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The Wandering. Jew
How one West Bloomfield native found home in the Hummusland.
LAUREN MEIR I SPECIAL TO THE JEWISH NEWS
made the rather depressing realization that
I had spent most of my life running away, a
wandering Jew in every sense of the word. I
had no idea where I belonged.
n 2009 I made the ultimate leap of
faith: I made aliyah to Israel, the land
of milk and honey ... and hummus.
So how did I come to the decision
to uproot my life, to settle down in a place
I really only knew from prayers and news
broadcasts?
I'm neither religious nor particularly
Zionistic. Despite growing up Jewish in
West Bloomfield, I spent the better part of
my life fleeing from Judaism. Not that it
was always that way — my first memories
of Israel emerged from songs, specifically
the "Hatikvah," Israel's national anthem. I
knew it before I knew the "Star-Spangled
Banner" (which, I confess I still don't really
know or understand. For example, what are
ramparts? And why did we hail them?) By
contrast, "Hatikvah" conjures up images
of old Jerusalem, with its honey-colored
bricks, the sound of the shofar and the
scent of date trees. Between the Torah,
Zionist history and the Hebrew language,
my teachers hammered on Israel as a kind
of manifest destiny for Jews.
But at some point it became too much.
My grandparents were Holocaust survivors,
and while I was incredibly proud of them,
it seemed as if that unspoken tragedy was
always with us, in sad edges of their every
gesture. We ate with separate silverware,
and I prayed every morning in a language
I didn't really understand. All of my friends
were Jewish. I didn't even know anyone
who wasn't.
Naturally, I rebelled. I convinced my
parents to transfer me to public school.
I surrounded myself with a new clique
of friends, mostly non-Jewish. At Hillel I
would have spent the morning in prayer.
In public high school, I skipped first period
for breakfast at the local diner. After
graduation, I attended a small liberal arts
college with a Methodist background. I
was one of four Jews on campus. I dated
a lapsed Jehovah's Witness, and we ate
Hamburger Helper and Chef Boyardee while
singing Christmas carols.
I
"The Gypsy" And
The Hummusland
West Bloomfield To Pramy,
Faced with the prospect of staying in West
Bloomfield after graduation, I did what
any self-respecting young woman with a
cultural identity crisis would do: I moved
to Prague, the Czech Republic, to teach
English. I fell head-over-heels in love with
the city.
Prague is something out of a child's
imagination, a real-life Grimm's fairy tale
come true, full of dark legends and colorful
characters. The cobblestone streets, the
castles, the Gothic churches, candy-colored
buildings, and marionette-makers! The
sarcastic, beer-drinking Czech people are
hard to get to know. They have a comically
26
February 2 • 2012
Tomer and Lauren Meir in a pose from their wedding album, above, and during a
tandem bicycle excursion, below.
dark outlook on life. Thanks to communism,
religion is virtually non-existent. Needless
to say, I fit right in.
Only, why did I find myself frequently
meandering the streets of the Jewish-less
Jewish Quarter, the only "wandering Jew"
there? Why were so many of my friends
a mash-up of similarly displaced people,
including a handful of Israelis I sought out
and collected, who made me wistful for
something I couldn't articulate? Why did
I linger at the falafel stand, or join what
was arguably the smallest and most lax
Jewish congregation still operating in the
city?
After two years in Prague, I found myself
back where I had started: home in West
Bloomfield, feeling more lost than ever. I
And then I met "The Gypsy," also known as
Tomer Meir (now, my husband). He was not
only Jewish, he was Israeli, born and bred.
He was a wanderer, like me, having come
over to the United States to study, unsure
of his place after graduation.
The Gypsy turned out to be the
embodiment of everything I would later
come to love about Israel: determined,
fiercely loyal to his loved ones, true to
his values, hopeful and passionate and
optimistic that things — no matter how
dire they seemed — would be better
tomorrow. I fell hopelessly in love with
him.
It was like being in Prague, only without
the beer and wooden puppets. Together we
wandered back to what I've dubbed "The
Hummusland."
It turned out Israel and my Gypsy had
something else in common: They both
wanted me there. Israel will always love
you unconditionally. She is the ultimate
Jewish mother. She will offer you incentives
to come dwell again in the land of your
ancestors: Instant citizenship! Health care!
Tax breaks! Employment help! Discounts
on electronics! She'll do your laundry for
life! (OK, I made that last one up. But
you know she probably would). Even if
you don't want to "return" home, like the
quintessential Jewish mother, Israel will
always set an extra place for you at the
table "just in case." And then there's the
guilt, "Why don't you ever visit?" you'll
hear from time to time, from the tourism
board, Jewish organizations and, yes, even
your own mother. "You always have a home
here," she will say.
And she is right, you know.
But after wandering the world, I finally
realized the meaning of home: Home isn't
where you go; it's where you are. I had
spent my whole life searching for "home,"
and it had been right in front of me, all
along, in every song I sang as a child at
Hillel, in every bowl of matzah ball soup. I
didn't understand that until I came to live
in the land of my ancestors. And whether
I eventually return to the states or settle
down here for good, my wandering has
come to an end at last. ❑
Lauren Meir, 29, is a freelance writer
and dreamer currently residing in the
Hummusland with her Gypsy husband Tomer.
The couple live in Hod Hasharon and love to
eat hummus.