”
The other day, I am giving a ride to a friend, and we drive past what looks like a 12-year-old girl hitchhiking. I ask my friend if she thinks I should pick her up. On the one hand, I am scared that she will be picked up by someone else. On the other hand, I don’t want her to think that hitchhiking is a viable form of transportation. My friend responds helpfully, “Yeah, it’s a big problem.”
While Israelis are still more relaxed than I would like on personal safety, there are huge improvements in the use of seat belts and helmets, a dramatic decline in cigarette smoking and a greater awareness of traffic safety, especially for children. On a national security level, we have some of the world’s best intelligence and defensive technology.
So, is it safe to live in Israel?
Everyone takes risks. Whether we engage in dangerous sports, spend too much time in the sun or step into a car, none of us is prepared to give up the things that are important to us. Like everywhere else, in Israel, there are no guarantees, but we generally stay quite safe by taking proper precautions. Meanwhile, we have the privilege of helping build a state that is safer, more prosperous, and religiously and culturally like no other place for Jews to live.
Emily Singer is a teacher, social worker and freelance writer. She is currently working on two books. Singer and her husband, Ross, were rebbetzin and rabbi of Vancouver’s Shaarey Tefilah congregation until 2004. The Singers spent two years in Jerusalem and then moved to Baltimore, Md., where Ross was rabbi at Congregation Beth Tfiloh and Emily taught Judaic studies at Beth Tfiloh High School, until they moved to Israel in 2010. They have four children.
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