By Alexandra Friedlander
I hug Liel and Shani and wipe the tears off their faces, though mine are flowing freely. Then I turned to Lian and her twin Yarin. Lian tells me through her tears, “I will never forget you, you have been like a sister to me.” There are many places where I belong–my bedroom, the lake at summer camp, my maternal grandfather’s cozy sofa in his little apartment outside of Athens, my paternal grandparents’ home in Caracas, riding my great uncle’s tractor on the kibbutz in Beer Tuvia–but I felt that I especially belonged in this little foster village in Carmiel, Israel because I had made a difference in these children’s lives and they touched mine. We had shared our stories.
Last spring break, I went on a volunteer service trip to The Children’s Village in Israel, sponsored by a Pittsburgh organization called Classrooms without Borders. The Children’s Village is home to over twenty foster-family units with about 10-12 underprivileged children in each family, ranging in age from 3 to 18. The children are taken out of poor or unfit homes, some abused or orphaned or without any means of getting an education. The children are counseled by social workers and placed in the Village by the Israeli government. They are welcomed by married foster parents who dedicate a solid 5-6 years of their lives to taking care of them. The foster parents do all they can to make the kids feel at home. They take them to school, eat meals with them, help them with homework, and make them feel like they are part of a loving household.
I felt an incredible sense of belonging living in this community, but I felt awkward when I first arrived. The director of Classrooms without Borders, Dr. Tzipora Gur, had known that we needed to break some cultural barriers in order to really do some good when we met the kids so we took classes before leaving. Even after these classes, on the first day in the village, I felt like a stranger, not part of these kids’ culture or lives. I felt awkward and unsure of myself. The kids in my mishpachton, or family unit, spoke broken English, so to communicate we had to use Google Translate a lot of the time. I noticed what was different: the thin toilet paper, the smaller cars, the two buttons to flush on the toilets, the fact that I couldn’t drink water out of the faucet.
In the house, there were two biological parents, two of their biological kids under three, and ten foster kids ranging from age nine to eighteen. I spent every afternoon after school with the kids and their family, until their bedtime at 10:00. I helped them with their English homework and household chores, and tried to give them the attention it’s hard to get when you are one of twelve kids. At beginning, there were some who were more aggressive about getting attention from me, while others, including Liel who was my age, held back. Ironically, she and I created the strongest bond. I knew I had to break through heer shell, so I waited until we were doing the dishes and asked her what her favorite show was. Once I got her talking about the TV show Pretty Little Liars, her shyness fell away and we became great friends. She confided that her mother was a prostitute and her father was an addict, so she came to the mishpachton when she was eight. She asked me about my life in the US. An eleven year old named Zohar also told me his story. His mother left him, then his grandmother died, then his father became abusive. Despite his rough past, he is the happiest, strongest person I know. The fact they trusted me with their lives and their stories made me feel I was part of the the family.
As a result of belonging to the mishpachton, I have gained a privilege, a responsibility, and a challenge. It was a privilege to be part of their lives and trusted with their stories and experiences. Some kids just wanted to play and have someone to spend quality time with. But many wanted me to hear their stories about what happened in their lives and how they ended up at the village. I keep their stories close to me and will never forget what they said. It was a truly a great honor and privilege just to be trusted by these amazing, inspiring kids. My greatest responsibility was to listen to people’s stories, as hard as it was sometimes because of their difficult and sad past. For example, when Zohar told his story, I was trying hard not to cry, but I realized that my tears might have made him stop talking. My responsibility was to him, not to me. Everyone needs to be heard. The challenge from this trip was to remember to always put things into perspective. Back at home, I told my friends, family, and teachers about the transformative experience that I had in Carmiel and my shifted perspective on privilege. But I still get caught up in my own worries and it’s challenging to remember that the kids in Carmiel only got one pair of used shoes a year.
On the last day, after I said goodbye to all of the kids, the two parents met me outside and told me that they had never had a student who made an impact on these kids the way I had. The truth is they made an impact on me.