Heartache Improved My Hebrew
Finding unity- and a way to communicate
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
I was in way over my head, that late June night at Ben Gurion Airport. El Al security officer Einat was grilling me in Hebrew, and I was doing my best to respond, even as her questions grew increasingly complicated. I waited for her to realize the limits of my vocabulary and switch to English, but she never did. Eventually, she sent us for additional screening in a separate area. As security agents opened our suitcases and inspected the giant bag of za’atar I’d purchased at the shuk, I wondered why our very American-looking crew had been flagged. Had I given Einat botched answers? Was a family visiting Israel during wartime so rare as to provoke suspicion?
Our family had already traveled to Israel together on three other occasions, and no one had ever mistaken us for anything but tourists. (Maybe the baseball caps we wore to protect our delicate skin from the blazing sun gave us away.) During those previous trips, my attempts to speak Hebrew usually went one of two ways. Either the Israeli would indulge me for a bit, or they would cut in after just a few words: “English, English.”
But not this time. Eight months after October 7, no one insisted on English. The Israelis we met assumed we were residents. It was only when we insisted that we were from Chicago, not Tel Aviv, that they would switch from Hebrew to English, and subject us to their own type of interrogation — different from Einat’s.
“Why don’t you live here?” the Israeli would ask.
“Well, we do love it,” I would reply, as if loving and living were the same thing.
“Exactly. You love it! So why not make Aliyah? We need you here. And you need to be here.”
“We’ve considered making Aliyah before, and now all the more so.”
By that point, I would try to steer the discussion on to less fraught topics. I felt a little embarrassed in these conversations. My husband and I were sharply aware of the gap between the choices available to our adolescent children and to their Israeli counterparts. College versus IDF. Campus versus base. Classes versus units. The differences hung heavy in this time of war.
“Here’s the thing about this country,” the Israeli would continue, ignoring my attempts to change the subject. “Yes, we’re at war. But here, we know who our enemy is. We understand the situation and how to handle it. In America, you don’t know who might hate you. You don’t know if you’re sitting right next to the enemy.”
We encountered versions of that sentiment from multiple Israelis, and we fell silent every time. The extensive antisemitism unleashed over the past year has proven their point: the Jewish homeland is the only place where our people can be fully actualized and protected. But as a diaspora Jew, I still feel that I can contribute to the preservation of our people — through my voice and my community. Speaking out about my love of Israel and my concern over Jew-hatred. Reaching out to others, especially mothers, who share both the stress and the joy of being Jewish today.
The yellow hostage ribbons were everywhere this trip —printed on El Al safety cards; tied to the backs of chairs inside a bakery. A yellow ribbon rose up from a roundabout in the southern town of Sderot, whose police department was decimated on October 7. Tel Aviv’s Dizengoff Square fountain was plastered with posters of the hostages. Too many of those beautiful faces—no longer alive.
One day, we went to Hostage Square, where I met members of Kibbutz Nir Oz. Ensconced inside a small tent, they shared stories about their fellow kibbutzniks who were still held captive. We conducted most of our conversation in Hebrew, and while I missed some details, I understood enough. I told them about the weekly walks I co-lead in my hometown to raise awareness of the hostages. I showed them photos on my phone from our local walk, and then from others around the globe. These members of Kibbutz Nir Oz, themselves survivors of the October 7 atrocities, hadn’t known about this worldwide outpouring of support. They were moved to see the hostages had not been forgotten.
“Todah,” they said.
We returned to Hostage Square on Saturday night for the weekly post-Shabbat rally, where thousands of people gathered to hear hostage family members speak and watch their home videos from happier times. Everything was in Hebrew, but that night, my comprehension seemed heightened—as if empathy and heartache made the Jewish language more accessible.
I felt safer in that crowd than I sometimes did back home. I’m grateful to live in a place where Jews feel welcome, but during walks for the hostages, I’ve worried about potential threats. As the Israelis reminded me—in America, I didn’t always know who might be the enemy.
This post-October 7 trip to Israel was like none other our family had experienced. The country’s resilience was palpable everywhere, even in the midst of so much pain. Despite their differences, there was unity among the people we met. Unity in the belief of Israel’s right to exist as the Jewish state. Unity in wanting all the hostages returned. Because until all our hostages are home, Israel can’t be whole. The Jewish people can’t be whole—no matter what language we speak.
Mimi Sager is a writer drafting her first novel, whose essays and articles can be found in various outlets, including Motherwell, Kveller, and Jewish Chicago. In her previous life, she was a producer at CNN in New York. She now lives in a Chicago suburb with her husband and four kids.
Instagram: @mimisy6
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
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This piece is well-timed...reminding of the insecurities that hover over American Jews...we may be going further into uncharted territories
Love this!!