Carnival in Sderot

I had decided late the previous night that I would spend the holiday of Purim running a carnival for a high school in the city of Sderot. A few students of an Israeli Yeshiva program not so different from my own organized the program and raised money from the American Jewish community to sponsor it. For weeks, a poster on the announcement board of my Yeshiva declared "Spend Purim in Sderot!" My friend Sammy suggested that the two of us go only the day before.

My decision to participate wasn't simple. My parents didn't like the idea of my going to Sderot and I always regretted squandering the short amount of time I had at Yeshiva, but on the other hand, I wanted to spend my time charitably and this would be my first time in Sderot.

I made up my mind before going to sleep at two o'clock in the morning. I crashed into my bed fully clothed with the room light on and awoke abruptly to the sound of my alarm a mere three-and-a-half-hours later. The room lights and blaring alarm were not enough to wake my unconscious roommates who's bodies sprawled out grotesquely on uncomfortable Yeshiva mattress under late night reading material. I quickly slipped on some socks and shoes, performed the ritualistic morning washing of the hands, brushed my teeth, and set off hurriedly to morning prayer services. It was a chilly morning in the Gush Etzion and a morning fog swirled under street lamps. I began to wonder what it must be like growing up in Sderot. I wasn't nervous about the day ahead, the whole thing just seemed surreal. I arrived at the synagogue only six minutes late for prayers.

A total of six people from my Yeshiva got up for prayers at sunrise to take a bus to the Tachana Mercazit (central bus station) in Jerusalem and join the rest of the project's delegation on chartered buses to Sderot. The buses were scheduled to leave to Sderot at seven o'clock. The six of us had not been to Sderot before. Waiting for our bus to take us to Jerusalem, I sensed the unspoken apprehension in our group. Two others and I failed to turn in the required parental consent forms to the Yeshiva so it was agreed that our participation in the program would be kept a secret.

Our adventure was permeated with an air of neglect. A neglect for the cautioning advice of some friends and family, a neglect for the bureaucratic demands for parental consent, neglect for a day of learning at Yeshiva, and a neglect of the fear we might have otherwise felt. "This will be a day to remember" I thought to myself. Our bus to Jerusalem came late, but we finally arrived at the Tachana Mercazit at twenty minutes after seven.

Jerusalem's morning sun was bright and reflected abrasively off the cars and buildings. Three coach buses and about one-hundred-fifty boys and girls all wearing bright red "Carnival in Sderoth" t-shirts lined the city block. Busy crowds of socializing post-high school teens strolled between the parked coach buses. The number of boys and girls in the group seemed to be about even. As a second year student in Israel I didn't know many people. Sober and reflective thoughts distanced me from the social scene at hand. I approached a kid leaning over a garbage bag of red t-shirts and he handed me one without looking up. Everyone in the group was a student in Yeshiva, no one could have been over the age of twenty-one and no one seemed to be in charge. Buses were boarded, no questions were asked and attendance wasn't taken. "How did all these people got permission from their parents to go to Sderot?" I wondered. I sat myself down in the seat next to Sammy.

Once the buses started moving, small packets titled, "Carnival in Sderot" were given out. The first page was to be signed and handed up to the front of the buses, stating that our parents knew and agreed to our participation in the program. The "meet your staff" page had the names and phone numbers of the five kids who organized the program. Each name was followed by a few sentences that described some mundane and silly predilection of that particular person. The authors were trying hard to be funny, but their effort struck me as being amateurish and lame. There was an information sheet that described a little about the program's itinerary and lastly, the staff members had written us a letter which is recounted below:

Hey guys,
Thank you all for coming out for this once in a lifetime opportunity to do an incredible chessed for the kids of Sderot. When we get to Sderot we are going to arrive at one of the high schools there at which point the guys and girls will split up. Our goal once we get there is simple, run the best carnival ever!!!
For those of you who have never been to Sderot before there are some important things you need to know. If you hear on a loudspeaker system the words "Tzeva Adom" you have 12 seconds to quickly run for cover. Cover ideally means finding a house or building to go into or ducking behind a wall. If there is a Tzeva Adom don't be afraid to run to the nearest house and go inside. Most houses in Sderot are left unlocked just for that reason.
We suggest that in case of a Tzeva Adom you follow the Sderot kids. They've had a lot of practice with Tzeva Adoms and know exactly where to go and what to do. Remember, the most important thing, no matter what happens, DO NOT PANIC! We are going to try to give these kids an awesome time and the last thing we want to do is create an atmosphere of fear. Once again it is extremely important to remain calm at all times and just follow the residents of Sderot in case of a Tzeva Adom. After a Tzeva Adom stay under cover for a full two minutes to make sure that the coast is clear. Then come out and continue the carnival as though nothing happened.
So in summary, we're gonna have an awesome time. This is a really nice chessed. Don't forget to have fun and be safe!
-Your Staff

