Around the age of 14, I had this debate going with myself, usually as I walked to school every day, in blustery London weather : Do we uphold traditions and beliefs that we may not be interested in nor abide by anymore, because of a loyalty to those who came before us - to our parents, or grandparents? I always thought so. The portion of my family that perished in the Holocaust were devout, pious Jews. Practising, religious Jews who came from the heim, who spoke fluent German, Russian and Yiddish, who had upheld our rich tradition so steeped in history and love and fear and joy for decades. Who made shabbos every week, who lit candles every friday night and say the same blessings we say today. Who celebrated the same festivals, but who eventually came to live their lives in fear, who suffered because of who they innately were.
They died, but I live. There are thousands of 'me' who never came to be. By the time I entered my school gates, I had often concluded that this was a valid reason to practise my religious, however much I was resenting it that week - that their deaths were somehow in vain if people like me, of my generation or future generations, just abandoned their faith and tradition.
I know now, at 24, this is of course not reason enough. We are forever indebted to our forebears. To my great-grandparents who kept Judaism alive in the most difficult of conditons, long enough to pass it onto their children, to my paternal grandmother who weathered life's most horrendous of challenges, loss and tragedy, who not only survived in the most miraculous of ways but who went on to to build a strong Jewish home. Which brings me to the present day. To my own reasons for carrying it on, for running with the torch.
The photo above is of my maternal great-grandparents who did not perish, but who were already living comfortably in England, who never saw the horrors of Poland or nazi Germany. They too were amazing people who left astounding legacies behind - renowned for their charitable work, for their open home - they often took in refugees and the downtrodden, they had a remarkable reputation. The steps leading up to the golden Aron Kodesh, the holy ark in the synagogue of the famed Ponevezh Yeshivah, are named for them. When I light my candles every Friday at sunset, I do it because in my heart I believe in what I'm doing, in serving G-d through Torah and mitzvot, I connect to Him in my own, personal way, and hadlikat nerot is one of the more beautiful traditions. But I'm also doing it because of my wonderful grandparents and great-grandparents, those who perished and those who survived, entirely because each of them retained their loyalty to yiddishkit despite and often because of the situation and place in life chosen for them.
I often wonder to myself why the world seems such a difficult place to be, why I have been dealt an unfair hand, even though I am truly blessed beyond measure in so many ways, sometimes things just seem too hard. I think of my Bobba, z"l, who survived so much worse, and I know I carry on for her - because she's watching me, keeping an eye on me. As a child and even today I am told I look like her, that I have her hands, her creativity. It is an immeasureable gift to be told you have inherited traits from people you knew only as a child, but who have impacted upon you in countless, tangible ways.
I light my candles once a week in gratitude to Hashem, because He has given me so much. But I continue to do it - I strike that match, wait for the wick to catch, wave my hands 3 times over my candles, cover my eyes, recite the blessing - every single week, only because I have my grandmother right next to me. Peeping over my shoulder, checking the length of my skirt, keeping me in check, reminding me that life can throw much, much worse at us... but we dont give up. Am yisrael chai.

This is not to say that I believe anyone is ever 100% happy. Over pizza last night, I realise how true that really is. People will always want more. When we already have so much, our yetzer hara kicks in - whether it's wanting a boyfriend/girlfriend, wanting to be married or wanting children, wanting a bigger house/nicer clothes/that new pair of shoes youve spied, another holiday.
And when we have nothing, we want for basic things that many simply expect from life - fresh water, a roof over your head, food, a life without disease, without fear.
But you can be content. Happiness, according to the theory that underscored my year in sem, is finding your purpose in life. When you discover what it is Hashem intended you to do, you can be happy - you have a goal, your life can be purposeful, you have a reason to exist. Some, like Yonah, try to run from that purpose. But eventually it'll catch up with you. When you realise your potential and your purpose, and you live your life with that purpose as the framework, happiness can be achieved.
So rarely can this be found. But everyone can feel a degree of contentment, in some way, at some pt in their lives.

shabbat shalom!

So far, faithful readers, you will have learnt of rachoelgate and my tree-head surgery. Not a fantastic insight into what makes me, me. But how to describe, without paraphrasing my cut&paste 'describe yourself' paragraph on Jewish dating websites?

