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!