Two-and-a-half hours later, our buses pulled up to the Sderot high school. I saw through the bus's window a group of fifty or so male kids, seated on a rug in front of an unenthusiastic juggler who was performing feats of skill for their amusement. Teachers policed the periphery of the rug apparently to inure that the kids remained seated. The kids were mostly 9th and 10th graders. At this point one-hundred-fifty Americans, all wearing the bright red "Sderoth Carnival" t-shirts started to alight three coach buses directly in front of them. The intrigued kids stared at us intently but no words were exchanged. A teacher directed us to a room designated for the storage of our carnival goods. The entertainer seemed to take no notice of us and continued his act like nothing happened.

The female staff members in our group were directed to a sports complex behind the school to set up a separate carnival for the female students of the school. At this point it was unclear what the rest of us were supposed to be doing. A few of our male carnival staff undertook the task of unloading the boxes of raffle prizes and food into the room provided, another group started organizing the carnival games that were to be set up later and some sat down on the mat to watch the entertainer. The rest of us chatted among ourselves and loitered awkwardly. Eventually a threshold number of our staff went into the school building so that it was collectively agreed on that we all should go inside.

Our "Carnival in Sderot" consisted of cheap homemade games of skill set up on school desks in empty classrooms. "Knock down the bowling pins," "kick the soccer ball", "throw the sponge at the target," etc. We were given tickets to award winners. The next twenty minutes or so were spent setting up the booths, experimenting with how the games would work, speculating about the amount of tickets to be awarded to winners, and silently wondering how safe the building was from an incoming rocket.

We were all quiet and apprehensive for those twenty minutes, talking only about our preparations for the carnival. The silence that we shared was the silence of feeling out of place. The absurdity of the day suddenly became strikingly apparent to me. Here we were, a group of flagrant Americans, in a foreign culture, running a grossly overstaffed carnival for kids only a few years younger than us, armed with games rudely inappropriate for their age and with a staff that hardly spoke Hebrew well enough to communicate. "So here we go," I thought "a day to remember." The eerie minutes dragged on.

When the Sderot kids finally arrived they came fast and hard. Tens of high school boys charged up the stairs and stormed the hallways into the classrooms where we were waiting. They hardly noticed us as they pounced the booths and balls like a dessert table buffet. Almost instantly objects were being hurled in all directions, people were shoving people out of lines and our carnival descended into anarchy.

The position I assumed at a "throw a basketball into a garbage can" booth was compromised when the attendants became engaged in a water fight with the neighboring "throw the sponge at the target" booth. When I was challenged to an arm wrestle by one of the kids, I was happy to take down the basketball poster on the desk and convert it into a more popular "winner moves on" arm wrestling booth. I don't think any tickets were actually given out in that carnival. Our red-shirted staff quickly became completely irrelevant to the frantic free-for-all that unfolded.

After a half-hour or so, some of our group started to migrate back outside. There, two massive speakers blasted electronic music at a painfully loud volume as if trying to relegate any semblance of peace and quiet from the grounds. The Carnival's entertainer was busy transporting his boxes of juggling equipment to the girls' side of the carnival for his second performance and we helped him.

It was a hot day in southern Israel and the carnival organizers had the foresight to bring a water bottle and a sandwich for each of its staff members. Sammy and I escaped to the designated storage room for some respite from the discord and disarray around us. Some of the kids from Sderot caught sight of the food and prizes in the storage room and took off with what they could carry. Sammy and I bolted the door behind them after they left. The sandwiches that were brought with us tasted terrible. Despite my hunger I only managed to eat a little of it. I don't think the kids at our Carnival were provided with any lunch that day.

