As we were leaving Mega, the superduper super market near Jerusalem's German colony, I asked her what the cashier was asking. "She was asking if we wanted to pay for the groceries in payments, and how many payments." "You can pay for your groceries in payments?" was my startled reply. "Yes -- since everything is so expensive, many Israelis pay for things in payments." I had no idea.

Visiting Israel, as I did on a Jewish Agency sponsored mission for educators during the first 9 days of July, is but a peephole into life in our Jewish homeland. But stepping through the door, as I had a brief chance to do, the ups and downs, joys and sorrows, happiness and struggles, become much more apparent.

The formal part of our mission ended Thursday, July 5. One of my oldest and dearest friends in the world, Julie, picked me up at my hotel on Friday morning. We were to spend 2 full days together, along with her husband Roni, and their three children, Matan, Noam and Liann. Julie and her family live on French Hill, a neighborhood very familiar to me. I would pray at the Conservative synagogue on French Hill regularly while living at Hebrew University during my Jr. year of University; it was only a 10 minute walk from my dorm room to the shul.

I generally see Julie once a year, when she comes back to Los Angeles to visit with her parents and family. She comes alone with her children, because Roni cannot leave his construction business for an extended period of time. It is hard for my friend to visit here, and it is even harder when she goes back home to Israel. Julie is very close with her family, and her 3 brothers, their wives and kids. Her parents have 11 grandchildren, and all of them, except Julie, live here in the LA area-Julie is very removed, both physically and emotionally, from them. It is, of course, her choice, but it is a difficult choice, nonetheless.

We were all famished, so we decided to go to breakfast at a cafe' on Emek Refaim street in the German colony, a fairly trendy neighborhood in Jerusalem. I looked over the menu, and ordered an egg-white omelette. Judging from the reaction of the waitress, it wasn't a common request! Nonetheless, she brought our food very quickly. I am not sure if most Israeli restaurants have their food prepared ahead of time, but in every single restaurant I ate at in Israel, my food came almost immediately. I'm sure there is a story there, but what it is, I haven't yet figured out.

Anyway, as I was about to take my first bite of food, a policeman walked into the restaurant, and in a bellowing voice instructed everyone to vacate the premises immediately, because a suspicious package had been found across the street, and the police were going to detonate it.

I looked over at Julie, and she was laughing to herself. What was so funny, I asked? She told me that the last time she had she eaten at this same restaurant, over 2 years ago, the exact same thing had happened. No way -- really? Yes, she said.

As I pushed 1-year old Liann out of the restaurant in her stroller, and Julie left the restaurant with her 6-year old son Noam in her arms, we were instructed by the officer to walk up the block, away from the main street. From our vantage point, I watched as the bomb squad carefully detonated the suspicious package across the street.

As this surreal scenario was unfolding in front of my eyes, it suddenly occurred to me how, at that very moment, I wasn't simply a tourist visiting Israel. Instead, I was a Jew, living in a Jewish state, just like every other Israeli Jew around me, experiencing the realities of life in Jerusalem in 2001.

My life had been disrupted by that which we usually just read about in our morning newspapers, comfortably sitting around our kitchen tables. My fate was part of the collective fate of Israel. And, in some ways, I felt it was about time.

It is so easy to be a Jew in Los Angeles. Everything is here for us. We can be as connected to other Jews and Jewish institutions and Jewish activities as we choose to be. But in Israel, everyone is connected by proximity. There is no choice.

As it turns out, the package was nothing but a bag of trash that some careless individual had left on the street. Julie was more than a little upset. "Some idiot leaves his garbage on the street, and look at the chaos that it causes hundreds of people.â" Indeed, there were hundreds of people from the surrounding business and restaurants whose routines were interrupted, albeit for only 10 or so minutes, because of someone's thoughtlessness.

I can't wait to visit Israel again. To be with my friend Julie and her family. To eat in Israeli restaurants. To pray at the Kotel. And to link myself again to my Jewish homeland.

That is my choice. And it is one that I am proud to make.

Keith Miller
Hazzan
Director of Education

Click Photo to see Keith, Jill and Michael in Jerusalem 7/7/01.