They ran across my back - the two of them - as I slept. I knew what they were even before I turned on the light and shuddered at the thought of their ghastly white legs coming in contact with my bare skin.

“Djuk!” I shrieked and jumped up, waking up my brother.
“Ma kara?” What’s happened, he asked. We were speaking in Hebrew.
“Djuk!” I repeated angrily, as if it were somehow his fault, turning on the lights and pointing at the pair of cockroaches perching on the wall above my bed.


Djuk was the first word we learnt in Hebrew upon our arrival in Lod, two years before. It was the first to greet us in the morning, turned onto its back on the kitchen floor, flapping its white legs frantically. My brother and I stood above it, riveted, watching its every move. We had never seen anything like it. A shiny, dark brown thing, with a small head, flat body and long, flexible antennae. It was disgusting, sure, but there was something admirable, if not loveable about it: the way it seemed content to bathe in the light, unperturbed.
“Fasza,” Cool, my brother remarked. We were speaking in Hungarian. We still believed that we were on our ‘Easter vacation.’ We were “going to see some palm trees,” my mother had promised, and then return home. But things rarely turn out the way adults promise, we were soon to discover. The place mum called a ‘hotel’ was in fact a Maon Olim, a dwelling for immigrants, for Jews wishing to exercise their ‘right of return’ to the holy land and become full-fledged Israeli citizens. We were supposed to be Jewish too, except we were not. But that is something we learned years later. I was nine when we landed in Lod, and my brother, seven.
“DJUK,” we heard a man’s booming voice from behind us. He introduced himself as Avi. He was our mother’s Hebrew tutor – the man with the dandruff, or nits (we could never tell which) as we renamed him later. He pushed us aside, and without further ado, squashed the djuk with his hiking sandals. The crushing sound of our first Israeli buddy meeting its death mortified us. Avi roared with laughter. “Dead djuk,” he declared in a blend of English and Hebrew, languages as foreign to us as the djuk itself.


“Koos emek,” my brother swore at them in Hebrew. They deserved to die. We had seen enough of them by now to know better. They were pests, of the ugliest kind, and this was our home (even if mum frequently reminded us that “it was an office first, home second”). This “twenty-three square meters ground floor office/home” in central Tel Aviv was all we had when we were not at school, or climbing trees.
“I’ll get the spray!” said my brother as he sprung out of bed.
“No! Mum said it stank too much. She said to use a shoe.”
“Why don’t you go and get one then?” He had a point.
I stepped off the bed hesitantly, as if about to dip my toe into some dangerous waters where ravenous sharks were waiting to chomp bits of my body. It was only fair that the shoe should be hers. I chose her favourite black pair and handed it to my brother. He raised the shoe in the air and was about to strike when I noticed another roach running across mum’s drafting table, snaking its way between the pencils. “There’s another!” I cried out, startling my brother, who had, thanks to me, missed his shot.
“Quick!” I bossed him around as usual. “You have to act quick, or they’ll escape!”
“Why don’t you try then? You’re older.”
“Yes, but you are the one with the Judo black belt,” I countered.
“Yellow,” he said.
“Doesn’t matter. You are better at this,” I said.
It was the right thing to say because my brother’s second attempt was an astounding success. Not only was the djuk completely flattened, but it happened to meet its death right on Barbra Streisand’s nose. Mum loved Barbra. Her picture was the first to go up on our wall; the Israeli flag was second. Serves her right, I thought, for all the bloody memory -s I had to endure. On the rare occasion my mother was at home, Barbra was there too, singing in the background “let the memory live again,” as if there were any memories worth reliving. “Isn’t she beautiful?” my mother would say, but I don’t think she cared much for my opinion. If I didn’t like the rules of her house, she reminded me, I was welcome to leave and find me another mother. Or ask my father to raise me.
Everything my mother liked I hated: Barbra Streisand, The Beatles, Kate Bush, Leonard Cohen, Woody Allen, Shimon Peres, Feminism, Zvi Hecker, Bauhaus, Chagall, Oriana Fallaci (whoever she was), tuna, olives, honey, Camembert cheese, avocadoes (especially avocado soup), Shabbat, Passover, matzo, and Rosh Hashanah.
My sense of triumph, however, was short lived. I spotted another roach darting across the floor towards the bathroom, and another happy pair dallying on the kitchen window.
“There are just too many of them!” I burst into tears.
“Let’s go get mum.”
“But where?”
My brother shrugged. “At the restaurant?”
“I don’t think she’s working tonight.”
“It’s worth a shot.” He put down the shoe.


