Two and a half years ago, I went to Israel on taglit — birthright — as a 31-year-old.
In case you don’t know, birthright is a free trip that many young Jewish people take to Israel. Taglit means “discovery,” and the program’s purpose is to help Jewish young adults aged 18-26 connect with their heritage and culture. Given the age range, it’s also often viewed by some of us in the Jewish community as an opportunity to party, which is one of the reasons I didn’t go at that age. Another was that I didn’t feel comfortable with the idea that I was allowed a free trip to Israel while Palestinian people were being denied their birthright, nor did I feel safe traveling into such a “heated” area. I won’t go further into the very complex politics, but when my best friend moved to Israel in 2018, and later met the love of her life, I knew I needed to visit her. Birthright had recently added trips for ages 27-32, so would allow me to do so on a budget, as I could get over there for free, and extend my stay for the price of a return flight. The original plan was for me to go in summer 2020, but then, you know, covid.
So it was that in July 2022, I found myself on a coach bus with 30 other Americans and 5 Israelis, driving through the desert south of Jerusalem.
Our bus group joked that it was “geriatric birthright” — full of the 27- to 32-year-olds that had passed on going in our college years or mid-20s. Most of us were well into our “adulthood,” with jobs and partners, some of us with children. So there wasn’t really a chance that any of us would hook up with an Israeli soldier or make aliyah (immigrate to Israel). A good third of the group were religious, another third were not religious but had a strong cultural Jewish identity, and the rest of us were sort of just along for the ride.
The day’s plan was to get to the Bedouin tents, where we’d eat dinner and sleep for just a few hours, then wake up while it was still dark and drive to Masada National Park to see the sunrise. After that, we’d head to the Dead Sea, and then it was on to Jerusalem, where we’d spend Shabbat.
I was interested in getting bat mitzvah-ed while we were there, which was something many half-Jewish people like me did on birthright. My sister had done it when she went after college, so I was interested too, more as a novelty than anything.
I made my way down the aisle to the front of the bus and tapped one of our trip leaders, Josh, on the shoulder.
“What’s up?” He asked, turning from the window.
“I’m interested in getting bat mitzvahed,” I said.
“Becoming bat mitzvah,” he corrected me. “But that’s great! Hold on a sec.” He stood up facing the back of the bus. “Is anyone else interested in becoming a bat or bar mitzvah while we’re in Jerusalem? If so, come see me now.”
I watched the faces look at Josh, look at me, and look at each other. A few didn’t look at all. After a beat, two others, a girl named Maridon from Salt Lake City and a guy named Jordan from the DC area, walked down the aisle towards us and sat down in the surrounding seats. Maridon had recently converted to Judaism and was quite religious, so this wasn’t just novelty for her. Jordan was half-Jewish like me.
“There’s no such thing as half-Jewish,” I remember Josh telling me, either during that conversation or during another.
“Okay,” Josh said as soon as we were all settled. “So this is how it works: I’ll give you each a line from the Torah that you’ll need to recite in Hebrew during the ceremony. I’ll give you the Hebrew, the English translation, and the Hebrew transliteration so you can practice beforehand. Other than that, you’ll need a Hebrew name.”
Maridon already had hers picked out.
Jordan’s name already had Hebrew origins.
Mine? Not so much.
“Do you have any Hebrew names in your family?” Josh asked.
“I don’t think so,” I told him, thinking about how my Ashkenazi Jewish family, originally from Russia and Romania, tended to use Yiddish words more than Hebrew. I’d only just learned a couple days before that a kippah was the same thing as a yarmulke.
“Which of your parents is Jewish?”
“My mom.”
“What’s her name?”
“Carol Jo.”
He frowned. “Okay, what about her parents?”
“Harold and Eleanor.”
The frown grew deeper.
“Do you have any aunts?”
“Rae and Billie.”
Annnnd deeper.
“Well, you can choose the name of a person from Bible whose story resonates with you,” he suggested. As an agnostic, that wouldn’t work for me. “Or, you can find a Hebrew name that you like the meaning of.” That sounded more like it.
I headed back to my seat near Daniella, Rachel, and Mai, one of the Israelis with us.
“Guys, help me figure out a Hebrew name!” I pleaded. “I want it to have a meaning.”
“What does your name mean?” Mai inquired.
“Amy means beloved.”
“That would be Ahava,” she told me.
“Like the brand?” I asked, thinking of the company that makes lotions and scrubs with Dead Sea salts.
“Yeah, I see your point,” Mai laughed. “I see you with a cool Hebrew name, something a bit more modern, you know?” She thought for a moment. “What about Gal, like Gal Gadot? It means ocean wave.”
“I like the meaning, but I kind of want it to start with an A, like Amy.”
“Hmm,” she pondered again. “Wait! What about Adva? It means little wave, like a ripple. And it’s really modern, not too common.”
Adva. I turned the word around in my head, tasted it on my tongue. The meaning tugged on my heart, making me think of my career as a teacher, the hundreds of students I’ve had the joy of connecting with.
“I love it.”
***
Two days ago I sat meditating during therapy, the pulses buzzing in my hands and ears, trying to connect deep within, where the strength of my sensitivity lies.
My mind cleared, and I saw myself as a pebble in the water, concentric circles rippling out from me to the students, friends, and family in my life, who each had their own circles too.
I smiled to myself, remembering that I am Amy, but I am Adva, too.
A small wave, a ripple, radiating ever outwards.
Writing With Abandon 