I’ll let you in on a secret
about how one should pray the
Minchah prayer. . .
. . . you’re just lending a helping hand to the sinking day.
It’s a heavy responsibility.
You take a created day
and you slip it
into the archive of life,
where all our lived-out days are
lying together.
The day is departing with a quiet kiss.
It lies open at your feet
while you stand saying the blessings. You can’t create it yourself, but you can lead the day to its end and see clearly the smile of its going down. See how whole it all is,
not diminished for a second,
how you age with the days
that keep dawning,
how you bring your lived-out day
as a gift to eternity.
(excerpt from “Davennen Mincha”, a Yiddish poem by Jacob Glatstein)
If you watch carefully, you will notice a subtle but visceral shift in your consciousness, in that twilight between day and night, which is called ‘mincha’ in the daily rhythm of Jewish prayer. It is that almost imperceptible moment when you begin to absorb the day’s experiences and insert them into your personal memory file, to go from living in the moment to processing the day. As the poet Jacob Glatstein says, “you take a created day and you slip it into the archive of life . . .” Perhaps this is especially noticeable when you’ve had a day of particular significance, or, in our case, a whole season.
This is how I felt at dinner earlier this week, outside one of the local ‘fast-casual’ places, eating a pita sandwich, seated at a simple counter facing the street. I looked around at the nearby establishments, just slightly less tourist-oriented than those fancier ones around the corner, the store-front post office, appointments preferred for service, directly across the street, flanked by the barber shop and the gourmet cheese and olive shop. Cars and motorcycles whizzed by on the narrow street and pedestrians passed by, sometimes stopping to peek into the sandwich shop, sometimes catching my eye, other times busy with their own thoughts or conversations. The small bakery בונג׳ור (“Bonjour”) where we’ve bought challah for Shabbat, the אמריקן פיצה (“American Pizza”) which we’ve studiously avoided, the housewares store with everything from candy and flowers to fancy doormats, all busy with patrons in the final business hour of the day. Even the town “drunk”, really a mentally disabled person, whose social filters do not prohibit him from sitting at an outdoor table calling out an incoherent set of verses, only to be gently shooed away by a shopkeeper. The synagogue down the street, just beyond my sightlines, with its lovely building and women’s balcony, which I visited only as a tourist, and which hosted a raucous and joyous bar mitzvah celebration on Monday morning. Our vision for this sabbatical was to really get to know a place, to become a part of it, and to absorb it into ourselves, and in some small ways, we’ve succeeded in that. The locals no longer insist on answering us in English and we’ve learned some of the unspoken social cues, both explicit and implicit, of residents. The ubiquitous dust of Zichron Yaakov seems now forever under our skin. Last week, we finally took an official tour of the town with an acquaintance who is a seasoned guide, helping us to put more of the historical puzzle pieces into place. Along the way, we learned more about one of the founding couples, Moshe and Yocheved Hershkovitz, originally from Romania, who arrived here in 1882 and whose descendants still live in their family home on the central street. The current elder who lives there was unimpressed when I suggested that we might be related, since my paternal grandfather, Isidore Hershkovitz, z’l, also from Romania, landed with his family in New York instead of Haifa as a child. But who knows?
This coming Sunday, we’ll have the honor and pleasure of a Zoom conversation with the author and translator Hillel Halkin, whose writing has been such an inspiration to me and so many others. Halkin made aliyah from the States in 1970, landing in Zichron Yaakov when it was truly a small town. He has produced many important works, mostly non-fiction, and one about the town itself which includes the provocative disclaimer on the title page, “this is a work of fiction.” Perhaps this was the result of sound legal advice, or perhaps he, like us, has simply experienced this place as having its own midrashic reality, superimposed over the concrete one.
Several years ago, I was blessed to join a Shabbat afternoon shiyur (learning session) with the great R. Arthur Green. He shared that day about the word daven, the Yiddish word we take to mean to pray or to lead prayer. Surprisingly, it has an untraceable etymology, neither Hebrew nor German in origin. Providing a caveat that this explanation was undocumented, he went on to say that he’d heard that the word daven was actually derived from a Lithuanian expression meaning, “gift”. This was, he said, because somewhere in Jewish history, Jewish shopkeepers needed to explain to their gentile fellow merchants why they needed to briefly close up shop every afternoon, to say their afternoon prayers, called mincha in Hebrew, which means ‘offering’ or gift
So, Glatstein’s poem, “Davenen Mincha” is a doubled-over gift, a gift-offering, which is exactly what this sabbatical has been for us. It has been a gift of singular meaning, beauty, challenge, growth and longing for us and, likewise, one that we also hope to give back in our lives in many ways, through our work, our relationships with family and friends, and through continuing to navigate that impossible path between profound love for and connection with this land and the concern that always accompanies love.