Shoshanna’s Real Hungarian Blintzes was one of the hottest restaurants in Tel Aviv. Shoshanna was a Hungarian immigrant like us, who believed that blintzes were a Hungarian invention and not a French one. She liked to debate this point, always politely, with her French customers. We loved Shoshanna. She was our Hungarian safta, grandma. But our mother was not at the restaurant and Shoshanna didn’t know where she was.
“Would you like me to take you home?” she offered. “We’re closing in just a few minutes.”
I glanced at my blue Benetton watch. It was already one thirty in the morning. “No, it’s okay. We will manage.”
“Anyone you would like me to call?”
Call who? I thought. Who was mum’s boyfriend of the moment? Was it the hairy, fat one, or the skinny curly haired guy who forgot to bring her flowers? Besides, we didn’t have their phone numbers. We were home alone fighting an army of cockroaches with a shoe, while she was with God-only-knows-who doing disgusting things. My eyes welled with tears. I blinked them away before Shoshanna would notice. I shook my head ‘no’ and took my brother’s hand.
“Would you like some blintzes?”
I was salivating at the thought of warm, sweet blintzes, but mum had taught us that it was ‘good manners’ to decline food no matter how hungry you were. “No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”
“For later then? We can have it packed.” Shoshanna smiled. “Chestnut, was it? Your favourite?”
“Hers is chestnut, mine is walnut!” my brother interjected.
“One chestnut blintzes, and one walnut,” she ordered the waiter and winked. “I hear cockroaches are afraid of loud music.”
“What kind of loud music?” I was intrigued.
“Any kind. As long as it’s loud.”


It sounded simple enough. Armed with Shoshanna’s ingenious advice and the best Hungarian blintzes in our belly, we were ready for round two. Those manyaks, they were gonna get it good.
“Our neighbours will kill us. It’s two o’clock in the morning,” I hesitated as my brother loaded the cassette into the tape recorder. “Who cares? They wouldn’t even let you use the roof for your birthday party on, remember?” He pressed ‘play’ and after the dramatic drumming, Samantha Fox began to moan: ‘Ooh, Touch me, Touch me, I want to feel your body…’ ‘This is the night,’ she cheered us on. ‘This is the time,’ It was our time. ‘We’ve got to get it right.’ We had to get it right. No djuk was going to take over our home. We ran out quick and locked the door behind us, leaving Samantha Fox the exterminator to take care of our problem.


“Flying?” my brother put his arm around my shoulder, and I was happy to comply. What adults would belittle as ‘skipping,’ my brother and I called flying. Arm in arm we could reach unimaginable heights. And we had Tel Aviv’s busiest streets all to ourselves! We flew down Natan haHaham street to Ben Yehuda, then Gordon, all the way to HaYarkon and Gordon beach.
The beach at this opportune hour was deserted, and the comfy beach chairs that we had always envied from those rich manyaks were now ours for the taking. We collapsed onto the damp sand in convulsive giggles, laughing about something we had already forgotten. Life was good. We dragged two of the beach chairs to the edge of the sea and sprawled out, pretending to be important people. My brother was Moshe Dayan and I was Golda Meir. We were miming smoking like true experts, though we had never gone near a real cigarette.
We watched the coal black sea in front of us in self-important recompense. It belonged to us, and us only. I loved this sea, even if “it wasn’t the most beautiful sea in the world,” as my father had pointed out on his fleeting visit. I loved it dearly despite being stung numerous times by mean-spirited jellyfish. And I loved even more what lay beyond its pitch-dark horizon: a promise of something new and better, waiting to be explored – by me.
“Sorella,” sister, my brother called me by my Italian nickname, knowing how much I hated the Hebrew name that mum had given me.
“Si, fratello,” I replied in my flamboyant Italian accent, though ‘yes’ and ‘brother’ were two of the dozen words I knew in my favourite language.
“You must admit it’s pretty awesome.”
“Si. Si. It’s not bad. Molto bene.” I attempted to gesticulate like a true Italian. “I just wish…”
“What?”
“Wouldn’t you love to be able to fly, or walk on water, or at least own a magic carpet that could take you anywhere in the world?”
“You’re crazy!”
“So are you! We come from the same parents!” I took another exaggerated inhale of my pretended cigarette.
“Where would you go?”
“Anywhere. Italy maybe.”
“Why Italy?”
“Why not? It’s sunny, it has the most beautiful language in the world, and you don’t have to join any army.”
“What about the Mafia?”
“What about it?”
“I hear they do some crazy shit.”
“Crazier shit than what goes on here? I don’t hear about people blowing up on buses in Italy, or soldiers dying.”
“I’m sure people die there too.”
“Not like here, they don’t. I mean, have you thought about it? You could actually die, fighting for this stupid country.” My brother was silent. The army was in the cards, we both knew it, but it was nine years away for my brother, and seven years away for me. “Well, let me tell you, if anything happens to you… as much as a teeny-weeny scratch, I’ll be using my Uzi on mum.”
“Really?? Would you do that for me?”
“Of course I would. It’s her fault that we’re here. I never asked to see any palm trees.”
“They suck.”
“Big time.” I took another drag of my mimed cigarette.
“Sorella?”
“Si?”
“I’m sorry for pulling your hair.”
His sincerity made me uncomfortable. We had been sworn enemies until now, pulling whatever we could grab: Him – my hair, I – his ears.
“That’s okay. It has grown back.” I wasn’t quite ready to apologize for being mean to him in my own creative ways.
“Do you think they are dead by now?”
“Who?”
“The djukim.”
“Dead, I doubt it. Gone, I hope.”
“Should we go home and spray the hell out of them then?”
“No. Let mum worry.”
We smiled and burst into giggles, the crushing waves of the Mediterranean slowly lulling us to sleep on the beach chairs.

