"Only in Israel"

I've titled this entry "only in Israel", because a few things have happened to me lately that left me repeating this phrase to myself. Usually when anything mildly odd happens around here - like the winner of the general election not being made PM, or when elderly women with two walking sticks and a guide dog get pushed over on the bus by two rogue religious boys - people say the phrase tiringly to themselves.

Last week, on my way to work, I ran for a bus that was slowly making a getaway from my stop. Somehow I just about made it but the bus driver wouldn't let me on. I knocked on the door, but was ignored... so I flouted all British rules of etiquette and thudded rather hard on his windscreen. I could see he was shouting something angrily at me, but the sturdy pain of glass between us obscured his message. Realising I had no idea what he was saying, he shook his fist at me before pointing in front of us. Somehow it had escaped my notice that three police vans had pulled up and were blocking the road. I looked around to discover that the whole street was set to 'pause'. Everyone was stationary, staring at the vans. Ten minutes later, a robot exited one of the vehicles - the machines used to investigate suspect objects by the police and army.

Everyone was searching for the 'object' in question, but it was too far away to make out. The robot made it's way down the road to check it out. For half an hour, the road was silent. Some local residents had exited their flats, concerned about a possible threat. After 45 minutes, the bus driver finally let me on the bus, but not without some severe eyebrow furrowing. The police wouldn't tell anyone anything, and after an hour, the bus started moving. My eyes were glued to the window, searching for the suspect object as we were edging closer to it. I finally clocked it. A discard microwave, deposited on the road side. I couldn't believe it. One person gets a new microwave, and the rest of the street has to know about it. Forget the fact that people are usually on high alert about possible bomb threats. Only in Israel.

The other day, also, while purchasing a rather fetching dress in an Israeli shop I'm told is reserved for 'frechot' (in the Hebrew vocab) or 'becks' (in the Jewish vocab) or 'teenage-wannabe-sluts', I noticed the belt loops had come unstitched. After asking if I could have a discount on the spoilt dress, the shop assistant shook her head, grabbed the dress and scurried to the counter. She then proceeded to pull out a sewing kit from underneath the till and sew up the dress, live. I was then obligated to buy the dress. At no extra charge, despite her generous handiwork. Well and truly, only in Israel.

In the last week, 'only in Israel' has gained new meaning for me - Holocaust Memorial Day (or Yom HaShoah), Remembrance Day for soldiers who have died fighting in Israel's wars (Yom HaZikaron) and Independence Day (Yom Ha'atzmaut) has made me re-evaluate what it means to live in Israel.

In a country known for its haste, abruptness and impatience, I could not have imagined the stillness so apparent on these sombre days - especially Yom HaShoah and Yom HaZikaron. As the sirens went off in the morning of these days, the entire country paused for thought. Drivers got out of their cars mid-journey, workplaces fell silent across the land and everybody reflected.

What astounds me most about this difficult time in Israel is the transition from Yom HaZikaron to Yom Ha'atzamut. Last Monday night I went to a ceremony to mark this year's Yom HaZikaron. It was the first time I'd been to a service catered for Israelis. It was entirely in Hebrew, relatives of the fallen spoke and there was a real community atmosphere of people who "knew what it was like" and really felt deeply. It was the first year I've felt like a real outsider, but I'm pleased I didn't go to an English service run for Americans and Brits, even though I didn't understand everything going on. Just to observe a community in mourning for its nations' children was an unforgettable experience and one that will stay with me, I'm sure of it.

As Monday night turned in Tuesday day, people around the country attended ceremonies or visited cemeteries full of the country's soldiers. I went to Har Herzl, where many Jewish and Israeli historical figures are buried, such as Zionist forefather Theodor Herzl, alongside soldiers who perished as recently as Operation Cast Lead - just a few short months ago.

Har Herzl presents a bizarre dichotomy of life and death. It's a cemetery, which is obvious, but it's a huge land mass full of lush trees and blooming flowers. As you walk through the rows of the dead, visitors surround the grave and your eyes can't help surveying the crowd. Who is merely visiting the graves out of respect and who is more intimately connected with Israel's blood-stained history? As an outsider, you can't stop feeling like a voyeur, but you console yourself, pointlessly, by remembering that each impertinent gaze gives you insight into the Israeli life and mentality.

After a reflective afternoon, staring at the dead and the life they left behind, I made my way to Tel Aviv for Independence Day celebrations that would commence that night. As surely as Yom HaZikaron came in at 8pm on Monday night, Independence Day commenced at 8pm on Tuesday night, papering over the nation's sadness. Fireworks and parties continued throughout the night. It was time to celebrate the birth of a state from the ashes of the nation's past.

As strange as this concept seems, it makes sense. Israel's independence wasn't established spontaneously or without woe. The state was created after The War of Independence, and the juxtaposition of remembrance and celebration every year in Israel is a stark reminder of this.