And, finally, like the Shabbat mincha prayer service with its purposeful mix of Sabbath and weekday melodies, which acknowledge the palatial quality of Sabbath time and the irrepressible pull forward into the workweek, we are looking forward to concluding our time away and returning home, to beginning a new professional chapter, to resuming life in our native language and culture, to reconnecting with loved ones in the same time zone, and, just as we end Shabbat by anticipating the next one, to planning our next visit to Israel.
Post-script: Last night was a terrorist shooting, this time in Dizengoff center in Tel Aviv, another in a sudden eruption of multiple surprise attacks against innocent civilians. Everyone is somber and tense as we enter our final Shabbat before Pesach. There’s little else to say but to wish solace for the families of the victims and the hope that somehow this violence will end.
It is late Tuesday night and Jonathan and I are just back from an intense three days, two in Jerusalem and one in Tel Aviv. Heads up: this will be a long post, no pressure to finish in one sitting or at all.
Sometimes the practical reality of logistics determines when and where you’re going and what you’re doing. So it was this week, as we cobbled together a series of meetings and connections with various people on our “list”. In the end it was a demanding and rewarding chance to get out of our Zichron bubble, lovely though it is, and get a sense of some of the overwhelming challenges facing this tiny spot on the globe.
Just for background, we spent last Shabbat busily procuring and serving the kiddush at Kehilat Veahavta, our “oneg duty” offered as a gesture of thanks to the community that has so warmly welcomed us during our time here. Our kiddush included some beautiful fruit platters prepared by the staff at the small grocery near our apartment. I mention this here because these platters inspired many comments of admiration and appreciation by synagogue members, who enjoyed the handiwork of the Arab grocery staff who have been so gracious towards us. When we went to inquire about these platters and order them for pickup on Friday, the grocery manager responded as any good Jewish balabusta (hostess with the mostest), fruit for kiddush? No problem. How many people? You could almost forget there was a hyper-tense combustible situation between Arabs and Jews in other parts of this country. We picked up the trays and other items and brought them to the synagogue, then rushed home to meet Idan and his partner Pe’er for lunch.
And then, as plans took shape for the series of visits we wanted and needed to make, we packed our backpacks and got on the train from Binyamina to Jerusalem early Sunday morning. I had been nursing some really uncomfortable abdominal/rib pain and wondered how I’d manage all that we had planned, while also wondering what horrible diagnosis awaited me. (I am relieved and happy to report it was resolved and turned out to be nothing more than some musculoskeletal strain which did finally relax.) Even from the train ride itself, we were aware of how cloistered our time in Zichron Yaakov has been. The train station on Sunday morning was bustling with people returning to their workweek after Shabbat, adults en route to work, and many soldiers returning to their posts. I had not seen so many soldiers on this trip until that morning at the train station. It is still a jarring sight to see a young adult in uniform carrying an Uzi. A phalanx of thoughts jockey for attention in my busy mind: it is sad that young people have to serve in the military – a constant reminder about the as yet still hostile neighborhood that is the Middle East, it is admirable that these young adults take their responsibility seriously despite their age and relative innocence, it is laudable that this system of mandatory service creates a culture of investment and leadership, at least for some. And it would be disingenuous to omit the real trauma at least some of these young adults experience as a result of their service. A growing number are refusing to serve and/or simply finding ways around it, but the vast majority still do. For some it is a unique opportunity for educational, professional and personal advancement. And it is one of the reasons that Israelis hold on to their loved ones extra tightly. While most soldiers come through intact and many with advanced training, skills and achievement, not to mention lifelong friendships, professional connections, and the rewards of public service, there is always the real possibility that they won’t come home at all.
On the train ride, I sat next to an Arab Israeli family of four, a mom, a dad and a young son and daughter, all dressed in modern clothing, dragging suitcases and backpacks. At one point, the children were given activity books to work on and a pack of magic markers, their parents gently guiding them from one page to the next, holding them in their laps. The nearby soldiers didn’t make me uncomfortable, but I had to wonder how it felt to be a mom with a young child in my lap, and a large and deadly weapon very nearby, held by a soldier of an historically adversarial government. I did my best to smile (through my mask) at the boy and express my admiration for his excellent coloring book skills.
