Levels of Indebtedness

A few short steps from my parent's home in Westport, CT is a largely-ignored statue of a Minuteman kneeling with his musket held at the ready.  The statue is strategically placed near the spot where about 2000 British troops came ashore in 1777 on their way to burn the Continental military stores in Danbury.

I can't tell you how many times I've looked at that statue and tried to muster a sense of sadness, or even gratitude... especially around memorial day or the 4th of July.   The wonderful freedoms with which I was raised were bought and paid for by local men like the one represented by the statue ... men who fought and died in the service of their fledgling country.  Yet even memorial day, with it's parades full of aging veterans and flag-dappled cemeteries smelled too much like charcoal and suntan lotion for me to locate that elusive sense of sadness or thanks.

Introspection was never my strong suit, so these small failures to conjure a sense of personal or national gratitude never really cost me very much.  Even after I becoming a veteran of four years service in the navy I couldn't come up with anything close to the emotion that the somber-voiced TV announcements said I should feel on memorial day.

The best I could do was a vague sense of pride at my own small contribution... but no real sense of connectedness to anyone or anything else.

Then I moved to Israel and quickly discovered a few sobering truths. 

First and foremost came the realization that while the War of Independence my local bronze minuteman had fought had ended in 1783 with a formal surrender by the British... Israel's War of Independence is still going on, with no end in sight.

Second, I began to figure out that the emotion I had been trying to tap into was not sadness or gratitude, but indebtedness... and debt isn't something felt equally at all levels.

Take for example a lifelong welfare recipient.  Most or all of what he/she possesses in life can be directly attributed to the monthly checks that magically appear in the mailbox or are deposited directly into the bank.  Under these circumstances, even the most sincere person would be hard pressed to locate a true sense of gratitude after living their whole life on the dole. 

Now think about a close-knit extended family where some relations are fabulously wealthy and others are barely scraping by.  Being family and all, whenever a helping hand is needed funds quietly change hands, food and furniture appear out of nowhere... and debts that can never be repaid lay heavily on the hearts of the poorer relations.

Going out for family dinners amidst such financial disparity is challenging since propriety demands that everyone make a show of grabbing for the check at the end of the meal.  But the poorer relations secretly pray that they will be spared the 'privelege' of picking up the tab and sit terrified at the prospect of having to have to turn out their pockets... and come up short.

Israelis... and by this I mean each individual Israeli... are not welfare recipients, but rather are more like both the rich and poor members of the family.  In the heart of each Israeli beats the boundless gratitude for a bountiful new Jewish country built and defended by a nation of self-made men and women.  Yet in the same heart is the deep shame and trepidation at silently hoping against hope that the check for enjoying such a sumptuous repast be presented to someone... anyone else.

Unfortunately, everyone in the country knows, or is related, to someone who has had to pay the check.  Rare is the Israeli family or neighborhood that hasn't witnessed or experienced the knock at the door... the terrible unspoken message from the officers standing there. 

The relative levels of indebtedness are the key to why the welfare recipients feel little or no sense of personal gratitude... and the poor relations live night and day with a mix of pride and shame at wanting to pay their way, but fearing that the price may be more than they can bear.

In the US I lived in blissful ignorance... safely separated from the men and women who had selflessly picked up the check for me.  The newspaper stories, history lessons and parades meant to remind me that I had been living my whole life at someone else's expense were far too neat and sterile... like a welfare check deposited directly into a numbered account... and only served to insulate me from any sense of indebtedness.  And the smell of burgers and 'dogs sizzling over charcoal put paid to any hopes of thoughtful introspection.

However, in Israel the sense of indebtedness is inescapable.  Those that have taken their chance in uniform and come home unscathed live with low level survivor's guilt.  The great equalizer may have left them untouched to enjoy the meal, but children of the well born and poor alike sleep side by side and are visited by families that are truly equals, if only in their grief. 

These are the people to whom the check was presented... at whose expense we Israelis enjoy our bounty.  We can reach for our wallets and feign our readiness to pay, but we secretly, shamefully sigh with relief when other, colder hands grasp the check.

This level of indebtedness can't be ignored. 

Israelis don't need to look deeply at a statue and hope for inspiration in order to find a fleeting sense of this debt.  The weigh of it is evident in the tear-streaked faces of friends and neighbors to whom the bill came due.  It is there in the wail of the siren as all across the country people stand by silent cars, desks and graves and weep openly at the terrible price of this repast we continue to enjoy.

Yet as incomprehensible as it may seem to an outsider, we do manage to enjoy the meal.  We accomplish this through the trick of paying in advance.

Just as a glass is broken before the first shout of 'Mazal Tov' sounds at a Jewish wedding, so too we temper the joy of our Independence day by spending the preceding day contemplating shattered lives... and examining our debt.

Tomorrow we will head out to cook our burgers and 'dogs with family and friends.  We will play games, drink too much and come home with the season's first sunburn for our carelessness.  To an outsider our Independence Day will look strangely similar to the way others mark the 4th of July, Cinco De Mayo or Bastille Day. 

But those are all celebrations of a comfortable life lived at the expense of a nameless, faceless benefactor... a national welfare of sorts. There is little tangible sense of indebtedness beyond a dusty history lesson and an annual parade.

We Israelis don't need to open history books, watch parades or look at statues to conjure the ghosts of our benefactors.  We were raised by them... grew up with them... went to school with them... gave birth to them and watched them play in the local parks.  We see them on the walls of our friends homes... and sometimes on our own.  They were rich and poor... native born and recent immigrant... young and old. 

We all ate together.  Some were left to pay the check... and everyone else feels indebted.