By this time the distinction between the male and female Carnivals had dissipated. Most of the older Sderot kids had gone home and the younger kids amused themselves by throwing firecrackers at passers-by and running away from the infuriated teachers. The whole of the red-shirted staff, both boys and girls, gathered around, apparently engrossed in the juggler's second act.
The cumulative effect of the bright sun, hunger, and sleep deprivation had finally caught up with me. I no longer knew how to internalize what I was experiencing. Everything seemed fake and surreal. Dazed and drained I overlooked a sea of American boys and girls, socializing in English loudly amongst themselves, while receiving juggling instruction from the entertainer. Balls were flying, disks were spinning, poles were being balanced and our staff seemed to be having a wonderful time. I was thoroughly awed. Sammy came up behind me and said in the style of a news headline, "A Group of One-Hundred and Fifty Americans, Brave Kassams to turn Sderot into a Massive Social Scene." The only thing that kept Sammy and me from hitchhiking our way back to Jerusalem was guilt about not helping the other staff members clean up after the carnival.

At one point I noticed some younger high school girls from Sderot, laughing at some of our staff trying to learn how to walk on short stilts that the entertainer had provided. I found my legs taking me over in the direction of the girls. One of the girls, whose name was Dalit, was quick to tell me that her leg had been injured a few months ago by a Kassam that hit her house. I wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. "What do you think about the carnival?" I asked. "It's nice," she answered unenthusiastically. I tried to make some small talked, but wasn't very successful. I sat down on the ground next to the girls, feeling helpless in my attempt to connect. At that point a firecracker went off not far from us and the Dalit called fearfully for her mother.

Another hour passed and the entertainer finished his act for a second time. Teachers began circulating the school grounds trying to sell tickets to the children for the upcoming raffle. The tickets were being sold for a shekel apiece, roughly one American quarter. No one seemed to be buying. The money collected from ticket sales at a Shekel apiece meant little to the charity for which the money was being collected, but was enough to make the impoverished children of Sderot who didn't win, resentful for having participated.

At this point, our entire carnival staff and the remaining kids from Sderot, not more than forty boys and girls, made their way to the speaker area in front of the school that was now set up with chairs in front of a stage. One of the program's organizers, a red-shirted staff member, got on the stage with a microphone and at an overpowering volume administered the raffle while the teachers fought desperately to keep the kids seated and more or less quiet. At one point during the raffle, a kid from Sderot who was older than most, squirted an American staff member with a little squirt gun. The staff member retaliated playfully by pouring some water from his water bottle onto the guy that squirted him. In anger, the kid with the squirt gun picked up the nearest chair and hurled it violently at the staff member. Instantly, three teachers jumped on the kid to restrain him and remove him from the Carnival. The staff member wasn't hurt. The Israeli kid resisted and argued with his teacher escorts while the staff member laughed the whole thing off with his friends nearby. Our raffle that day provided the impoverished and terrorized city of Sderoth with soccer Jerseys, plastic board games, an Epson printer and an expensive new bicycle without a bike lock.

During the raffle, I noticed a kid watching from afar. He was wearing tight jeans and a green plaid vest over his scrawny upper body. His hair was spiked into a short mohawk and he had a nose ring. He must have been in 10th or 11th grade. I approached him. "What's your name?" I asked. "Yona" he replied meekly. "What do you think of the Carnival?" I asked. "Its fine," he shrugged. "Why didn't you participate in the raffle?" "I never win anything" Yona replied, "I have bad luck." "Me too," I said. "Where are you from?" Yona asked me suddenly. "New York" I replied. "Have you met 50 Cent?" he asked excitedly. "I never did" I said apologetically, recognizing the name of the rapper. He seemed a little disappointed. I asked what kind of music he likes and he demonstrated for me by taking out his cell phone and playing songs in my ear. I bobbed my head along with him and intimated that I was enjoying the techno and rap songs I was vaguely familiar with. Sammy joined Yona and me shortly after, and another kid from Sderot named Arik joined us as well. The four of us chatted warmly as if we had been old friends. At a certain point the conversation turned to the situation in Sderot. We told them how sick we feel about what happened to their city and how strong we think they are. "I don't understand how anyone in this country can be a leftist" Yona said to me with a pained sincerity in his eyes. "I know" was all I knew how to respond. A pair of well dressed American girls walked by and shot the four of us an unfriendly glance.