In my late teens and early twenties, otherwise known as the ‘invincible years’, I remember looking at forty year old people in supercilious commiseration: Those poor old sods, I used to think, so bloody serious, so bloody responsible, so bloody boring. Where is their sense of fun?
 
Of course forty then seemed so far away. I was going to conquer the world before then. I was young, and more or less sure of myself, never exercised, ate what I damn pleased and didn’t give any thought to anti-age creams and sunscreen. I jumped on a plane to New Zealand to find a producer for the first draft of my first screenplay because I was bold enough to believe it was possible (and indeed it was, but only in New Zealand…) I spent four months in Madrid because I felt like learning Spanish. I wore shoes with flowers and had no qualms about mixing red with pink. I didn’t wear a bra because my breasts were perky enough. To this day I type with one finger (fast) because I believed that taking a typing course meant that I had given up on my acting dream. I couldn’t afford eating at restaurants and almost never drank at bars, but went to see every play I had ever wanted (even if it meant standing at the back of the theatre for 10p or queue for returns). I made sure to never own more than I could fit into a moderate sized suitcase, which I could pack at a moment’s notice when I wanted to me changer les idées.
I was so cool. Too cool, you see.
And I wasn’t going to lose my coolness. Oh, not me. I envisioned myself at eighty as a crazy grandma dancing on tabletops. To be called ‘crazy’ was cool; to be called ‘sensible’ was not.
 
But I’m afraid it has happened to me too: Marriage, children, a house to keep, bills to pay, meals to cook – those unsexy responsibilities that leave you with little time and energy to dance on tabletops.  And now I was about to join the club of the un-cool, those boring poor sods.
 
“You should do something!” my friends were pressing me, “A big party to celebrate this important milestone.” But I didn’t feel like a party. I hadn’t conquered the world. I should have done more. I should have achieved more, I told myself, feeling depleted of my trademark joie de vivre. I wanted to greet my forties as you’d greet an unwelcome guest: quietly.
 
“Getting old is great!!!” my friend Sonia couldn’t have been more enthusiastic. “Because what is the alternative?” she asked but didn’t wait for my answer. “Dying!” she replied with matching enthusiasm. I burst into laughter but immediately recognized the profound wisdom in her words. What do wrinkles, a few extra pounds, a mild backache and a tingling head count against a terrible disease or death itself?
 
The very fact that I get to wake up in the morning should be celebrated. The kiss my husband plants on my lips first thing in the morning before getting out of bed, the fresh coffee waiting for me on the counter (carefully covered with a saucer to keep it warm), my girls’ buoyant race to the kitchen to compete for their favourite cereal bowl, the ten minute walk to school, the serene look on my students’ faces at the end of a yoga class, the tea and laughter I share with my friends, the writing I am able to do on most days; and even the roof above my head, the food in my fridge, and my strong body that has incubated, produced and nurtured two healthy human beings – these are true gifts that should be appreciated.
 
I’ve been granted another day. Another day, in which I can strive in my humble way to make the world a slightly better place. I can’t bring on world peace and save the poor from going hungry, but occasionally I can make a friend feel better and a stranger smile. I don’t always succeed. I can be impatient, unkind and a real pain in the arse, and my family gets the worst of me. But sometimes I get to be ‘la divine maman,’ or ‘la plus belle maman’ and once in the while even the ‘meilleure maman au monde’. These are seemingly small victories, but victories nonetheless. They are not things you would boast about in your resume, or recognize as ‘achievements,’ but they are those overlooked daily triumphs that matter the most.
 
So I don’t dance on tabletops (I never have…), but I still think of myself as a plenty cool forty year old, happy to be alive, happy to do her bit. 

‘Maman, je veux jamais quitter la maison;
Je veux toujours rester avec toi,’
dit ma fille de six ans.

Dois-je lui faire signer un contrat?

Céleste, ma belle petite ange,
Mais oui, justement, tu peux toujours rester avec moi,
Mais je te préviens que dans quelques années,
Tu vas trouver ça un peu fatigant
Avoir une maman qui te harcèle sans cesse:
‘Céleste, pour la dernière fois, habille toi!
As-tu fais ton pipi?
As-tu assez mangé?
N’oublies pas de brosser tes dents et faire tes couettes,
Surtout, assure toi de tasser tes cheveux de tes yeux,
Voyons, tu n’est pas une petite fille élevée par des loups!’
‘Céleste, c’est quoi ça, le mot magique?
Suis-je votre servent?
Voilà, s’il  te plaît, merci.’
‘Tu dois toujours respecter les autres,
Sois sage,
Gentille avec ta petite sœur,
Et patiente avec ton papa.
Étudies bien.
Parles plusieurs langues,
Même L’hongrois s’il  te plaît,
C’est très important!’

