Some people like to read on long bus rides. When I'm
traveling, I like to dream -- not with closed eyes but,
rather, as I gaze out at the exhilirating vistas which whiz
by. Green expanses and fragrant fields particularly
invigorate me, and stir up memories of the days when I was
young and ambitious.
What were my ambitions then? Thirty-eight years ago, before I
had twelve children and twenty-five grandchildren, shyichu
v'yirbu, I had hoped to eventually `go out to the
fields', that is, some settlement in a remote area, and
spread Torah ideals to their residents.
This ambition was sparked by a teacher who taught me at the
time. Actually, she never spoke about such activity, but her
shiurim in Tanach were so inspiring that her
students simply felt they had to spread her messages. These
messages have guided me throughout my life and still clearly
ring in my ears, my heart and my mind. This teacher is a
native Yerushalmi, but she has been living in a development
town for the past few decades, where her home, as well as the
school she heads, and her husband's yeshiva, are all beacons
which illuminate the entire region.
Although I wasn't able to make good on that dream, it is
being realized by my married children who live in distant
development towns and out-of-town chareidi settlements and
housing projects.
How do young couples, who were raised in large, centrally
located cities such as Yerusholayim and Bnei Brak, manage
when they live out of town? How do such experiences
contribute to their growth?
My oldest daughter, Chashi, was only eighteen when she got
married. I assumed that she would come for lunch the day
after sheva brochos had ended, but she had ideas of
her own. At two in the afternoon of that day, she called me
and said, "Ima, guess what I made for lunch?"
"I'm all ears," I replied.
"For entrees, I made ice-cold gazpacho soup, marinated string
beans, summer squash quiche, fish and tarragon sauce. The
main course is a bit simple: chicken spiced with saffron,
princess potatoes with a dash of nutmeg and baby carrots with
prunes and cinnamon. For dessert, we'll have chocolate mousse
topped with mint sprigs."
"But Ima," she then added before I had time to take out my
dictionary. "I don't have any black pepper in the house, and
the stores are closed. Can you send Deenush over with a
teaspoon of pepper?"
Pepper, my foot! I told myself. What she wants is
some tsoomie (the Israeli brand of Tender Loving
Care). And she deserves it after such an effort.
"Motek, it'll take about half an hour to get to your
house on Rechov Tzefania, provided that the bus comes on
time. Can you wait that long?"
"Yes, Shmulik won't be home until 2:30. Besides, we wanted to
unwrap a few presents before eating lunch. Deenush can eat
here, too. There's plenty," she breathlessly replied.
And so I sent Deenush all the way from Givat Shaul to Geula
with a container of tsoomie -- I mean, pepper.
Two weeks later, we bade Chashi and her husband farewell
before they moved to Petachya, a development town in the
south. The dinner in their honor was standard festive: six
salads, chopped liver, chicken soup with kneidlach,
shnitzel, rice, peas and canned peach halves. No quiches and
not a pinch of nutmeg. As I said, I don't have a culinary
dictionary.
Then they were off.
Although the N'Shei Petachya hospitality committee greeted
them with flowers, baked goods, beruchim habaim signs
and a warm lunch, Chashi still felt lonely.
It was summer and she hadn't started working yet. In the
evenings, when he husband was still in kollel, she would
listen to the coyotes who wailed in the distance, and
cry.
She certainly couldn't make quiches every day, since the
local grocery had very few items with good supervisions.
Aware as I was of her need for T.L.C., I couldn't very well
send Deenush on a three-and-a-half hour trip just to bring
Chashi black pepper whenever she ran out of it.
Actually, Petachya's chareidi housewives purchased their food
commodities, including their milk products, in a
mehadrin supermarket in Beer Sheva, forty minutes away
from their settlement. As a result, Chashi quickly learned
how to organize her weekly shopping.
To ease her loneliness, especially in the evenings, even
though her husband came home at 8:30 every night during his
first year of married life, we sent her tapes and oil
paints.