When it finally came time to leave, Sammy and I said good-bye to Yona and Arik and we exchanged hugs. Our staff efficiently cleaned up after the mess we brought with us and we received heartfelt thanks from the teachers at the school. Before boarding the buses to return to Jerusalem, we were called by the program organizers to get together for a group picture for some community newspaper. I didn't want to be in the picture, but so as to avoid any attention, I gathered with everyone else and ducked behind people out of sight when the photo was taken. The ride home on the buses was cheery. We were told by one of the program organizers how amazing a job we did and that we should all be really proud of ourselves.

Sitting on that bus, my head felt like it was spinning. I was deliriously tired, hungry and depressed about the day's events. I had managed to lose an entire day of Yeshiva and accomplish nothing for the people of Sderot. Our group arrived there as fearless, heroic Americans, we generously showered the residents of Sderot with unwanted gifts, judged them for being rowdier, angrier and less religious than ourselves and left the way we came. I suddenly became overwhelmed by the immensity of the failure I had just witnessed. The only thing that our group of one-hundred and fifty well-off Americans carried with us that these people wanted was simple concern and empathy. Instead, we tried to alleviate their suffering with sterile generosity and impersonal services. Our "American benevolence" did nothing for the heartbreaking condition of these people, trapped by their poverty in a hellish inferno, ignored and isolated from the rest of Israel and the rest of the world.

On the bus it occurred to me that this Carnival offered much less for the residents of Sderot than it did for us, a group of pampered American Jews who never suffered a day in our lives. Instead of being inspired by those hallowed grounds, we were so caught up in our own heroism and charity that we disgraced them. These heroes of Sderot, members of a community staggeringly dissimilar from our own, offered us a deep insight into the depth of the human condition and the powerful bonds of humanity that unite us. We assumed an air superiority and failed to learn.

At a time when a handful of rockets were falling every day in Sderot, not one fell during our four-hour Carnival. I often wonder how we would have panicked had the siren gone off. I wish that the Sderot kids would have had the opportunity to direct us to the nearest cover and if a rocket fell nearby inspire us with their tried resilience in the face of the explosion.

Life in Sderot is horrific and unimaginable, but the horrific and an unimaginable might have been a valuable experience for our naïve group. I have since returned to Sderot and I know firsthand that the short span of seconds before the thud of a rocket, frozen in time, where the individual faces the utter powerlessness and mortality of his condition are most formative.

On the bus, I wished to be able to go back and have a second chance at that day. If I could have done it over again, I would have taken off that hideous red t-shirt of American superiority and given it to Dalit so she could be a staff member instead me. I would have told Yona to gather his friends together so that Sammy and I could treat them for lunch in downtown Sderot. I would have intentionally missed the bus back to Jerusalem so I could spend as much time as possible with these lonely people, hear their stories, laugh with them and cry with them. I would have tried to feel the pervasive emptiness that hangs heavy over the city. I would have walked those deserted streets and breathed in deep the air of solemnity that permeates them. I would have taken part in the horrible anxiety of a people. I would have been more aware of the poverty, loneliness and fear which the residents there carry. I would have appreciated those few people, some brave and some desperate, who venture outside their homes in the late afternoon when the most rockets fall. I would have watched a city's absurd fight for a semblance of normalcy. If a family of total strangers offered me a place to stay for the night, I would have gratefully accepted. Before I left I would have taken the phone numbers of Yona and Arik so I could invite them to my Yeshiva for a Shabbat together in the Gush.

I have been to Sderot many times since that Carnival but I never again found Yona and Arik. Their faces haunt my memory and I pray I will see them again.
It's not easy to justify putting oneself in danger or ignoring the wishes of protective parents, but the rare experience that offers a deeper understanding of the human condition, or the sharing of powerful emotion or empathy with a complete stranger is the best I can offer. The carnival in Sderot taught me the importance of looking out for and being prepared for the rare defining experiences that arise in a lifetime. It inspired me to demand of myself absolute sincerity in my charity. It made me interrogate my soul to insure that I never give money as a way of shirking real empathy or just to feel benevolent. It taught me to brave the emotional investments of deep concern and raw human contact with people less fortunate than myself. These encounters embody a triumph of humanity over the stiff impersonal winds of natural law and frightening uncertainty. These moments are the treasures tucked away in the shadowy folds of life and we must never renounce them.