My Dad's Favorite Day of the Year

Thoughts and Reflections: Day 847 of Israel's Genocide in Gaza



My Dad's Favorite Day of the Year

Yom Ha'atzmaut. Israel's Independence Day (or so I called it at the time). 

I remember my Dad attaching the miniature Israeli flag to the window of our silver Toyota Prius. Letting it stream in the wind as he drove me to school in the morning. Rare that he would drive me to school. Rare that he would let something hang out of the window while we drove -- not worried that it would fly off, get caught on something. But this wasn't any regular day. It was Yom Haatzma'ut. The rules were different.

Bringing home falafel and shawarma wraps from Max's, the kosher restaurant in Silver Spring, and a Spring mango nectar. My favorite meal. The usual restriction on sugary drinks magically lifted. None of the typical lectures about the benefits of water compared to soft drinks, or the price advantage of tap water.

It was one of the only times he seemed happy to make us happy. Me and my brothers, that is. One of the few times I remember him being happy and eager to give me what I wanted. I really loved that shawarma and mango nectar. 

Other days, he was usually absent. Sometimes physically, always emotionally. Moody. Anger simmering never far beneath the surface. 

Mad about the life that (he felt) was ripped out from under him. His dream of making aliyah. Raising a family in Israel. 

Just because my mom got cold feet? Because she missed her parents in Baltimore?

Because she didn't want her boys to serve in the army?

Nu be'emet. Come on, really. These aren't real excuses.

We all have to do things we don't want to some times. The army's not pleasant, but everyone has to do their part. You'll get over it. 

You suck it up for a few years, and when you finish, you get a decent job, get married, settle down somewhere nice. Have shabbat meals in Jerusalem.

Grandma Tammy and Grandpa Phillip would be so proud.

** ** **

But my Mom didn't want that. So we packed it up and moved back to the U.S. Eventually, when I was sixteen, my Dad moved back to Israel. He's a lot happier there. Not the moody, depressive mess he was living in the U.S.

Now it's the Palestinians' turn to be on the receiving end of his bad moods. 


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