Non, Céleste, un jour tu voudras quitter,
Voler,
Déployer tes ailes,
Loin, loin, et encore plus loin.
Faire ta propre vie,
Avec tes amis,
Tes amoureux,
Tes passions,
Tes escapades,
C’est normal.

Et moi, je resterai toujours derrière toi
En te poussant:
‘Allez-y ma coquette!
Oui, tu es capable !
Tu peux faire n’importe quoi!’
Je te laisserai faire ton propre chemin
En me souciant et en pleurant en cachette.
Mais devant toi je serais toujours la maman fière,
Fidèle a tes volontés.

 
La même soir, couché à côté d'elle,
Je n’arrête pas de pleurer.
Ma petite Céleste a déjà six ans et demi,
Elle sait lire et écrire
(même écrire des longes histoires et des chansons Disney) 
Elle fait de la gymnastique,
Du vélo,
Elle plonge dans l’eau profond sans souci,
Faisant une pirouette,
Elle a beaucoup d’amis,
Et elle adore sa petite sœur.
Elle m’invite dans son lit comme chaque soir,
Elle pète, puis elle éclate de rire ;
Elle veut que je l’appelle ‘ma petite mouffette’.
Elle m’approche, me serre dans ses bras,
Puis, elle s’endort.
Tranquillement.

Et moi – je le regarde,
Je l’admire
Ma belle petite fille.

Mais aujourd’hui je pleure.
Je suis triste,
Car je ne veux pas qu’elle grandisse.
Je veux qu’elle reste toujours ma petite fille,
Ma petite mouffette,
Absolument adorée,
Chez moi,
Dans notre famille,
Que nous pussions éternellement se donner des câlins,
Et plein de bisous.
Je ne veux pas que ça s’arrête jamais.
Je sais,
Je suis égoïste,
Mais je l’aime trop.
Je ne veux pas qu’elle parte,
Même quand je lui dit ‘allez-y ma chouette’. 

Last night I was kept awake, and alert, by this overwhelming feeling of gratitude. Alternate nostril breathing and meditation can usually lull me to sleep, but not this time… my heart felt like it was going to explode from all this love I felt. I can only guess it was the residue of the gratitude I had just expressed to my teachers. Then came this inner voice – “And what about your students Imola? Have you forgotten them?” So here goes my second part of my previous blog entry, which I sketched out late at night when the house was asleep: Gratitude for my students – my greatest teachers.

When I recall my students, I’m thinking back on my first ever yoga classes with my friends Sonia, Nicki and Elspeth who graciously allowed me to experiment on them and were my enthusiastic, loyal guinea pigs. Then how can I forget the tea, the laughs, the stretches and breaths I’ve shared with my prenatal yoga groups when we were all nervously expecting our first, then second little bambinis? And more recently, I’m deeply appreciative of my private student Phuong, who reminds me so much of myself at the beginning of my yoga journey: The eagerness, the curiosity with a blend of fear of failing to “perform”, appearing silly, like a fish out of water, not exactly sure what to expect, what to do with those hands and feet. Like my kind yoga teachers, I start with the breath. I lay my hands gently on his back to encourage a freer flow of breath into these undiscovered territories. First there’s more tension, but then slowly it happens: His breath expands, his body loosens, his solemn expression gives way to a charming smile (and soon enough - to happy chuckles!), his classic beginner’s claw-like hands are magically transformed into beautiful yoga wings, et voilà - he takes off! He is not only unafraid to attempt those scary yoga poses, but unafraid to take up dance and figure skating!! I’m always so happy, so proud and so inspired to hear about his new ventures! I’m grateful to know such a brave “student” who teaches me it’s never too late to try out new things.

But nothing humbles me as much as being a parent. Every day I’m reminded of my great responsibility of guiding two little people into the world and providing them with all that they need to become strong, smart, and above all – kind and loving people.  The greatest yoga - and life! - lessons I have learnt from my 3 and 5 year old girls. As they ask their innocent questions: “Maman, toi tu étais une soldate, mais tu ne l'aimait pas ça, ha? Pourquoi? (mum, you were a soldier, but you didn’t like it, right?), “Maman, pourquoi le papa et la maman d'Eden ne vivent pas ensemble?” (Why don’t Eden’s mummy and daddy live together?), “Maman, tu sais, ça existe - l'amour entre deux filles.” (Mummy, you know it exists – love between two girls) and “Maman, pourquoi tu ne veux pas manger de la viande? Je veux que tu me explique tout ça, tout de suite!” (mummy, why don’t you eat meat? I want you to explain it to me, right now!), I am asked to reflect on my whole life philosophy and what important lessons I want to pass on to them.