We arrived in a Jerusalem train station busy with people coming and going and found our way to the nearby Machane Yehudah to find a quick bite on our way to our first connection, the child of a family friend who graciously offered to show us around their home in east Jerusalem. Our host insisted on meeting us at our hotel and ferrying me to the nearest medical clinic to get my pain situation examined, then retrieving us to go on with our afternoon plans. (The experience at the clinic was smooth, well-organized, effective. I was heartened to see both Jewish- and Arab-Israeli patients in the waiting room, including one little boy who was clearly in distress, and ultimately calmed only by the Jewish doctor attending him. I was tested, given a strong pain-killer, reassured that I would be fine and sent to the receptionist to pay my bill.) We stopped for a beautiful lookout over the city and began an hours-long conversation about the political situation and then made our way to our host’s apartment in the East Jerusalem neighborhood of Sheikh Jarrah. You will likely recognize the name of this area which has been in the news on and off for the last few years especially, as local residents and liberal Jewish activists protested the eviction of several Arab families by Israeli authorities. Our host also showed where a number of Jewish “microsettlements” have begun to appear. These are small areas of maybe 2-3 homes, illegally and unsafely built by religious Jewish Israelis often illegitimately claiming rightful access to this land, fully expressing my own bias here. On our walk through the area, we had our host’s beautiful Goldendoodle puppy with us, happily ambling along, the subject of both abject fear by Arabs who feel stereotypically uncomfortable around dogs as well as fascinated admiration and even requests to purchase the dog for breeding. Our host chatted them up when they offered a price, refusing these overtures and also joking with them when they asked, “why do you have a sheep?” Not a sheep, not for sale!
Our walk through the area gave a real life vignette of just how diminished civic infrastructure is here compared with west Jerusalem, just meters away. In Sheikh Jarrah, the roads are small and in need of repair, dotted with piles of rubble, shops are crowded together, making for rather cramped and filthy public spaces and for unsafe pedestrian walkways. We had to walk single-file much of the time, shouting to each other over the din of cars whizzing by. We felt completely safe from any political violence. First of all, there was none at least at that moment, and our host’s European good looks and crackerjack Arabic, correctly accented, gave us cover. We spoke only English to each other and to the few people with whom we interacted, to avoid any suspicion that we might be Jewish Israelis provocatively hanging around. I even went so far as to leave my Israeli-style walking boots in our apartment in Zichron Yaakov, choosing something else to wear on my feet, so as to avoid any overt association with Israeli popular culture. The main industry seems to be auto-repair shops, which have a high per capita ratio and which attract the attention of religious Jewish car-owners interested in inexpensive and reliable car maintenance. The local municipality has posted signs in Arabic and English wishing residents “Ramadan Kareem” – a sweet Ramadan. I asked our host what the local residents thought of that and he confirmed my impression that it reaches them as rather insincere. How about safer and better infrastructure, medical care and education for these Israeli citizens?
We returned to our host’s secure and beautiful apartment to drop off the dog, enjoy a feast of a snack and pick up our host’s spouse, back from a day of work in Tel Aviv. Then we headed out again, this time without the pup, to walk some adjacent areas populated by Israeli Arabs. We stopped in an extraordinary English-language book shop beautifully appointed and filled with all kinds of interesting titles and authors from Edward Said to Mahmoud Darwish to Madeleine Albright, z’l, and Tom Friedman. I met the bookshop owner who shared that he was committed to helping people learn about this complicated and painful situation. When he asked me what I did for a living I hesitated for a moment, then quickly realized there was no point in embellishing the truth, by saying, “I’m a teacher . . .” so I told him I am a rabbi and thanked him for all he was trying to do. He shook my hand and thanked me for coming.
Our hosts took us on a walk through the Muslim quarter of the old city, including a stop at the Austrian Hospice, a beautiful historic building with a spectacular rooftop view and some of the best strudel I’ve tasted. We continued on through the maze of stone streets passing many shopkeepers and residents, as well as IDF soldiers in small teams on security posts, and more microsettlements, these identified by Israeli flags. While I might be able to accept that the Jewish residents of these homes are themselves just expressing their national pride, it is impossible to deny the impression of hostility towards the Muslim residents which they convey by their presence. To my American Jewish eyes, it appears a completely inappropriate show of Jewish power in a place where Jewish wisdom is what is needed. Who is mighty? asks Pirkey Avot? The person who conquers their own self-serving impulse, according to our sages.
Our host wrangled a cab for us back to the apartment, stopping back in Sheikh Jarrah to pick up a take-out dinner from a very classy establishment, one filled with English-speaking patrons. Over dinner, we processed the afternoon and evening walks together, once again trying to dissect the Gordion knot of this place as so many others have done.
