For the last nine years, I believed it was a myth...

For the last nine years, I believed it was a myth that reading in the dark is bad for your eyes. I'm serious. During the summer before I went into 9th grade, I went to Center for Talented Youth at Skidmore, and the man who taught "Intro to Lab Sciences" told my whole class that the whole reading in the dark thing was an old wive's tale and was one of the worst scientific myths out there. He even said it might actually be good for your eyes, since it exercises them. Darryl was the teacher's name.

This guy loved debunking myths. He spent a good amount of the class telling us about which movies were scientifically inaccurate and which of the things our parents told us weren't true. He also told us stories about all the small animals he blew up. One of the stories was about chipmunks that lived in his yard somewhere in South Jersey. He poured kerosene down the hole and lit a match. I was the only talented youth who wasn't seriously disturbed. I sensed that something was wrong with him. When I told my cousins about him later that summer, I referred to him as "Darryl the Scientific Yokel." But I still believed him about the eye thing.

Yesterday, my roomate, Lotem, saw me reading in the dark. He said, like many people have said to me, "Want me to turn on the light? That's bad for you." I said, as I've said several times over the years, "Nah, some teacher told me it wasn't bad for you." But this time, I thought to myself, "Maybe I should check it out."

So, after nine years of believing Darryl the Scientific Yokel, I searched on howstuffworks.com for "reading in the dark eye problem." And sure enough, the answer is that, yes, it exercises your eyes, but yes, it's bad for you. It wears out your eyes and if you already have any eye problems, it will probably make them worse. If I'd had the internet in 1999, I probably would've checked him on it right away, but I didn't, and I let it become part of my beliefs.

Darryl the Scientific Yokel. That piece of shit. He didn't even help me get better at science. I still got 70s and 80s in high school.

As I expected, I'm already used to not having my camera or my ipod. I'm going to try to recover the pictures (another camera I borrowed didn't show them, but they still are likely salvagable) and I'm going to get the camera fixed in Ramat Gan, since it will be cheaper than buying a new one and cheaper to fix in Israel than in the USA. But in my mind, it's history. They're just dead, invisible pieces of equipment on my shelf.

The experience really was traumatic, though. Partially because they were such security blankets. As long as I had them, I felt safe because I knew I was capable of holding on to them. A little bit like Israel with the Golan, come to think of it.

I felt way more vulnerable without them. Come to think of it, I also felt vulnerable because I was in a boat that sunk. Come to think of it, when I was underwater and half asleep, I didn't just feel vulnerable, I actually was vulnerable.

And all of us always are vulnerable, no matter how many death-defying Egyptian street-crossings we survive, no matter how many times we get lost in a foreign country and then find our way, and no matter how well we keep a watch over our belongings and our bodies. That was why I freaked out so badly. It reminded me of that fact. Even when you're careful, you're not as careful as you could be. And even when you are as careful as you can be, you're still missing something.

It's good to feel safe, but it's never good to feel invincible. It will only lead to disappointment when you realize that you're not.

Tonight was the eve of Yom HaZikaron, Israel's Memorial Day, except they take it seriously here. On this kibbutz, they lit a small square of candles covered with makeshift paper lampshades. On one side of the square, people made speeches and children sang. Their faces were dark and had bright white silhouettes around them. The only speech that I understood was a simple one, just saying, "Remember."

On Yom HaZikaron (as well as the Holocaust Remembrance Day), a siren sounds for a good minute everywhere in the country at approximately the same time. I don't know how it sounds in other places, but on Neot Semadar, it's like no other siren I've ever heard. It's not particularly loud like sirens that are meant to warn people when ambulances and police cars drive by. It's not a siren that drives you away, it's a siren that you can feel blocking your thoughts. I wouildn't describe the sound as piercing. Penetrating is a better word for it. It's impossible to ignore it or to be merely annoyed by it.

At the close of the cermony, we all sang "HaTikva," Israel's national anthem. There's something about the song that reminds me of the siren. And it's not the lyrics, it's just the music. It's in a minor key and, harmonically, it's not simple. I've never examined it, but I can tell by ear that the notes in the melody don't always match the root and that there are probably some sevenths and/or augmented chords in there. There's a lot of room for harmony, for sure, which you can not say about "The Star Spangled Banner," "God Save the Queen," or "O Canada" (which are the only anthems I know). "HaTikva" is an anthem with room for thick layers of musical passion. As with the siren, I can not imagine it becoming ambience.

Did it make me want to fight for a Jewish nation? No, and I don't think it did that for many of the Israelis, either. But as I stood in the middle of a green lawn in a desert oasis with the flag, the siren, and the children singing the anthem just a few meters away from me, I felt a kind of connection to where I was standing that would be impossible to turn off.

When I heard "HaTikva" in Independence Hall in Tel Aviv during the Birthright tour, I actually did feel a good hint of patriotism. But it easily went away. We went into the building, learned about the history, grasped the significance of the place and what happened there, and then left. And the connection I felt to Israel came and went, not like a commodity, but more like the taste of good food.

At the Western Wall, I felt a similarly inexplicable connection to what I felt tonight. Part of it came from the anticipation of the place and the frenzy around it... And part of it was also a spark that definitely happened between me and that big Jewish wall.

Come to think of it, tonight, the connection actually is pretty explicable- not mysterious like the Wall. Tonight, what got to me was the combination of familiarity and ordinariness with the intense national connection. On Passover, I felt like this kibbutz was in their own world, unconnected to any other Jews or Israelis in the world. But today, the kibbutz felt completely a part of Israel.

I know why I felt the way I did, more or less, but I still can't explain exactly what I felt.

I'm definitely feeling a drift away from where I came from. At the moment, I don't feel a need to go back to anything. At the moment.

It's a new feeling. I think it might have to do with those damaged electronics.