Somewhere on my way of spontaneously not showing up for my first day of law school in Canada, and instead, deciding to make aliyah, get married, and work in the Israeli non-profit sector, I ended up here, at a small place with big achievements and even bigger visions, called Ezrat Avot. I have recently begun working here as a Public Relations Assistant, and as a "hip", young woman, have been asked to begin writing a blog for Ezrat Avot's revamped website, since blogs it seems, are the new, "hip" thing to be doing these days.
Well, it seems that even here in Jerusalem, the heart of Jewish faith, observance, and philosophy, there is still some room for a little karma. With all these personal life-changing events, even before I knew I would be working at a Senior Community Center, I had been thinking a lot on where this new path in life would lead to, and how I would reflect on my choices later on down the road. I often envision myself as an old, frail woman, reflecting on the directions and destinations this strange combination of free will and divine fate has taken me. Luckily, I have now found a productive way to express these thoughts, and hopefully even hear yours.
An old man, whose tired, wrinkled face is aged by years of joy, sadness, and toil, sits patiently at the bus stop. In the chaotic midst of Jerusalem's rush hour, I stand next to him, waiting. We have both been waiting, for the same bus presumably, for over twenty minutes. Impatient, I repetitively glance at my watch, cross my arms, and shuffle back and forth, growing irritated with the bus' tardiness. I glance at the man: he sits relaxed, holds his cane loosely beside him, and tilts his face upward to feel the warmth of the sun. Maybe I will only be able to appreciate the moment, when I am uncertain if there will be a next one.
I'm inspired by his calm. I relax and wonder how he reflects on his life. Does he feel like he did his best? And what does he want to be remembered for? Certainly not for the weakness his cane represents, nor for the fragility his long, bony legs denote. Like anyone, he wants to be known for his strength, his wisdom, his success, his resilience, and his kindness. In a word, he wants to be respected.
Unfortunately, we, as young people, are often unable to see past the wrinkles, past the cane, past the old-fashioned mentality, past the weakness. We see them as what they least want to be remembered for. We define a senior's entire being only with what we can see in front of us now.
I think I really began to understand this common lapse of reason when I was mourning my grandfather, about four years ago now. As I began to apprehend the finality of his death, I realized the necessity to acquaint myself with his life. To me, it seemed as though my grandfather could have been born with thinning white hair and reading glasses. But I knew that his life comprised of so much more than I knew, and so much more than I had tried to understand.
How do we overcome the visual boundary of age? It is an appearance that prevents us from valuing the entirety of the human being, and as a result, prevents us from caring for them with the respect they deserve.
According to the National Insurance Institute of Israel, one-third of Israel's elderly lives in poverty, and over two-thirds lives alone. To be poor, hungry, immobile, and isolated is perhaps the most dreaded circumstance when I envision my old age, a time when I expect to be honored, and surrounded by love.
As we, perhaps naively, rely on the security and comfort waiting for us in our old age, what measures are we taking now to care for our impoverished and isolated seniors? This is a question that is usually never pondered seriously by our young generation, gallantly preoccupied with fighting for the ideals we want our future world to encompass. Admittedly, I too, rarely contemplated the anguish faced by today's elderly, always concerned with what the future holds for me, but rarely thinking about the links to my past.
Indeed, Israel is characterized by its youth-culture; the bulk of its social and political activism is led by the youth, and there seems to be an urgent and hurried longing to catch up to the cultural modernity of the west. How ironic that a state only fifty-eight years old, can neglect those very people who literally made this country a reality. The very pioneers, war heroes, and builders of this state are living in isolation, poverty and hunger. Can we take a moment to pause our fixation with the future and contemplate a deeper respect for the links to our past today?
