This was the kippah his grandfather gave him. A kippah he treats with a type of respect possible only after years waking up next to someone and the smell of their morning breath. But nonetheless, a kippah he does not wear. “It reminds me of my grandfather and I just didn’t feel like I was making a new life in Israel,” said Joshua Feldman who made Aliyah from South Africa six months ago. This was the kippah he wore to his uncle’s funeral. The kippah reserved for those Jewish holidays when Kippah wearing was less of a statement and more a part of the dress code. So when he went to shul or on Pessach, this Kippah would make an appearance.

But Feldman wanted more. He wanted the loyal companion who would walk hand-in-hand with him aimlessly, for hours. Making an appearance was no longer enough for him. And so Feldman went in search of Kippah number two.

Now he’s the kippah that keeps moms up at night. Tossing. Turning. Waiting for the turn of a key or footsteps down the passage. He’s the heartbreaker. An unassuming yet charming blue and white kippah with a Magen David in the centre. Crocheted. Like those worn by the army men. “I chose blue because it’s my favourite colour. White because it’s purity. And the star of David because I’m in Israel now,” said Feldman. This kippah he also no longer wears. It no longer fits him properly. It lost its shape and is now just a floppy ornament and reminder of his first soul-searching mission. His first kippah heartbreak.

Kippah number three was the one he didn’t buy. It came to him. One Friday he was walking to the Old City for a Shabbat dinner. Somewhere between leaving his Ulpan and the Old City the kippah he was wearing flew off his head. He’d almost lost hope. This was before he’d found a job or place to stay. And the Aliyah process was taking its toll on him. “Please God give me a kippah just so I know you are there,” he said as he entered Zion gate.

But then said another prayer: “At least put it in a strange place so that when I find it I know it couldn’t possibly be anything except a miracle”. Otherwise he knew he’d make excuses like oh that just fell off someone’s head. And if God was trying to send him a message he’d ignore it.

He then bumped into the Rabbi whose Shabbat dinner he’d been invited to.  He explained that he’d lost his kippah and was planning on getting a paper one from the Kotel. As he turned to say goodbye to Rabbi he saw it. What he calls his miracle kippah. Completely white with a silver edging. It was just lying on the floor under a bench. And it was brand new. The tag hadn’t even been removed. And if he’d taken a few more steps or hadn’t stopped to talk to the Rabbi he would never have seen it.

“I wear it all the time. It reminds me of a small miracle in my mind. Of how God is watching over me and how everything turns out how it should,” said Feldman. Since then he has found a job and a place to stay. He said that everything that has happened since finding the miracle kippah seems so right.

For him this miracle kippah is a reminder that God is always there.  “It’s always almost falling off so I always have to reposition it. At least once an hour. Just to make sure it hasn’t flown off” And this makes him stop and think and appreciate. This is his kippah with a silver lining. His miracle kippah.

09.10.09. The day this ‘was’ became part of my world. Much of that day and the days that followed remain a blur of tears and “Fuck-yous” which I threw at a God I didn’t know but blamed for taking him from me.

In my mind God was a thug I hoped to meet in a dark, secluded alleyway one night armed with my sand-paper words. But I knew this was pointless. This was one thug who would continue to roam the streets evermore. And slowly I began to process. And the more I did the less it all made sense.

“He was born a Jew. And he’ll die a Jew,” I remember someone saying. But the dad I remember was an atheist. It made no sense to say goodbye to him with guttural Hebrew prayers and shovels of earth being thrown over his coffin. That was someone else’s dad. Not mine.

My dad was a man who would eat bacon. In fact he loved it. Bacon and eggs. Like a good Jewish boy. He was a man who spent most of his Shabbat in front of a computer. He never wore a kippah and wasn’t a shul goer. As a little girl I remember him and I sitting in his car outside the shul waiting for my grandfather, like two kids bunking class. Because neither of us wanted to go in. We both lived for ideas and how we could debate and discuss them.  A devout Jew with a checklist might frown upon such a man. A heathen. A gentile, they may even say.

And yet it is from him that my true understanding of what it means to be a Jew comes. He was a good man. Kind. Forgiving. Honest. A good soul. And it is in those qualities and my memories of him that I make sense of what it means to be a Jew. It’s not what I wear or eat. It’s not how many times I pray or if I pray. It’s how I treat others. It’s the mark I leave on the world. It’s who I am as a person.

“There’s this book I want you to read. About the history of the Jewish people. Your people Nic,” I remember him saying to me. “But Pons (that’s what we called him) I still don’t get it  … I don’t identify with them,” I want to tell him. I’m still waiting on his answer.

This started off as a typical Aliyah blog: a homesick blogging experiment that looks at life in Israel through the eyes of a tourist. You know the type of blogs I’m talking about. They talk about how even the simplest conversations seem to happen over some hummus and pita. Or the bus-paranoia blogs written mostly by those new to Jerusalem; those who haven’t quite moved past the intifada –days and sit on buses with sweaty palms, waiting for the explosion.

