We’re Still Maccabis: A Message of Hope After the Ceasefire

By Ayala Gordesky 

(Photo courtesy www.rmkhalo.com)

(Photo courtesy www.rmkhalo.com)

Ayala resides in Israel with her husband, gorgeous daughter and not so gorgeous Boston Terrier. Nestled in the beautiful hills of Jerusalem she is enjoying enjoying life as an Olah and her career as a Marketer/ Content Writer.  Ayala may be reached at ayala.gordesky@gmail.com. See her previous LADYMAMA articles here. 

We’re Still Maccabis

A Message of Hope After the Ceasefire

As the siren went off and the bombs exploded with our friends in the South living in a rocket rain of terror, there was one  constant thought in my mind.  After three thousand years of persecution and fear this was finally it. G-d had set up the chessboard.  With the State of Israel and Bibi as our PM we were perfectly aligned for the final redemption. This time things were going to be different. This Kislev we were going to annihilate the enemy. We were not going to be cowed by the world at large hating us indiscriminately. Then the ceasefire happened...

No matter how many times the news made mention of it or my family from America brought it up, I firmly believed it was not going to be happen. When it did it was like a blow straight to my heart. I’m not a crier but I actually wept. I could not focus on simple tasks I felt so let down and betrayed. It felt as if I were going back in time and perhaps these were not the days leading up to Moshiach after all. Perhaps my daughter was not going to know a brighter future where hatred for Jews and Israel was a thing of the past.

Now, a few days later, I’ve had time to reflect on those 8 days of battle. There were over 1,500 rockets sent our way with the full intention of killing civilians, there was a bus bombing and a group opening fire in the Gush. Examining these numbers, hundreds, if not thousands should have died. My own friends were fully exposed in a field while four rockets headed directly their way. Instead of death they got a fireworks display as the iron dome took the rockets out directly above them. There was a family in Rishon Lezion in their safe room. The building received a direct hit and collapsed around them completely yet their one room remained intact and no one was hurt. There are dozens of such stories. My husband told me today that never in his 29 years has he experienced the hand of G-d so directly as in these past two weeks. He didn’t even bother to stay hidden as we experienced open miracles that still take my breath away.

Aside from all that we have to examine what was accomplished. During the operation, Israel took down 1,500 terror sites, 30 top Hamas Jihadists, 140 smuggling tunnels and 26 weapons manufacturing facilities. Hamas spent years building these facilities and we took them down in just eight days.

Eight days has a special significance this month. One of my friends commented after the ceasefire that “Bibi is no Maccabi.” Looking back, I’m not sure I agree. Who knows what Hashem intends for us with Bibi as his conduit. Bibi has been openly and fearlessly fighting that battle for Israel since he was my age. Whether this ceasefire enacted by the Egyptian Prime Minister will create a much needed alliance with Egypt or whether it may result in major military backing by the U.S., we don’t know. What we do know is that like the Maccabis it was us against the world, accomplishing an astounding feat, all within the backdrop of open miracles. This story sounds familiar to me.

Musings from a Jerusalem Mom

By Ayala Gordesky 
Ayala Gordesky resides in Israel with her husband, gorgeous daughter and not so gorgeous Boston Terrier. Nestled in the beautiful hills of Jerusalem she is enjoying her solo career as a social media marketer. She is grateful to have attracted small businesses, start-ups and even an international singer. Ayala may be reached at ayala.gordesky@gmail.com.

MUSINGS FROM A JERUSALEM MOM

Jerusalem is a pulsing entity of radiance, freedom, strength and defiance. At the Kotel wall on the women's side there is a sea of color; bright head scarves, patterned skirts and exotic jewelry. The colors are outlined with desert tan as they meander through the tunnels and shops and spill out into the streets. In some areas they gain momentum and in some they are muted and withheld. Up where I live, near Baka and the German Colony the colors shine brightly in the sunshine of the tree-lined streets. During the rare hours of leisure we laugh or argue on our mirpesets barefoot and cross-legged while drinking ice water. The tan of the Jerusalem stone which lingers at our heels and follows our eyes as we raise them to the hills contrasts neatly with the vibrancy of our garb. Our Naot clad feet purposefully jostle strollers through the winding, rain gullied sidewalks and no one seems to really notice as our feet get blacker and blacker from the mixture of sun-tan and Jerusalem dust. We shove one another roughly as we get on the the bright green buses in the heat of shopping at the shuk and with the next breath we volunteer to hold each others freckled, messy haired children so City Minis and groceries can be loaded onto the bus with ease. I see street corners that are hot spots for older Israeli gentlemen in dingy jeans and tee-shirts and loud kipot to drink Turkish coffee and vehemently argue about the state of the country. My friends faces shine, makeup clad or not, I think they are all beautiful as we watch our kids dance in a fountain or feed them lunch together from our white walled and speckle tiled apartments. My face is naked of makeup and I wear my constant tan with pride since it is the branding of our our glorious city that burns the skin on my face.