Children think in simple terms and live in the present. Politicians’ convoluted (bullshit) explanations for starting wars that they can feed to adults would be lost on them. As my 4-year-old daughter so eloquently explained to me the hopeless Israeli-Palestinian conflict: “Ils doivent apprendre à partager!” (They have to learn to share!)

Watching my 3 year old dance so freely, and my 5 year old throwing herself fearlessly into a headstand, I realize that much of my yoga teaching to adults is not about teaching them new tricks, but about helping them unlearn the bad habits they (we all!) have accumulated over the years! We can all draw inspiration from children about how we could live more authentically, have more fun and approach everything in life, even the hard stuff, with curiosity and a sense of play! Watching my girls dance, laugh, cry and even throw a tantrum, I am always reminded that I should just soak it in and stop being so afraid!

I love teaching, but I love learning just as much. I have recently had the chance to take part in an incredibly inspiring workshop with Nico Luce I had first “met” on my yoga on line. I immediately gravitated to him. Yes, he can do all those impossible yoga poses beautifully and somehow make it look easy, but more importantly – he is a very knowledgeable teacher, especially when it comes to Yoga’s rich philosophy.

Besides our shared passion for yoga, we have another thing in common: we teach and write in English, but English is not our mother tongue. Nico has a cute accent and speaks English more eloquently than most native English speakers I know. Why? To be able to teach yoga in English, he told me, he approached each and every word with curiosity, studying its root diligently. This is how I’ve learnt from him, for example, that the word “courage” comes from the French word “cœur”  - heart.  And this piece of seemingly irrelevant information actually does help me to lead with my heart, before I lift myself into handstand successfully for the first time! I suppose there lies Nico’s other talent: He won’t coerce you into any pose, but rather invite you, entice you, gently and respectfully, until you simply cannot resist trying.  And before you know it, you may find yourself extended in a handstand or some twisted arm balance. Perhaps this is why I see 60 plus year olds just as comfortable in his class as the fit twenty something year olds?

The workshop was called “The Power of choice” and the first class focused on the first, inevitable aspect: Acceptance. Not the acceptance of a bad situation in powerless resignation, but first accepting that “this is what it is”, before you consider whether you’re willing to make peace with the situation, choose to change it, or walk away from it. I’m getting teary thinking about the situations I’ve had to accept this year – losing someone dear to me, a health scare, standing up to my doctor and a path that would have taken me further away from myself, then finally, with some struggle, getting in touch again with my core values, my inner strength and conviction… oh it’s been a tough, challenging year and I have shed a lot of tears. But I agree with Nico’s suggestion that these challenges, although painful and unpleasant, can indeed be valuable teachings. I have learnt a lot.

Life is full of them – those teachings… some are more obviously beautiful, some take you on a darker path. And when you’re deep in the dark woods, lost and scared, it can feel very unjust and even desperate. I know I’ve felt that. At times I thought I’d never see the light, but it shone on me anyways, just when I was least expecting it. And then, when you are finally standing in the full-blown light, it is easier to look back with gratitude. Gratitude not only for those kind angels who held your hand and pulled you out of that dark place (which is never to be underestimated or taken for granted!), but gratitude even for those less obvious teachers who challenged you, hurt you and ultimately  - made you question what it is that makes you you’re authentic you.

The workshop has only just begun and I’m standing in Tadasana – mountain pose. I’m a wobbly mountain today, but a grateful wobbly mountain. Before I extend my hands up to the sky in the first Sun Salute I think back on my teachers. My influential, tough loving acting teacher Judith, my many inspiring yoga teachers like Rod Stryker and Nico Luce (to name just a few), my loving friends who were not afraid to tell me some uncomfortable truths, my brother who has always been there for me, my family, my girls who teach me new things every day and then those less obvious teachers who I struggled with. I’m reaching up to the sky with an open heart then bow down in gratitude – to all of them. Here I am – alive, healthy and strong. And I am truly very grateful.

I’m a citizen of three countries, Hungary - where I was born, Israel - where I grew up and Canada - where I happen to be living right now. But I rather you think of me as an ordinary human being, and perhaps like you – a parent, with a heart that feels, a mind that thinks, and a mouth that speaks – my own unique truth. As for my religion, I share the same “simple religion” as the Dali Lama – kindness. That doesn’t mean I live a life of devotion like a Buddhist monk or that I am always successful at being kind. I am a flawed human being, but I try my best everyday.

These days my heart is in turmoil and my mind is thinking the most desperate thoughts.  My stomach is made sick from all the hatred and anger I hear and witness around me. There is a lot of cruelty and injustice in the world that I don’t understand and feel helpless against. But the current conflict between Israel and Gaza touches me on a personal level. It shakes me to my very core. I am no Javier Bardem and my words may have lesser weight, but I grew up in Israel and I would like to share with you about that experience and the perspective it has given me, if I may.

