I'm Leaving on a Jet Plane

When I told Dad that I was going on a trip to Kazakhstan, he was surprised -- until I said it was a service project. Social action is simply what I do: delivering Meals on Wheels in middle school, leading Interact in high school, volunteering at the HUC Soup Kitchen with Kesher, leading the social action component of Project FEED. I ran for Hillel president because I believe that we are all responsible for one another, because I feel obligated to give back.

I didn't think (as odd as it might sound) that this trip to Kazakhstan would be any different. It was volunteering, it was Jewish, it was peer-led -- of course I was going and of course I would have a great time.

I was excited to see new places and meet new people. I was terrified to try to keep kosher in Central Asia. I was thrilled to get the chance to do what I've always loved. But, community service is nothing new for me, so it didn't dawn on me that this trip would be anything out of the ordinary, beyond my bizarre destination.

I didn't expect my outlook to change. I've helped the elderly in the US so often -- I didn't realize that helping the elderly in Kazakhstan would affirm my commitment to doing what I can for others as never before. Volunteering used to be my norm, but now I know that my actions can be a way to reach, to strive, to go beyond what is expected. Scrubbing walls, smiling, and delivering meals took on a deeper meaning for me in Kazakhstan. I didn't just feel warm and fuzzy because I'd helped someone; I felt energized as I realized my own blessings. I felt truly connected to something holy as I realized how alike we all are. I felt as if I finally understood why it is better to give than to receive.

I went halfway around the world to discover that joy and humanity can be found anywhere. I spent 32 hours on airplanes to remember how much value one moment can have. I left what I've always known to revive the purpose of what I've been doing all along.

As Borat would say, I like.

Wherever You Go

I've said it a million times, but today it finally clicked: this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I went horseback riding in the hills of Central Asia today. I went swimming with no fear, and sat in a sauna with Kazakhstani teenagers. I davened at a campsite alongside my Orthodox, rainbow-haired friend, and I was so absorbed by my prayers and the sunshine that I didn't mind hearing the Black Eyed Peas blasting in the background.

I learned what it's like to have kashrut tested today. We asked for vegetarian meals, our noodles arrived, and -- halfway through the meal -- I found a piece of meat on my plate. I didn't eat any, to my knowledge, and I immediately pushed my plate away, but I still felt awful. Guilty. Disappointed. Angry. Worried.

So I prayed. I resolved to keep trying. I reminded myself that I keep kosher to connect with G-d and to find moments of holiness -- and this brush with trayfe had allowed me to pray and refocus and pause my day, so I'd still accomplished something. Onward and upward.

I've seen how important a Jewish community can be. I've realized how impactful one helping hand can be. And I'm ready to go home.

Dairy products, baked goods, and drinkable tap water, here I come.

Things I Learned Today

• Language barriers make me feel incredibly dumb. There is no doubt in my mind that the 2 Kazakhstani girls in my work group talked about me at lunch, and the phrase "stupid American" was used.
• I don't care if your country has oil; I don't care how big your nation is, or how corrupt your democracy is. If you cannot flush toilet paper in your toilets (hence the name of TP, no???), you're not exactly advanced in my eyes.
• Boys are ridiculous everywhere, and, somehow, awful come-ons are universal. The Kazakhstanis have a "dance party" every night; smoking and drinking is involved, so I politely decline. One of the boys just came into our cabin to recruit more people to join the party, and I told him that I was tired, so I wasn't going to go. His reply? "Do you know...massage? Is this right word? If tomorrow you cannot come to party because tired, I can massage." Either Jewish boys have some kind of inherent ego-inflater, or our AEPi guys are rubbing off on the Kazakhstani boys.
• Smoking is not good for you; Kazakhstanis do not understand this. In our 4 hour volunteer shift this morning, Ruslan had easily 15 cigarettes. James tried to explain what cancer is; I simply said that cigarettes will kill you (bluntness seems to work better when you're working with a very small common vocabulary set). Ruslan laughed, though, and explained to us stupid Americanskys that 3 or 4 cigarettes a day aren't so bad.