WomenToGo protest targets sex-trade in Israel

Oliver Weiken / EPA

Models wear price tags as they sit behind the window of a 'WomenToGo' concept store in a shopping mall in Tel Aviv, Israel, on Oct. 19. The display is part of a protest initiative against illegal prostitution and human trafficking in the country.

Oliver Weiken / EPA

A model wears price tags on her wrist as she along with other models and actresses poses in the window of a 'WomenToGo' concept store in a shopping mall in Tel Aviv, Israel, on Oct. 19.

Wrong Way On The Subway

By Mimi Hecht 

I boarded the subway with my husband, child and a deepening well of anger. It had been four long days since Israel’s raid on the flotilla of so-called “peace-activists” heading to break the Gaza blockade. Four days of international criticism. Four days of media falsehood. Four days of serious wake-up calls as to the nature of our enemies. Having just heard about a spontaneous pro-Israel rally in Times Square, my husband and I saw it as a responsibility hidden in the helplessness. We headed out, baby in tow.

I sat on the cold subway seats with my heart boiling. Headed towards a chance of uniting with my brethren and representing my Homeland, all I could think about was Israel. Past. Present. A bleak future. The Palestinians had won again, completely succeeding in humiliating Israel and turning the world against us. Everyone was showing their true colors. No one was our friend. My mind pondered every single hate-speech, every suicide attack, the voices of Muslims calling for Holocaust. Generations of anti-Semitism - from Hitler to mere university students - echoed in my mind like a hypnotizing slide-show.

And there was my son, happily cooing in his stroller, so comfortable in his simple and safe world. On his blank slate of babyhood, everything and everyone is good. He cries only to be fed, then eats and returns to euphoria. He loves the world and the world love him back. He knows not of his mothers worry for his future as a Jew. He cannot smell my fear.

We are twenty minutes from Times Square when a dark, muscular and heavy-haired young man enters our subway car and sits across from my loaded thoughts. He looks Jewish. But then the Arabic script tattooed on his sculpted arms tells me otherwise. He is Muslim. I look at my husband, pointing out the young man’s presence with my eyes. I look back at our new rider. Just his comfortable posture across from me makes me feel like a victim. Suddenly, I am filled with hate.

With my modest attire and headscarf and my husbands beard and Tzitizis, we are so obviously Jewish. With his Semitic looks and Arabic tattoo, he isn’t either incognito. The world knows us as enemies and yet, here we are, sharing subway space and averting each others eyes. Current headlines are practically scripted on our foreheads for everyone to see. We could both be on our way to Times Square, and I imagined how even more poignant the moment would be when we both exited the subway to find our ways on opposite sides of the rally. I sat with a feeling contrary to that which I would normally feel; afraid to share a personal moment with a passerby. For he wasn’t exactly a stranger, rather an enemy I felt I knew all too well. While I had never met him personally, I projected unto him the voices of Arafat, Ahmadinejad and every other extremist voice trying to wipe my People from the earth.

While he intensely reads his magazine - no doubt some pro-Palestinian propaganda - I enter a mental conversation with my unknowing fellow New Yorker. I mentally spit on him. I blame him. I quietly, but vehemently, despise him. His force. His ignorance. His nation.

My bitter thoughts are interrupted by my child’s playful noises. He is flirting with the Muslim. Of all the interesting people on the train, he had to choose him! I pretend to ignore it, afraid to interact. But then I see the young man returning my son’s playful initiations. His serious face has revealed a warm and sincere smile and his voice softly and happily repeats a baby-toned “hello” to my son. Admittedly, I melt. Just like I do when anyone shares a happy moment with my child. My fellow rider all of a sudden transformed from a vengeful Arab into a peaceful, child-loving, upright citizen. Through my child, we are unavoidably connected, even for just this moment. My disgust disappears. I am surprised and relieved.

With my son’s smile opening a channel of warmth and humanity, I was awakened to the ugliness of my naked instincts. As a Jewess fearful for my sons future in an anti-Semitic world, how can I myself be so ignorant as to project hatred onto every Muslim passerby? Much of the world is educated with anti-Israel propaganda. They are fed lies intended on creating anti-Semitic warriors. But if I too senselessly hate, how am I different? I can’t walk around – and certainly not in the melting pot that is New York – holding hatred in my heart ready to unleash at every seemingly guilty Muslim. While my emotions may sprout indiscriminate hatred, I must educate myself – go beyond the stereotypes. Who exactly is my enemy? Where is the enemy?
The world hates us. We won’t win by simply hating them back. And yet, had it not been for my lighthearted and innocent child, the rage that I was directing at this Muslim would have known no end. When he got off a few stops before us, I caught a glimpse of the “propaganda” reading material he had been so intently focused on – a New York Times crossword puzzle.