Story by Jessica Snouwaert
I followed the cobblestone streets to the first open door. Women in ankle length skirts danced in circles. I came to the city of Jerusalem to celebrate the Jewish high holidays, and this synagogue was bursting with celebration.
As I stepped into the doorway a woman grabbed my hand and swept me into the circle. We spun around as one woman stood in the center, holding a Torah scroll, and belted out in song.
I beamed as we all moved and sang. These people were complete strangers, but they greeted me with warm smiles. Had we met before? There was something so familiar in their eyes that it felt like home. It was a sense of home I felt the rest of my time in Israel.
I spent three months with my high school junior class studying in Israel that year. We hiked from the Mediteranean to the Sea of Galilee. We spent four days in a bootcamp in the desert with the Israeli Defense Forces. We travelled the country visiting holy sites, historical monuments, museums and archaeological sites.
Israel isn’t exactly your average high school field trip, but my high school wasn’t exactly your average high school. It was the American Hebrew Academy in Greensboro, N.C. – the only Pluralistic Jewish Boarding School in the U.S.
I attended AHA for four years and I learned what it means to be a leader and a Jew. AHA gave me a solid foundation for lifelong learning and molded my entire Jewish identity and relationship with Israel. AHA was not just my second home, it was my second family.
When I learned I would have the opportunity to return to Israel this summer, I started to crave its feels once again. The air, the food, the people — I was ready for all of it, I was ready to go back to Israel.
But the trip back was not like my first. Instead of learning about Israel and exploring my Jewish heritage, I was getting the chance to share it with others.
The trip was 10 days with a group of my peers from the UNC School of Media and Journalism. We were reporting about an archaeological dig site in Huqoq. I was the only student who had visited the country before, and I was the only Jew.
During the trip, our group reported about the dig site in Huqoq, visited Jerusalem, hiked Masada, and swam in the Dead Sea.
Every step of the way I had the chance to share my insight into the language, culture and history with my classmates and professors. It felt fulfilling to share my experiences and background, from translating between our group leaders and our bus driver, to explaining what a Kosher diet entails.
On the third day of the trip I walked with a few students across the kibbutz when my phone buzzed. A text read, “AHA just shutdown.”
Six years after my first trip to Israel, the school that gave me everything was suddenly gone.
I held back a flood of emotions as I walked with my classmates.
Later that evening I sat at dinner with the group, but slipped out early. My appetite was gone.
I walked out of the dining hall and didn’t stop until I reached the edge where the Kibbutz’s houses ended and the open hills began.
I could finally let it all go. Tears flooded my face as memories flickered through my head.
What would happen to my AHA houseparents? We spent two years under the same roof sharing together in Shabbat dinners and Jewish holidays. They gave advice in everything from college applications to boys. Now their world, one that used to be mine too, was turned upside down.
I sat crying until the sun set. As darkness enveloped the hills and my sobs slowed, a quiet peace came over me. I stared out at the trees dotting the hillside.
Maybe AHA was gone, but I was still here, and I was back in Israel sharing everything that AHA gave me.
