Laura Goldman
Israel Love Fest Submission
As the clouds start to become opaque, I look down from the plane and see bright
green squares, and in between those squares are brown patches waiting to turn green. The
plane begins to decline, my heart races for that sudden landing, and I begin to witness the
abundance of vividly green grass surrounded by overpowering wind turbines. I step off the
plane and breathe the cold, German air for a minute before going inside the airport. The
warm greeting “Hallo” instead of “Hello” from flight attendants to strangers at the cafe in the
airport left me with joy instead of uneasiness that I laid my first steps outside of America onto
German territory.
It was two summers ago when I traveled with a bunch of college reform-Jewish friends
under an Orthodox-Jewish organization to explore what is beyond the general ideas of
Judaism. Our first stop was Germany and our last, of course, was Israel.
Yes, I learned about how long I have to wait to eat dairy after meat, and how I can’t
text or make a phone call during the Sabbath because electricity is forbidden at that time. But
I also learned the triumph Jews faced in Germany after World War II, how difficult it was to
rebuild the once beautiful synagogues, and more importantly what it took to rebuild their
identity.
It is difficult for me to imagine what life would have been like if I lived in Germany, or
France, or Poland, or any anti-Semitic area during The Holocaust. The day I was born, I was
born as a Catholic. One week later, I was converted to Judaism by my adoptive parents and at
13 years old I fully accepted my religion at my Bat Mitzvah. With my blonde hair, blue eyes,
and petite nose, I question if I would have been sent to the concentration camps—probably
not.
My most vivid memory was entering one of the concentration camps in Germany. As I
approached the fifteen foot tall gate with a sign reading in capital letters, “ARBEIT MACHT
FREIT,” translated as “WORK MAKES YOU FREE,” I froze in dismay. I took a step back, slowly
paced back and forth, and examined the same beautiful vibrant green grass I saw when I first
landed in Germany. I then entered Sachsenhausen together with my friends, and my heart
dropped-- the vividly green grass that stuck with me this whole trip turned into muddy dirt. I
look to my left and right, I see the musky huts they were kept in, I look to the middle and see
a huge circular pit, and I look around the perimeter of the camp and see an electric fence with
warning signs written in German. I look further back, since the camp was thousands of acres,
and there was more waiting to be seen.
As my friends and my Rabbi walk down a steep concrete path, the path turns into a
giant room filled with beaten-up ovens. We’re told by our tour guide that these were the
ovens used when the Jews in the camps died and the Nazis wanted their bodies and souls to
disappear so that there is no record of them. My Rabbi begins to pray fervently, and then I
hear his cry and we all look at him. I started to feel what he feels, and I too began to have
tears rolling down my frozen face stricken by what is seen right before my eyes. Many of us
weep and pray, and many of us sit and stare in anguish.
I flashback to a few months back when I was constantly questioning my identity. At this
moment, I felt Jewish. I felt for my cousin, a Holocaust survivor, for my Rabbi who lost distant
relatives in the Holocaust, and for my people. I knew at this very moment that this is who I
am, and I was able to connect with every Jewish person. I was excited to go to Israel.
When we toured the beautiful city of Berlin, the green grass faded into tourists and
Germans overcrowding the paved streets filled with massive buildings. To be honest, I did not
listen to the tour guide very much while at our stay in Berlin. I was too fascinated by the
beautiful graffiti on the Berlin Wall, how I was standing on the ground where Hitler killed
himself in his underground work area which was near a Jewish memorial, and the ginormous
Berlin Victory Column that struck my eyes since it was the first monument I saw when we
arrived. I was also wondering what it felt like for my Rabbi to be walking around the city of
Berlin in tzitzit and a Yamikah while also viewing Holocaust memorials and Nazi government
buildings. I looked around me and no one was staring at him uniquely. He was accepted.
We leave Germany for our trip to Israel. The last visit in Germany being the
concentration camp left an impression on me. I have never felt so connected with my religion
before this trip because it established my identity, and the way others perceive me shouldn’t
be a factor in learning about the self. I took the outside world’s perception of me into figuring
out who I am, and I realized at the concentration camp that what I feel is who I am. When I
arrived to Israel, I was in awe. I had felt connected instantly, and with that moment I have
always been certain with my identity.
In the painting, the Jewish star represents a timeline of my life and how Judaism has
always been a major influence, even since I was born. Behind the Jewish star is our home, our
sanctity, Israel, and our soldiers who are one of the reasons why we’re united today.
Throughout my life, I have always been around Jews and people like me, without ever
questioning my identity. I wanted the painting to truly show how interconnected I am with
Israel, and how my love for Israel has always been a part of my life. No matter where we are,
we will always have that connection with Israel. When I went on that trip to Germany and
Israel with my fellow college friends, it truly solidified the reasons why I love Israel.