*In the middle of NYC there's a gigantic posterboard for Jdate, which reads: 'Why is this site different from all other sites?'*

Today is October 19th. In 3 months time, on the 19th of January, I will have been in Ulpan for exactly a week. I will have emigrated to the State of Israel. Ulpan. Aliyah. ALIYAH.
Can it be true? Am I really doing it? Somewhere far beyond the reaches of my memory or self-knowledge, it's always been my dream. Since I first went on BA camp and learnt of Herzl, of people like AD Gordon, Achad Ha'am and Rav Kook, I understood it to be my legacy.
I understood it as I understood the suffragettes fight to achieve the vote for women - Israel was something my ancestors had fought for, and I was never to take it for granted.
Unlike the power to vote; entirely dormant these last 6 years, uninspired by British politics as I am, the desire to live in Israel has waxed and waned. Inevitably following my gap year, I did all I could to convince my parents I should stay - I vividly recall crying down the phone to my mum, late one evening, in the light of a lamp-post somewhere off Ben Yehuda. I couldn't bear the thought of returning to the UK, to university, so far from the clarity and lightness of being that being in Israel can bring.
But I did go to university, I completed my 4 years and I'm glad I did. I've worked for 1.5 years in the 'real world'. I've saved up, I've realised where I'm meant to be, and it's time to go.

To take on the psychology of a country - a country where most of my peers have completed 3 years in the army or a year of national service, where most have lost family, old school friends, university pals, chavrutahs or work colleagues, to suicide bombings, to a war, to katyushas. Where the poverty rate is increasing month by month and unemployment is high. But also to a country where bus drivers wish you 'shabbat shalom' on a Thursday afternoon, where every person is extended family, where tempers are short and tensions high, but the women call you 'mami' and the taxi drivers continuously ask you to marry them.

I feel so content at the moment, because I know the grand adventure looms. And I mean grand with all its connotations - huge, looming, slightly terrifying. Israel symbolises, for me, a lot of hope. Things to look forward to - new faces, new challenges : enormous challenges, getting to drips with using a new language, making new friends, the increased size of the dating pool!

Recently one member of team icky said to another friend of mine, that she thought I was being resentful of their new relationship because I'm single. I quote:
"I get how it's hard to be happy for someone, when you're not happy".
I guess all it proves is how little she knows me these days. How could I not be happy for them? And how could she think that I'M not happy?! I'm escaping this horrid country, with its cold people and miserable weather, and I'm going to live out, try out, my zionist dream. How could I not be happy! Hashem has showered me with blessings! Praise be!

So yeah, ok, a lot of people have been in my position. In olden times, I would have fondly been called Gooseberry. In times of yore, maybe 'the third wheel'. But we're not a wheelbarrow, so that just leaves me out in the cold. This ride, baby, is a bicycle made just for two.

It's not that I'm not happy for them, because I am. Would I lie, on my blog?! I was the one who encouraged them to explore what was obviously simmering just below the surface of their platonic friendship! Not that I regret it, as they are now blissfully happy, on a level I've never seen either of them experience before. Which is amazing. For two of my best friends, the search is over. The cyclical longing and wishing and disappointment that comes with being single - that's over for them, and I am actually genuinely relieved for both of them. Because it's not a great place to find yourself, in life. Simultaneously, my whole world has changed. Two months ago, I had two very good friends who brought out the best in me, who made me laugh in that real way you have with only your bestest. We three complemented each other wonderfully. The carpet's been pulled out from under my feet. They're cuddling under the tree and I'm out in the rain, with no umbrella. I explain it to myself using the analogy of a tiyul. You're walking this long, hot, dusty road, you and your good friends. It's taking ages, the sun is baking your back, at times you remember what a great life-adventure this is; and at other times you're just fed up, your back's hurting and you're really tired of it all. Suddenly, one of your friends spots a sign that says 'Sarah, Leave The Path Here' - and off she goes. The journey is over for her. One by one, people see their signs and hop off the beaten track. But you keep going. And going. Much as they remember how tough it was, they're putting their feet up in a comfy, cool rest place now and you're still trucking along, with no sign of your own in sight.

Beyond feeling excluded or sorry for myself, I'm angry. I'm angry with their togetherness.