Some of these year markers are simple reminiscing, but others cut to the core of where we’ve been and where we'regoing.

This year I knew that February 11th would be a big one.

The story I want to tell actually begins the night before on February 10th.

It was 6 days into my birthright trip — a fully sponsered 10 day trip to Israel for Jewish young adults. We were spending the night at a Bedouin campsite (one that appeared to be primarily a tourist attraction). There was another birthright group from Russia at the site that night whom we had gotten to know throughout the day mostly do to a rather rowdy game of soccer played with picnic tables for goals outside our tents.

Later that night both groups gathered around a bonfire. Many of the Russians spoke English, others spoke Hebrew giddily to the Israeli soldiers who were a part of our trip. Someone brought out a guitar, others had drums. The campsite was filled with the sound of Hebrew melodies as we discovered many songs we all knew — from synagogue or Jewish Day school, camps, or throughout the trip.

It was at this time that I found myself in coversation with Alex, the 30 something year old Russian-Israeli leader of the other birthright group. He asked me about my trip and I spoke in rattled off what had become a routine diatribe about how comfortable I felt in Israel and the joy the trip had brought. In the background the fire cracked behind the sounds of songs and drums.

“When are you making Aliyah?”

Nearly a week into the trip I was used to being asked when I would be moving to Israel. I rattled off a few of my reasons for not making the move — Israel is far from home, I don’t speak Hebrew, I’m starting a new job when I get back.

“Perhaps in a few years” I told him.

“Why not today?”

His brashness caught me off guard. It shouldn’t have. He was an Israeli after all.

I argued back and forth with Alex. I tried to explain that I was about to start something very exciting. He tried to explain that life would slip by before my eyes. I told him in three weeks I was moving to San Francisco to start my new life and my new job at Dropbox. He told me there are more important things than the promise of a cushy job.

“I’ve worked very hard for a long time to get this job. It’s going to be amazing.”

I left out the part where I had pre-emptively spent a chunk of my future earnings on my trip to Bali a few weeks prior and was pretty tied to my impending income. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Alex and I went on to talk for almost an hour. I told him about my love of Israel and how I was learning to have a relationship with God outside of my synogague. He told me about a book he was working on and why he started leading birthright groups. We talked about puzzles and the ways in which we both saught them out in our lives.

As the fire died down, the chill set in. I was going to be Tel Aviv by myself for a few days after the trip ended. Alex gave me his number and promised me a motor cycle tour of the city.

“Israel from the eyes of an Israeli.”

The next day we packed up or stuff and each of the birthright groups headed in their respective destinations. On the bus I attempted to text Alex that I would be taking him up on that motorcycle ride only to find that I couldn’t add him in WhatsApp. Disappointed, I had an Israeli friend text him my number in hopes it would work on his end. When we got no response, I caulked it up to bad luck and called it a day.

Besides, we had just arrived at Masada.

Masada is one of the iconic locations in Israel. The ancient fortress atop an isolated mountain was a marvel to behold. We climbed 700 steps to ascend the over 1,000 foot vertical and hear, in painful detail, about tragic siege of the citadel where hundreds of Jews took part in a mass suicide rather than be taken captive or fight against their Jewish brethren who were being used as soldiers by the Roman invasion. It’s not an easy story to hear. I clenched my jaw as I imagined the fear of the Masadans as the Roman army advanced up the mountain, bringing with them inevitable defeat.

Some people cried. We held each other. I prayed. We sang together a song of hope. We descended back down the mountain.

And it is only here that my story really begins.

At the bottoms of the Masada we paused for a lunch break — in 45 minutes meet back at the bus.

But when we were getting our food (falafel, what else?) I felt…off.

I wasn’t hungry. In fact, I was sick to my stomach. I felt on edge. My heart was racing and I couldn’t sit still.

I hadn’t been alone in 7 days and even my extroverted self was starting to wonder if I needed some alone time. I shoveled a little food into my mouth, told a friend to make sure the bus didn’t leave without me, and went to look for some space.

I found a quiet place 50 yards from anything and plopped down. I plugged my headphones in and put on Sigor Ros at full volume. I looked out into the dusty sky down onto the road lined with Israeli flags.

But my heart didn’t stop racing. On the contrary it sped up. A lump began to form in my throat and my eyes stung with tears that wouldn’t come. Thoughts raced through my head so fast I couldn’t even think them. I didn’t even realize I had been clenching my hands until I looked down at my palms to see I had broken the skin in a few places and a little blood was coming to the surface.

I picked up a small rock in my tender palm. For the first (and probably/hopefully last) time in my life I truly understood why people self harm. The rock was sharp at the point. Without a thought I wrapped my finders around it and slid it down the length of my forearm just forcefully enough to break the skin but not deep enough to draw blood. With the sudden rush of endorphins, tears finally began to fall and the rock fell to my side.

Deep heavy sobs that shook my body.

The thoughts slowed down just enough for me to catch them as they crashed over me. I imagine it is what being pulled into a riptide feels like.

Why had I worked so hard for a job I was pretty sure was meaningless in the long term Could I leave Israel and go back to San Francisco leaving my new Israeli friends to fight in a war my country was just a much responsible for Why did Israel break my heart How could I love a country that I suspected might be guilty of unforgivable crimes Why wasnt everyone else falling apart Did these people know me Were these friends real Could they tell I was falling apart Were any of my friends real Have I ever been honest with someone Did I have any real friends back in the states Can you ever really know a person Had I ever been in love What was I doing in the relationship I was in Should I stay in Israel What am I doing with my life Why am I so scared Why am I such a fuck up Why am I even crying Why am I such a mess How am I supposed to —

“Are you okay?”