However, once school opened, things changed. She was the
region's only chareidi kindergarten teacher and her job kept
her busy many hours a day. Since she had gotten married
before completing seminary, she had to take supplementary
courses in education in a Bais Yaakov seminary in another
town in order to be eligible for this job. Taking those
courses built her self esteem.
Soon she shed her natural shyness and became a self-
confident young woman. I guess the turnabout in her behavior
and attitude came after her first parent- teacher's meeting
with mothers at least eight to ten years her senior.
Before long, Shmulik began inviting Russians for Shabbos, and
some weeks Chashi cooked for ten guests at a time. Forget
the quiches, Harabbanit. We like meat and potatoes.
Apparently, those fields beckoned to her, too, and eventually
she joined a group of women who visited surrounding
settlements on behalf of Lev L'Achim on a weekly basis. On
other evenings, she would participate in correspondence
courses on hilchos Shabbos and shemiras
haloshon.
During their stay in Petachya, Chashi participated in the
outreach projects of various organizations. Shmulik, on the
other hand, helped illuminate the Negev by focusing on his
Torah study.
"Had I remained in Yerusholayim," she once confided, "I would
probably have visited you every night instead of studying the
halochos and doing Kiruv work."
Fourteen years later, they returned to Yerusholayim where
Shmulik was offered a position as a mashgiach in a
yeshiva. During those fourteen years, Chashi had become self
sufficient, a model mother, an efficient baalebusta and an
expert kindergarten teacher, while Shmulik had blossomed into
a genuine talmid chochom. Their children had no
problems adjusting to their new educational frameworks, yet
they remained in touch with their former friends.
When the family was in Petachya, I would ask the children,
"Where are you going this summer? To Savta Givat Shaul and
Savta Bayit Vegan?"
After they moved, I'd ask, "Where are you going this summer?
To Petachya, to visit your body-and-soul friends?"
*
When I first told my son, Dovid, that we planned to buy him
an apartment out of town, he responded with a polite,
"Ugh."
At that time, the idea of buying one's children apartments
out of town was still novel in our sheltered circles, and I
suppose Dovid was stymied by the suggestion. The fact that
Avrumi Cohen, one of his best friends, had bought an
apartment there, too, made him feel a bit better.
We were the sixty-fifth family to purchase an apartment in
this project which was still in the blueprint stages. Today
it boasts thousands of satisfied young families, and Dovid
wouldn't dream of living elsewhere.
When it became difficult for his wife to travel to work in
Yerusholayim, she devised her own means for earning a
livelihood so that her husband could continue to study in
kollel.
For a while, she sold homemade salads, kugels and natural
juices. Then she ran a small baby care center. When these
endeavors proved inconvenient or unprofitable, she opened a
computerized secretarial agency.
All these efforts, some of which succeeded, others which
didn't, enabled them to become acquainted with nearly
everyone in the neighborhood and to feel part of the
community.
My son also found a way of contributing to the family's
income while continuing to study. Currently, he teaches in a
special outreach program which begins at 9:00 p.m., after the
last session in kollel has ended.
Living out of town brought out the best in them!
*
My recently married son, Yoisef, lives and learns in Elad.
His wife, Brocha, is a teacher in a village near Chadera,
which is an hour's ride away. She gets up every morning at
six, and after davening, catches a special van which
takes her to school. When she comes home, she cleans, cooks,
bakes and prepares lessons. But she was always industrious,
even as a young girl.
And so, as I hop on a bus to visit an out-of-towner, I gaze
out the window and tell myself, "It's never too late. Maybe
one day, when I've retired, I'll be able to realize my
dream."
To my family in the U.S., I am far more than an out-of-
towner. Actually, thirty-eight years ago, the burgeoning
chareidi neighborhood in which I have been living ever since
I arrived in Eretz Yisroel, was located just a few kilometers
from the Jordanian border. Apparently, once upon a time, I,
too, was a pioneer.