Jonathan and I made a late night visit to the pharmacy to retrieve my pain prescription – the Superpharm at Mamilla Mall was still open well past 10pm as were the other shops in this fancy shopping spot – and then to our hotel for the night. Outside the old city, back in west Jerusalem, we were again surrounded by the accoutrements of a modern, wealthy city. Not only well-paved streets and sidewalks bordered by professionally tended shrubbery, clear traffic symbols but many other signs of the good life, so clearly missing on the ‘other side’.
Monday morning was our long-awaited dual narrative tour with Mejdi tours, the company with which we had hoped to tour for our congregational trip, now postponed, and awaiting new dates. (Let’s please not let that go!) We found our guides outside the Jaffa Gate and joined with a group of 20 or so other tourists for a 4-hour tour of the old city, told from both a Jewish Israeli and a Palestinian perspective. The group had Jewish and Christian participants, from the States and from Europe. Our guides, Rabbi Josh and Hussam, took turns walking us through the Armenian, Muslim, Christian and Jewish quarters, with stops at several important places. Along the way R. Josh and Hussam graciously deferred to one another, sometimes politely disagreeing, about how to portray different parts of the history of this Ir Atiqa, ancient city. At different points along the way, we’d be in close proximity to different groups of visitors: Palestinian Israeli school children on a field trip, Asian tourists, observant Jewish and Muslim residents, and IDF soldiers. We visited a beautiful historic Armenian church courtyard, the church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Kotel HaMaaravi (Western Wall) and finally, Har HaBayit, the Temple Mount, which also home to the Dome of the Rock and Al Aqsa Mosque. With the exception of the final stop, the Temple Mount, these are all places I’ve seen several times, but felt I was seeing them anew through these dual lenses and the questions they provoked. What are the relationships between these ancient religions and what are their irreconcilable differences? It is hard but so important to remember that the antipathy between Jewish and Muslim communities today is rather new in the history of civilization. It is interesting to remember that while Judaism and Christianity are branches of the same original root (Biblical Judaism), they are more theologically opposed to one another than Judaism and Islam. Rabbi Josh reminded us that, according to Jewish tradition, Jews can pray in a mosque but not in a church. And at the end of the day, how do we stand strongly in our own tradition while treating the others with respect and even with reverence?
As I mentioned, the one place I had not been was the Temple Mount which is the site of the Dome of the Rock and Al Aqsa mosque, as well as the ancient Jewish Temple(s) before that. Just trying to craft this sentence is an example of how complicated this site is. Referred to as the “navel of the world” in both Jewish and Muslim tradition, it is beloved and revered by both traditions. Jews consider it the holiest place in Jewish history, the site of the Temple, which was destroyed and rebuilt and from which remains only the outer retaining wall, the Kotel. In Jewish tradition, we call it Har HaBayit, the Mountain Home, connoting a place of deep intimacy in all the ways that the word ‘home’ invokes. According to Jewish tradition, the Temple was built here on the spot that Abraham bound his son Isaac for sacrifice and from which God saved them both just in time. When Israel captured the Old City in the Six Day War, the exclamation, “Har HaBayit B’Yadenu!” – the Temple Mount is in our hands! – was a moment of profound Jewish communal healing and joy from an exile of nearly 2000 years. Tragically, that capture was also a turning point in the unfolding hostilities between Jews and Muslims here.
Muslims, arriving here several hundred years after Jews were exiled by the Romans, also cling to this spot as a centrally important one, knowing it as the site from which the prophet Muhammed ascended, and on which a spectacular structure has been built to house that stone of ascension. Perhaps because of this reverence, it has also been a minefield of explosive violence many times over. Access is tightly controlled, with Muslim visitors coming in through Muslim-controlled designated gates and non-Muslim visitors entering through one Israeli-controlled entryway, into which they must first pass through security detectors. As we waited on the long line to enter, a bar mitzvah entourage complete with a raucous Jewish musical ensemble and kind of chuppah (not for a wedding) made their way past us en route to the Kotel, singing loudly, an MC at the front with his own mic, encouraging us all to join in the celebration. Paradoxically, the bar mitzvah family were not particularly religiously observant, at least by their looks, and I had to wonder why they were dragging their poor son through this charade of a ritual. Again, I’m making no attempt to be non-biased here. I wish the boy well and his parents too, but aren’t there other meaningful and less-fraught places to gather for a religious celebration? (There are.)
A guard at the non-Muslim entry point to the Temple Mount determines which women are sufficiently covered and which are sent to the side to retrieve over-skirts and head cloths. It seemed inconsistent to me, but I’m no expert on religious headcovering. As we entered, we took in the signage explaining in Hebrew and English that it is not recommended for Jews to visit this site, which contains the Holy of Holies, into which only the high priest would enter, and therefore not appropriate for regular Jews. On the other hand, there were indeed observant Jewish visitors in the plaza of the Temple Mount, including one group accompanied by a rather bored-looking IDF soldier. People of all faiths meandered peacefully all around the plaza, taking photos and talking, with only Muslims allowed into the mosque. A pair of observant Muslim women accepted my offer to photograph them together in front of the golden domed Dome of the Rock and then invited me to be in their photograph.