GROWING UP IN ISRAEL

I grew up in a secular kibbutz that had no synagogue. Nobody lit Sabbath candles. Almost everyone who lived there had a very left-nick political view and believed in peace.  Bible studies were part of our curriculum, but none of us were too interested and wanted merely to pass our exams. Our teacher from “outside” (the kibbutz’s bubble, that is) was a religious man, who knew the Bible inside out and was reading its complex language to us with much ardour and pride. I slept through most of it. Until I heard him say something very unusual and unexpected: “We’d like to think of ourselves as the chosen people, but we are no different, no better. We have committed all the horrors that others have – murdered out of greed and afflicted pain on others.” The classroom became suddenly uncomfortably silent and I started to pay attention. This was a devout man clearly very proud of his religion, yet able to step back and look at it with a critical eye. He was an inspiration to me. I never again slept in his class.

When I joined the Israeli army, not by choice, but because I had to, I thought again of my teacher. I knew in my heart that I would never be able to fire a gun at someone, yet I was asked to pledge allegiance to my country by holding in one hand the Holy Bible – “that represents our culture and beautiful heritage” explained the ceremonial officer, and in my other hand a gun – “that can protect it”.  Many of my soldier friends were moved to tears, while I couldn’t help thinking that it was frighteningly reminiscent of something I had already seen in videos, broadcasted later on the news, by people who claimed to be our sworn enemies. People we claim to differ from; people we claim to be better than.

WE ARE ALL INTERCONNECTED AND OUR FATES ARE ENTWINED

Years later, while studying ancient yogic philosophy, I was inspired by the thought that we are all in fact interconnected and our actions can set off either a wave of positive, or negative changes in the Universe. The very purpose of the path of yoga is to bring union, or oneness. And it warns us about our primarily obstacle: our own ego that sees itself as separate from others, living solely in the physical body. Yoga teaches us that as long as we see ourselves as separate from others, or better than others, we suffer. And our world suffers with us, greatly.

I am incredibly fortunate to be living in a democratic country like Canada, where you are not only allowed to speak up about grievances you may have, but are encouraged to. I am privileged in my safety. But I am very much affected by all that is happening right now, far away in Gaza. We all are. I may not know a single Palestinian personally, but I hear those innocent children’s last cries as though they were my own. I feel their pain right in my gut and it sickens me. We are not separate. The same is true of my fellow countrymen who wrap themselves in Israeli flags and rejoice that “Gaza is now a cemetery” and that “There are no schools or children left in Gaza”, as much as I would like to deny that connection. I know our fates are entwined and I acknowledge with sadness that hate does unfortunately exist. I would like to see myself separate, a better person, but I soon realize that in voicing my desire to separate myself from Israel by denouncing my citizenship, I have also hurt my best friend.

My friend wrote to me a heartfelt letter about her sadness caused by my shame of our country. Her political argument is similar to what you may have already heard. Hamas are being the real baddies here, aiming to wipe out Israel from the face of the earth. They are terrorists and psychopaths who won’t even hesitate using innocent civilians as “human-shields”. Israel has the right to defend itself. There are infinitely worse and more horrible things going on in other parts of the world that no one criticizes or cares about. There is a lot of anti-Semitic propaganda out there... While my friend is a peace loving left-nick and a mother, I’m not surprised by what she says. I’ve been following the Israeli news closely on the “mission in Gaza”. I know already that harrowing images of the devastation of Gaza the world could see on CNN were not shared with the Israeli public. No injured children or mothers crying in their blood soaked shirts. No mentioning the names of Palestinian victims. Instead there’s talk of self-defense, national security, dangerous tunnels and the constant threat. An esteemed reporter even called the nation to “cheer and laugh as they hear the bombs falling on Gaza, and the cries of those psychopaths’ caught with their pants down”. Israeli artists, pro-peace protesters and Jews who dare to voice their objection are accused of being “the worst kind of traitors who deserve to be sent to the gas chambers”… I understand and sympathize that it’s hard to think differently in this environment. Sirens go off every couple of minutes, rockets threaten your safety and young Israeli soldiers are sent to fight, possibly to their death. And my shame accomplishes nothing. What good does it bring? Will it only add another spark to the rising negativity and hate? What then? What feasible solutions are there? Are there any?

THE ONLY LONG LASTING SOLUTION - COMPASSION AND PEACE

       Hatred does not cease by hatred, but only by love, this is the eternal rule.  (Buddha)

So I am brought back to the ancient yogic scriptures and recall what my Bible studies teacher said 20 years ago: “We are no different. No better, no worse, and not separate”.