I’m sure I didn’t hear it the first time. It was only felt a hand on my shoulder and pulled my headphones out and I saw lips moving was I able to make sense of the words.

“Are you okay? … wait, Natalie? What happened?”

It was Alex. His group was eating lunch at the base of Masada before their hike to the top. He had seen someone clearly upset. My back had been turned and my hood up, he hadn’t even known it was me.

He kept asking me what happened.

I didn’t know what to tell him.

I tried to assure him I was okay in the gasps for air between sobs. I don’t think I was very convincing. I told him I wanted to be alone. As he walked away I clenched my fist and let the tears continue to roll down my dusty cheeks.

A few minutes later he returned with a bottle of water.

“You shouldn’t be alone. I can sit quietly with you, but I don’t want you to be alone right now.”

For a few minutes we sat in silence while I wept. Occasionally I’d stop for a sip of water or to bury my head in his arms while he held me.

“Eat this.” he spoke in a gentle tone and handed me a piece of candy. He took out his wallet and began handing me pictures. Pictures of his family when he was little. A few days later I would learn that was one of the last times he saw his father, but at the time his toothless grin was made the sides of my mouth twitch with the hint of the smile. The next photo was him in the army with his unit. He pointed to each of the men in the picture, there must have been at least 20, and told me their names.

Avi Benjamin Effi Yuval Doron Guy Yuval Assaf Yacov Daniel Edan Rob Avraham Assaf

We made small talk for a few minutes and then sat in silence looking out on the dusty flag lined road.

When it was time for me to go back to the bus I tried, unsuccessfully, to get myself together. My face was red and puffy, my nose still dripping steadily, and tears still occasionally rolling down the sides of my cheeks.

Alex gave me a long tight embrace. “It’s going to be okay. What ever it is.”

Alex sorted out my issue with Whatsapp and we parted ways, promising each other we’d see each other in Tel Aviv (which we did). I made my way back to the bus still visually upset. A few trip-mates offered hugs, some asking what was wrong but most accepting that this was an emotional day and leaving it at that. I think I cried a bit more on the bus but my brain wasn’t asking questions anymore. I was too tired to think anything by that point. I leaned my head against my friend’s chest and closed my eyes while we drove to the Dead Sea.

If you asked me the following day I would have called it fate. I would have told you I felt God’s presence in that silence.

There are times when I long to feel that much God in my life. But at the coast of the pain I would never seek it out.

And then there is the guilt. The questioning of the genuineness of that moment. How could I, so draped in privilege dare to claim to feel the pain of a war that is not mine. How could I dare to intertwine my fears of future, my unstable sense of self, with a country that never asked to have anything to do with me. How could I ask a soldier of war to hold me why I sobbed out of fear of starting my post college life. How dare I.

It’s been a year since my breakdown at the base of Masada. I think part of me had hoped I’d have some of it sorted by now, but really I just have more questions. I look back at where I was in that moment — scared, alone, lost — and I’m not sure how far I’ve come. I know they aren’t easy questions but ones I will have to wrestle with.

I know I haven’t felt anything as strongly as I did in that day. I’ve felt highs and lows and panic attacks. But nothing as jarring of that day.

I know that my life at that time was unstable. That maybe I’ve made to much of the moment. That on that day I was over socialized and emotionally drained, that I had made some bad decisions leading up to it, that I had been pushing people away for quite some time, that I was wrestling with a real ideological dilemma. It was almost the perfect storm.

And I was in the perfect place. When I sat down and put my music on I didn’t know the dusty flags lining the road might as well been storm clouds. But Israel was also going to be my shelter, Alex appearing at the moment I needed someone. Later the bustling streets of this foreign land would enough obscurity for me to slip back out of sight.

I might have gotten soaked but I didn’t get destroyed. Still, it’s left me jumpy at dark rainy clouds and startled by storm sirens.

They don’t look like monsters.

Sometimes they are both well dressed men — white, dressed to the nines in Brooks Brother’s suits. One is bespectacled, the other with a trimmed beard. They argue with the eloquence of lawyers, each trying to talk the other into a corner.

Other times it’s a girl and a boy, at most 20 years old. Fresh faced and looking like they stepped right out of an urban outfitters catalog. They keep time with their quick witted back and forth, syncopating only to cut each other off, never to rest.

Today they are old, sharing coffee across an awkwardly proportioned table — too far for intimacy, but too close to for the hostility that puts a tension in the air so tight the spit that flies through their clenched jaws threatens to snap it. The words fall slowly from their mouths, carefully chosen and weighty. The heaviness in the room feels like it will crush my lungs.

I wish they wouldn’t look like this. Talk like this.

If this were a cartoon, one would be a devil and the other an angel. It would be easy to know who to listen to, who was “right”.

But from here I see no halo or horns. No seething evil or lofty virtuousness.

Just me and my two monsters.

Some days I let them argue, weighing their arguments like courtroom evidence. Other days I’m lazy and whoever speaks last speaks the truth. But most days I am tired. I shout at them to give me peace.