And that was almost the fate of my blog. But I’ve made peace with it. I’m on a bus every day. I’ve signed up to be an organ donor. And that puts my mind at ease. What more can I do? Should something happen on a bus; well whatever is left of me can be put to good use. But short of signing up to be an organ donor; I feel no need to hold my blog hostage to the fear of terror. Life goes on.

But I also have no intention of viewing life here through the eyes of a tourist any longer. I will always be a South African at heart. But I’m sick of this mixture of overly sentimental homesick and humus gunk that most blogs of a similar vein seem to churn out.

But have no fear. There will still be some churning. Just of a different nature. I was sitting in class today – I’m studying Hebrew at an Ulpan in Jerusalem. And today’s lesson had something to do with family. We learnt the word for grandchild in Hebrew – the word eludes me at the moment. Anyway, my teacher has 9 of those cute little critters. And then she started telling us about her kids. By the end of it, she had to leave the class and quite a few of the people in my class were in tears.

She had 8 children. Had. Her one son was killed in the recent Lebanon war. My teacher is always singing and you have to really stalk her to find her without a smile on her face. Today I saw a side of her that broke my heart; I saw a woman I don’t think I’ll ever have the strength to be. A saw a mother who will probably always grieve for her 26 year old son. And all I could think about was there how there must be something Twitter can do.

A silly microblogging service. That’s what you’re thinking right? Just admit it. I’m not crazy, I assure you. Nor am I cold-hearted. I was one of the people with tears in my eyes as she told her story. But that’s exactly why I thought of Twitter – I believe in the power of mobile technology. I think it is going to change media as we know it and perhaps the way we lead our lives. So who knows, maybe there is something Twitter can do.

I want this to become a space where I see my time in Israel not through tourist’s sunglasses but through the eyes of mobile technology; where almost anything is possible. This is going to be my space to vent and discuss all things mobile. Because I believe the future of media is mobile and that means exciting things for how we live our lives.

I’ve been in Israel for just under a week. And while the world has sat around condemning this country wanting to lynch her for the recent Gaza debacle I’ve been experiencing life as just another Israeli.

Yes, I’m now a citizen of this land of falafels and shrapnel. I’m now Israeli. Well, legally at least. But it feels more like a mantra. Like something I need to say over and over again and then repeat one more time just for good measure. Something I need to convince myself of.

“Nicole you are Israeli”

But like anything you need to practice or convince yourself of , I feel like a cheap imitation as a walk the streets of Israel. I never know when I’m being ripped off. Is 14 Shekels reasonable for some carrot juice? I don’t know. Is it normal for bus drivers to ignore you when you ask them in perfectly polite English if the bus is going to East Talpiot, where I now stay? Again, I don’t know.

The past few days have been a blur of I-don’t-knows. And boy, have they whizzed passed in flurry of Hebrew confusion. See I’ve opened a bank account. I’ve decided with no real research or understanding on what health insurance best suits me, a skill that you should really be taught at school. Such seemingly menial tasks but they feel more like feats. See when everything is in Hebrew it’s not as simple as signing on the dotted line. Of course you sign. Well I did and in a very uncharacteristically Israeli way, without any fuss. And all that most newcomers can do in such situations is sign and hope for the best.

I’m starting to think that that is how much of the Israeli population gets through the day to day stresses of life here. By taking that leap of faith and believing in the power of either God or the army. How else do you explain it?

I spent Saturday with a friend, visiting a family who live in Beit Shemesh, 46km from Gaza. I took a walk through the streets of this city. It was shabbos, the Jewish Sabbath, which means that for those who choose to observe, life gets put on hold. There’s no driving, using cell-phones or watching TV. Anything that creates or is considered work is a taboo on shabbos.

I don’t observe but I took a walk. Found a bench and watched life. There were children, laughing, having fun, and playing. I saw two women, the one heavily pregnant, modestly talking among themselves. But such normal, peaceful life and all I could think about was what was happening 46km away and how oblivious these people were. Sitting on this bench all that I’d read in the news over the past few weeks seemed to just disappear and disintegrate.

At least until twirls of white appeared in the perfectly blue sky. And no, these weren’t clouds. They were from aircrafts. Israeli aircrafts flying over the area I guess. I was standing in the garden with the children of the family we went to visit. And they noticed these white, figure of 8 twirls.

“What are they,” the one child asked

And the other replied: “It’s best not to know”

And for that explains how the average Israeli is dealing with this war in Gaza. Even those who have children fighting on the frontline. It seems the best mechanism of defence these people have is not to know. On the flight to Israel I sat next to a woman who has two sons fighting – I think the one is in Gaza. And maybe it’s just a front but she seemed resigned even nonchalant. The war, the army, the guns, the deaths. They are part of what it means to be Israeli. They’re normal. And I’m not too sure I’m ready to accept them.