And before I am accused of being some naïve idealist, sentimental pacifist (or unoriginally - anti-Semitic) I plead with you – to look deep within your heart and forget your religion and nationality for a second… Imagine being born in a different part of the world, perhaps on the opposing side. Would you see yourself as a brave defender, a freedom fighter, or a repressor, a terrorist? Under what circumstances would it be acceptable for you to rejoice in the death of children? What if they were your children? Would you be more worthy of your freedom, your basic human rights than the person next door? Is that person a psychopath, or merely someone who is trying to survive, very much like you? Is he or she is really so different than you? Do you still see yourself separate from him, or her?

It is all a matter of perspective, and no side is right. They are both grievously wrong. There are no winning sides in a bloodshed war. We are all losers in this downward spiral of ignorance, hate and revenge. We are merely mortals, temporarily occupying this planet before we hand them over to our children. Our fates, and the future of all our children are entwined. And while I am immensely grateful that I can tuck my two young daughters safely in their beds and kiss them goodnight, I want them to grow up in a better, more compassionate world. Their world is only as safe as is their neighbours.  So I will do my very best to guide them in this journey and to cultivate love around me every chance I get. But I can’t do it alone. I need you to join my camp. Human to human, parent to parent, I beg of you.

Every time I need a doctor I want to leave the country. I have often made this joke, except it’s true. I have been living in Montreal for more than 7 years, and I am still on various family doctors and a gynecologists’ waiting lists. Luckily, I’m a pretty healthy person, so my introduction to the Canadian health system happened when I was pregnant with my first daughter. I couldn’t find a doctor who would agree to follow my child’s development and help me deliver her into the world. After at least a dozen (crying and begging) phone calls, a doctor finally took pity on me and agreed to see me when my baby was already 14 weeks old. As a prospective mother, I went to this appointment all excited, armed with plenty of questions. After almost 5 hours of waiting I was seriously contemplating home birth (and leaving the country). Later I was told that 5 hours is actually not bad, when the average wait is closer to 6 hours. My children and I have to be pretty sick for me to step foot in a clinic, or worse – a hospital.

So instead, on my annual visits back home to Hungary, my grandma in Pécs lines up all the doctors I need and I visit them on an afternoon. They are always surprised to welcome a patient from a supposedly wealthy country like Canada. Their clinics are a bit run down and could use a fresh coat of paint, but the care is first rate. Rest of the time I do my utmost best to never get sick. I eat a healthy, balanced vegetarian diet, I practice yoga daily, I run, I swim, and with the arrival of winter I stock up on ginger, garlic and oregano oil.

My sister in law, who is a doctor, tells me there is a shortage in doctors and I believe her. But I have never seen such an absurd, ineptly organized system to treat patients in need. “Triage”, “pre-triage” - you’ll be first seen by a nurse, who would diligently take all your important information that the doctor would then barely glance at, and ask of you again.

Then there is the issue of birth centres. Waiting lists at Montreal’s only two existing birthing centres are so long, with only less than 30 per cent of hopeful expectant mothers lucky to be able to get a spot (that is if they are quick to pick up the phone with the positive pregnancy test still fresh in their hands, or while still working at conceiving!) It is obvious that midwives are in high demand, yet the petition for more birth centres (to accommodate the already trained midwives awaiting work and all those hippy mums wanting to have a natural birth) has been going on for more than 10 years, meeting with the stubborn resistance of the Health Ministry.  Surely these midwives would help ease the burden on Quebec’s overcrowded hospitals and overworked obstetricians in pregnancies that are low risk and don’t require medical intervention. But Quebec has a different logic. A logic I obviously don’t understand.

On a more positive note, faced with a real emergency, you’d be fast tracked and handled with great efficiency, whether you’re rich or poor, because health care in Canada is “free”. But unless you are practically dying, you better have a nice grandma in an Eastern European country to book you your annual check up appointments. And in the meanwhile - cross your fingers and hope to never be sick.

“What are you doing for Passover?” Anabelle asked me, as we ran into each other in front of the PA.

“Well,” I began. Anabelle had heard me speak Hebrew with our Israeli friend, thus her assumption – shared by countless others - that I was Jewish was completely fair. “You don’t know my story, do you?”

“Your story?” Anabelle was intrigued. “No, I don’t.”

“We don’t do anything because we’re not Jewish,” I admitted with a secret longing, recalling fond memories of eating matza, reading the haggadah and singing “ma nishtana halayla haze” (“what has changed tonight?”) during eleven years.

“But didn’t you grow up in Israel?”

“I did,” I explained. “My mum took us there when we were young, only to learn later that we were not Jewish at all.”

“Oh, really? Then what are you?”

“Officially? Roman Catholic to the core.”

“Oh,” Anabelle laughed. “So am I!”

“You mean you’ve never converted?”

“No,” She laughed it off casually.

It was my turn to be surprised. The memory of a probing American Jewish lady, a random stranger on a cruise ship, who inquired without the slightest reservation if my New Zealand boyfriend was Jewish, was still fresh in my mind. When I told her he wasn’t, this lady made no secret of her downright disappointment in me as she cried out to the heavens: “Oh, go break your mother’s heart!” I didn’t know Anabelle’s partner, but I already imagined him as an interesting person to have at the Seder table.

