Neviim Tovim, blogs by Gillian Gould Lazarus

Years ago, my shul used to hold Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services in the hall of an Edmonton sports centre. It was a way for the community to be together rather than separated into two or three halls which were too small to seat everyone in the synagogue building we had at the time.

Once a janitor’s voice broke through in the middle of a morning Amidah, asking a Mr Jenkins to come to the boiler. It was an imperfection of the venue that ordinary life, work and sports continued outside the doors of our hired hall with the portable ark and scrolls of Torah in their white yomtov covers. In front of the pulpit was a white cloth on which Pamela had embroidered the words בהרת בחיים, ‘Bacharta bachayyim’ – ‘Choose life.’

Another time, an aspiring terrorist phoned in to say that a bomb had been planted in the building. This was not necessarily on our account as the IRA was quite busy at the time and they had their own fish to fry. An announcement broke through the loudspeaker system in the ad hoc synagogue hall, requesting everyone to leave the building. I was six months pregnant at the time, always ready to make a swift exit if danger threatened and I shot out of the building, waiting outside for the community to emerge, Torah scrolls carried aloft while, from another part of the sports centre, swimmers appeared wrapped in towels, against the cool September air.

I thought about the speed I had put on to get away from possible peril. I considered that I had such an acute sense of danger that I was always ready for flight. Indeed, it wasn’t my first rodeo with a bomb threat and I had been fleet of foot the previous times too.

The unborn baby I carried then is now a woman of forty-three, with a child of her own.

I used to think that if I had been so unfortunate as to be alive and living in Germany when Weimar came to an end, I would have been among the first to leave the country. My sense of danger, I thought, would have told me what was coming and to get out, now.

My sense of danger and my leaning towards pessimism tell me that the renaissance of antisemitism in the west is not likely to dissipate any time soon and my relations in Israel believe they are safer there, in a time of war, than they would be here, although the UK government and the police do say that they have our backs. The thing is this: I have children here in England and my children have partners; furthermore my children have children, jobs, in-laws, mortgages, Oyster cards and the Disney Channel. None of these people would be up for aliyah and I am not going to leave them, to go by myself. We are a tribe and at the same time a mixed multitude.

Despite this, I am learning modern Hebrew on Duolingo, in which I am currently on a 136 day streak and, according to the green cartoon owl which accompanies all Duolingo activity, have completed more lessons this week than 95% of learners. Be that as it may, I am finding the hardest part is translating from the spoken word. Understanding the audio is harder than understanding the printed words which suggests that I would not fare well in a modern Hebrew speaking environment. I can understand biblical Hebrew but would never have been able to catch what Moses was saying, especially with the background noise of Mount Sinai being altogether on a smoke (Exodus 19:18).

One of my cousins, older than me, went to live in Israel about five years ago, but he has children living there as well as children living here. It seems likely that I will end my days in the country of my birth, England, but my Duolingo practice is like the suitcases other people say they keep packed. One readies oneself, in case of a more significant deterioration in our fortunes.