Rite of Passage

“Sarah, we need your help in Ukraine this summer. Can I count on you?” At the end of my junior year, my rabbi asked me to volunteer as a counselor at JOLT, the Jewish Overseas Leadership Program. This outreach program was a rare opportunity to interact with young campers in an impoverished country and positively influence their lives. Little did I realize that this experience would profoundly change my life as well.

JOLT runs an annual, eight-week summer camp in Ukraine led by 20 high-school-aged counselors from the United States and Israel. These counselors are carefully selected to be mature, adaptable caregivers because of the rigorous programming and the many physical and emotional hardships of living in an unfamiliar Ukrainian city. Together, we were responsible for over one hundred local children who were coming to Charkov to learn about their Jewish background. In preparation for the summer, I spoke with past counselors, studied the Torah, and renewed my first aid training. I had the extraordinary task and privilege of exposing these children to the beauty of our religion and heritage.

I remember the anxiety and excitement I felt as I exited the plane in Ukraine, embarking on my summer teaching experience. Was I fully prepared to lead these kids? When the busloads of children arrived at the monumental Charkov railway station, I attached myself to a group and started singing and dancing with them. Despite my initial fears, we began to form a bond. My role changed from teenager to responsible counselor. Not only was I here to teach them about Judaism through classes and activities, but more importantly I was acting as a role model.

For the majority of Ukrainian children, we were the first Americans they had ever met. They watched us vigilantly, mimicking what we said in an exaggerated American accent. This humbling realization made me feel rather self-conscious at first. However, they were hungry to learn, and their desire to imitate only heightened the impact of what we taught them. Although an immense language barrier lay between the campers and me, we managed to communicate through translators, hand signals, songs, and broken English and Russian. They taught us about traditional foods like borshch, varenyky, holubtsi, and my favorite, Chicken Kyiv. We taught them about Rosh Hashanah, Hanukkah, and Yom Kippur.

One morning, a ten-year old camper named Glieb started choking on a piece of egg in the dining hall. Luckily, I was close enough to him to recognize the signs. I wrapped my arms around him, pressing my fist below his small rib cage and thrusting my fist inward and upward until I dislodged the food. Then I walked Glieb to the camp nurse and stayed with him, holding his hand until he felt like himself again.

With the help of a book written in Hebrew and Russian, I taught Hebrew to a group of ten children who had never before been exposed to Judaism. Glieb rapidly rose to the top of the class. He asked me if we could extend our sessions beyond the mandatory hours of daily learning. So at night after the songs and campfire games, he and I would often practice reading Hebrew. We discussed, in simple terms, aspects of Jewish ritual that fascinated him. I formed a deep bond with Glieb, one that relied not only on talking, for he spoke only a minimal amount of English, but rather on demonstrating our fondness through actions.

A few days before the end of camp, Glieb explained in broken English that he had been working on a present for me. Similarly I had been trying to decide what I could give him. After hours of pondering, I decided to give Glieb my dearest possession, the siddur or prayer book that I had received upon entering sixth grade. I felt it appropriate to present him with his very first prayer book. I stayed up late for days to decorate and transliterate the main prayers.

On the last day of camp, before the kids left, we exchanged presents. He gave me his favorite Sylvester the Cat keychain with an attached lanyard he had made. The gift had a startling effect on me: I burst into tears. I handed him my siddur, and he stood there for a moment staring at his gift, and I at mine. Tears welled in his eyes as he leafed through the siddur. I knew he understood the significance of our exchange. We hugged goodbye, and I will never forget the feeling of his arms entwined around me with the siddur pressed against my back.

My summer in Ukraine made a strong impression on my life, and I believe it impacted the children’s lives as well. The campers' naive yet deep questioning took me on a journey of self-discovery as I reexamined my own beliefs and practices in a foreign environment. This defining experience also taught me that I can make a difference. By studying to become a nurse, I want to continue working with and caring for people, developing the passions I discovered that summer. Just as I answered the call to help in Ukraine, I intend to respond to future calls with action, kindness, and caring.