Here I am sitting in the library writing this blog post trying to stay centered hours after getting the news that my son has landed in Israel and I reel in his 14-day absence. Will he be safe in Israel?

This long-awaited Class of 2019 8th-grade Israel trip has been 9 years in the making. Although we as a family have traveled to Israel several times before and most recently for his Bar-Mitzvah in Jerusalem,  I always felt so safe in Israel.

I’m a mother, an Israel expat in the United States. Why the heck do I need to ask if Israel is safe? Two anti-semitic attacks recently struck our American-Jewish community – first at the Tree of Life and then at Chabad of Poway. And from this space, fear has paralyzed me which I’ve been document in the writing of Sand and Steel: A Memoir of Longing and Finding Home. Up until 24 hours ago, I was deeply afraid of letting my son go.  I was afraid that god forbid something might happen. I don’t want to even share here for fear I’d jinx this blog…

Would he get lost on any of the day trips to all the cities and nature outings?

Would he stay behind at the airport?

Could I trust him to stay safe in Israel?

 

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Broke

All the phobias I had inherited about whether Israel is a safe country to visit came from my mom. She panicked when she discovered I would be volunteering for the Israel Defense Forces, but couldn’t do anything to stop me. I was too strong-headed. But as a mother those fears and phobias have become part of my DNA wiring.

 

On the night of the flight, I look at the thunder and lightning outside our bedroom window wondering if their plane will take off? I’m a sack of worries unable to find myself in the voices of worries. In the middle of the night, I cry with a huge pain in my stomach. It’s that familiar 12-year-old feeling: Is my mother safe? I haven’t seen her in hours. She hasn’t called. Does she have enough money to call? Did someone push her into the subway tracks?

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It’s clear now that I have devised the worst scenarios in my head. I thought the Israel Defense Forces toughened me, but clearly, it hasn’t. I have so much stuff to work through. In the meantime, I keep telling myself that I can call on the teachers for reassurance. Like a child. Needing the arm of a mother. But my mother has been dead for six years. And my husband thinks I’m a nuisance with my fears and phobias and at 4:45 am, the last thing he wants me to ask is …is my son safe.

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 There are no IDF soldiers in our Pittsburgh enclave to help instill safety. There is no Jewish army. and after the anti-semitic attacks that have struck our Pittsburgh home, I feel even more vulnerable than ever. Every day it’s up to me to self-talk my way to feel emotionally safe. I rely on digital discourse to carry me through. Thank goodness for cell-phones.

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There’s a huge hole in my heart knowing that he’s gone – albeit temporarily – but gone nevertheless. I feel my mothering muscle withering away. Who will be at home to argue with me? Who will I be able to make meals for?

 

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Me to my son an hour before his flight: “Your room is so empty. I feel your absence. It’s lonely in the house.”

Silence.

 

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I try to stay reassured by the CDS Israel blog about the big visions for this trip: historical sites, natural wonders, and museums. I keep refreshing the browser to see if there is a new blog installment. Ascending Masada at sunrise.

Making friends with other teens in our sister cities of Karmiel/Misgav and with IDF soldiers guarding the northern border. Engaging in social justice projects. Amazing things I never did as a teenager at his age. Things my son will do now instead of me. The courage muscle that got roped in when I climbed Masada with a group fo Russian foreign recruits who hated my guts. Here he will be with a caring group of teenagers who have grown to respect my son, the chess player.

 

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I don’t want my son to grow up in fear. I don’t want my son to keep asking Is Israel safe? I know it’s safe even with terrorism. Israel is safer than America will ever be so long as we have mentally deranged individuals walking around with artillery weapons.

 

At some point at my stay in the library, my mind goes on overload. It wants to let go of the catastrophizing. It’s had enough. It wants to say, “trust your son. He’s going to feel his way through this element. He’s going to relive the experience of the classroom in a much deeper way. He’s going to connect much more emotionally to his homeland.”

 

ETA: As of 10:47 am EST today, (5/29/19) my son arrived safely in our heart home!