Still, I didn’t expect to be invited. During my confused young adulthood years in Israel I had quickly learnt that while being a goy was not ideal, being a wanna-be-Jew, an imposter, was worse. I didn’t choose this fate for myself; it was chosen for me by my mother, who had found Judaism following a tumultuous divorce. She then proceeded to pack us up – my younger brother and I  - along with a small suitcase in her little Fiat and leave communist Hungary “to see some palm trees”. This little Easter/Passover vacation that was supposed to last only 2 weeks in 1985, ended up being an eleven-year stay for me. I don’t think my mother at the time envisioned me being teased in the kibbutz for looking like a typical “Nazi Aryan girl” nor my brother risking his life in Lebanon, commanding an Israeli military tank to drive through the fertile fields of a Lebanese farmer, destroying this farmer’s family’s whole livelihood.  My mother had other concerns at the time.

 “Happy Passover, if we don’t see each other before then.” I bid Anabelle goodbye.

“See you soon!” her infectious big smile lit up my entire rainy day.

Two days later I read Anabelle’s partner - Ashley’s e-mail invitation for Seder with tears in my eyes and an enthusiasm of a three year old. Why was I so touched? It’s been almost 20 years since my last Seder and it’s the first time Jewish friends have invited me to share this special occasion with them. Memories of warmer, sunnier springs in Israel, Sabbath, challah and my best friend Ravit bring more nostalgic tears to my eyes. I can barely contain my excitement as I tell my husband that we have been invited to a friend’s house for Passover. My husband is happy for me. He has gotten used to it by now – my quirky, fake Jewish side: How terribly excited I’d get every year planning Rosh Hashanah with my Catholic neighbor friend, and how I’d buy my challah religiously every Friday and do my version of Sabbath the next day, making French toast with it for the family. I guess deep down, I missed being Jewish.

“WE WOULD LOVE TO COME! What can we bring?” I replied excitedly and volunteered to make Turkish leek fritters from my new vegetarian Jewish cookbook that my lovely neighbour had bought me. “Leek fritters sound great,” Ashley replied and wanted to know if I ate fish and eggs.

The Seder fell on a rare, beautiful spring afternoon. Nothing could mar my happiness as my husband and I, along with our two little girls, walked down Hutchison Street, acknowledging with a smile our Hasidic neighbours who were hurrying by to prepare for their own Seders.

“Hi. I’m Kathy,” Ashley’s mother greeted us at the door, and then led us into the kitchen, from where an irresistible blend of roasted vegetables and matzo ball soup aroma were enticing us. We sat by the beautifully set table  - My husband and I, Ashley, his mother, Anabelle and her mother, our four young children and a friend of the family – a relatively small crowd, but eager to perform the Seder’s ritual of retelling the story of the liberation of the Israelites from slavery in ancient Egypt. At least that was the plan. Our children seemed more interested in what was under the Seder table than on top of it, and rejected the delicious Matzo ball soup. Ashley handed me a copy of the Haggadah and asked me to read its first passage in Hebrew. I stood up; my hands were shaking as I began to read. I knew I was entrusted with a great honour and I wanted to do the holy text justice.  The wine helped. The singing helped too. Never mind that we all sang a different tune to the same song – nothing that a good laughter couldn’t smooth out. Then it was time to pass the Passover plate with its maror and chazeret, charoset, karpas, z’roa and beitzah over our heads for blessing. I watched my smiling husband, as Ashley circled the plate above his head and my heart was filled with love.

Despite our good intentions, the kids wore us down in the end and we didn’t get much further than singing “Day, Day-Enu”. But we did have a wonderful evening, sharing some good food, great laughs and some touching stories about all that makes us human, regardless of our faith and background.

I had trouble falling asleep that night. I was feeling high – high on this buoyant, and recklessly hopeful energy I derive from an inspiring company and a stimulating conversation. My daughters seemed to be inflicted with it too, first thing in the morning.  All throughout breakfast and the much-detested getting-dressed-routine they never seemed to tire from repeating the popular Seder song “Day Day-Enu” – each time louder and with more vigour.

My daughters’ lively singing continued as we headed to garderie, suddenly earning discreet smiles from our Hasidic neighbours who had previously ignored their enthusiastic bonjour-s. And I, in that magical moment, watching my innocent girls suddenly thought to myself – what if more Seders and Christmas celebrations were shared by Catholics, Jews and Muslims? Perhaps through breaking bread we’d be more likely to find our common ground, our similarities and all that binds us as humans with an intrinsic wish to be happy? Perhaps it is naïve of me to think this way, but this is what I longed for, this is what I secretly wished, as I was watching my girls skipping down the street so carefree, singing Day, Day-Enu, Day, Day-Enu, Dayenu Dayenu , hey!