Gila gave us packets today during our group reflection; on the front was a quote from Pirkei Avot: "It is not your job to finish the task, but you are not free to desist from it." Thank you, G-d, for lightbulb moments.

Earlier today, Ruslan asked James and I why we were here...volunteering isn't popular in Kazakhstan, he scoffed, because you should take care of yourself first. I mumbled something about needing to give before you can take, and marched angrily up the stairs of the apartment building that we were visiting. I was about to explode with frustration, with anger at my peers' selfishness, when I was handed a scrub brush and a bucket of soapy water.

"Spaseba," I said. Thank you. And I meant it.

I will scrub these walls until they shine like the top of the Chrysler Building. I will help this lonely old woman as best as I can, even if I don't speak Russian. I will try. I will work hard. I will keep kosher in this godforsaken land. I will hope, even if you give me every reason not to, thank you very much. I will pray and believe and struggle and challenge and yearn. I will love. I will care, no thanks to you.

Spaseba. Yeish tikvah.

30 Hours Later

I flew over the Atlantic Ocean and continental Europe. I walked through Kiev, ate at a strange diner dedicated to Depeche Mode, and saw how much America's community service has influenced the Ukraine. I ate apple crepes and read magazines. I suffered through 30 hours of transit. I was excited to get to Kazakhstan.

Then we went to Babi Yar.

Our tour guide, an active member of Kiev's Hillel, told us matter-of-factly how Kiev's Jews were brutally murdered in the spot where we stood 70 years ago. There are cyprus trees now, and evergreens, where my people were killed. I wanted to cry, but the pain was so raw that I couldn't: we walked to the edge of the ravine where Jews, just like us, were lined up and shot, and James asked in bewilderment, "Wait, there are bodies down there?"

We said Yizkor and Kaddish and read poetry mourning the loss of so many beautiful lives. I closed my eyes and crossed my arms tight as I recited the Aramaic words quietly; the sun was shining, and I desperately wanted to ignore the beauty of the spot, so that I could properly remember those lost at Babi Yar. It seemed profane for the breeze to blow, for birds to chirp, for life to carry on unaffected where such evil had happened.

James said our prayers made him feel better, that they were our way of telling the Nazis and their Final Solution to fuck off: Here we are, praying and living and thriving; here we are, despite what you thought this massacre would achieve.

But I wasn't comforted. Our prayers seemed like one drop in a giant, empty bucket. When we reached the end of the pathway leading to the ravine, a young Ukrainian woman walked by on the sidewalk, chatting on her cell phone, totally unaware. How often, I wondered in horror, have I walked by an atrocity unknowingly? How often have I stood idly by? Is our best effort not enough?

Today, in Almaty, the head of the JDC in Kazakhstan was asked what the biggest challenges are for the Kazakhstani Jewish community. I expected him to say reintroducing lost culture, or a lack of money, or anti-Semitism.

"The youth," he immediately replied. It's extremely difficult, he explained, to find young Jews who are willing to get involved and to take action to shape their community.

I sucked in my breath sharply, and the rest of his words blurred together in my ears as I sat in shock. Are you kidding me??? I flew halfway around the world to help this community, to gain inspiration, to be reminded of the blessings of being an American Jew. I was sure that the NYU community -- despite its inability to get liberal Jews in the door, its red tape, its shaky pluralism and solid cliques -- was superior to what I would find in Kazakhstan. But now I've been told that Jews in Central Asia have the same major problem that we do in NYC. We are no better. We cannot help them solve their problems.

I'm embarrassed. I'm angry and sad and confused and frustrated and exhausted. Apparently, the only leg up that we American Jews have on Kazakhstanis is that our toilets can handle flushing TP.

Our generation of Jews, and those that will follow, are in so much more trouble than I thought - no matter the country, economic standing, political dogma, or religious practice, we cannot seem to organize. My peers, worldwide, seem to have trouble giving a damn. Not enough of us are willing to step up to the plate, to take a risk, to make a difference.

Going to sleep off my disappointment and hoping that tomorrow's volunteering will change my mind. There's so much to be done - and 20 stupid Americans crazy enough to come to Kazakhstan can't do it alone.

Yeish tikvah?