While we waited for our group to reconvene to leave the Temple Mount, I chatted with Rabbi Josh, a modern Orthodox and most receptive teacher, about the challenges of Jewish triumphalism, the unfortunate outcome of the so-called doctrine of divine election, the idea that the Jews are the chosen people. As time has passed, redeeming Judaism from this problematic idea has become more and more important to me. I’ve found the Reconstructionist Jewish approach to liturgy to be an essential tool in this sacred task. How can we continue to say, as the traditional Alenu prayer does, “thank you God for not making us like the rest of humanity”, “for not placing us with the rest of the human families of the planet, nor our destiny like theirs.” Having a unique and special identity as a people is something we should embrace. Indeed Judaism (as a civilization) is unique and special. But the minute we define that uniqueness by what we don’t believe and by our distance from others, we squander its blessing by creating erroneous and spiritually damaging adversarial competition with other faith traditions. We don’t need all of that to express our uniqueness or even our special relationship with God. Redeeming ourselves, our tradition, from this unfortunate language allows us to embrace our unique identity while simultaneously creating the space for respecting others’ which is itself a key pillar of Jewish theology and spiritual life. This is particularly important to express clearly in our prayers which, unlike the Torah and Tanach, are aspirational, expressing ideas to which we aspire. I was not successful in convincing Rabbi Josh, open-minded as he is, and will step down off my soap-box for now, but my conviction remains and is strengthened by the experience of visiting these holy sites from which so much religious violence has erupted. We who are people of faith must pay attention to the power and danger of our words.
Back to our tour. We finished in the Muslim quarter, following our guide Hussam back to the Jaffa gate, bidding everyone farewell, our heads spinning with so much intense history, imagery and rhetoric. Todah Rabbah and Shukran Katir . . . Thank you very much. And off we went in search of a late lunch and a place to rest before heading off to Tel Aviv for the night.
We took the train to Tel Aviv, arriving at HaHaganah station where we dropped off a care package for someone from Adat Shalom and started our walk to our hotel. I titled this blog submission, “both sides now” and thought of this phrase as we made this walk from the train to the hotel. What a difference a few train stops make. Here in this part of south Tel Aviv we walked through working class neighborhoods, past the old central bus station, and immediately noticed the change in skin color and language. In contrast to the mostly Ashkenazi, and therefore “white” appearing people with whom we’ve mostly interacted, we found dark-skinned people everywhere, along with signs of resource-scarcity in varying degrees. Buildings looked run-down, sometimes abandoned. Signs were written in Ethiopian and Russian even more than Hebrew and/or Arabic, and we felt an unconscious impulse to hold onto our bags just a bit more tightly. That is a commentary on our prejudices, not on the crime rate or the real security issues. It is also a commentary on the impossible intrasigence of racism, even within a religious group. The lower you go on the socioeconomic scale, the darker the color of people’s skin. I know that is not news to anyone, but seeing it in such stark vivid reality was startling. I was here in Israel in 1990 when the country was absorbing large waves of Russian and Ethiopian immigrants with great fanfare and was a little sad to see how they’ve been absorbed. To be fair, this is just one momentary snapshot, not the whole portrait, but I would love for Israel to rise to it’s special potential as a place that could break through some of those race-based stereotypes. (If the US can manage to put a Black woman on the Supreme Court – please let her be confirmed!! – Israel can surely do even more.)
After a morning walk to the beach in Tel Aviv, the main road lined with beautiful hotels, and the beach walk crowded with beautiful (mostly white) people whose lives afford them time for a morning run on the beach, we started our walk back uptown. Just days before, I had said to Jonathan, do you know if Noah Stern (who’s been here on a Masa internship) is still in the city? We guessed he was not, but quickly found out we were wrong as we passed him on the street! We grabbed hugs and agreed to meet up later in the day. We then found our way to Nachalat Binyamin, the twice-weekly crafts fair and for brunch with Adat Shalom friend Alysa Dortort. Alysa has finally begun her process of moving here after dreaming of it for many years and treated us to a delicious meal at one of her favorite places, which we also loved. After the initial decades of slim culinary pickings in Israel, especially during the official period known as austerity in the 1950’s, Israel has blossomed into a gourmet mecca. Only by walking a ton during our time here have we managed to stave off the pounds we should have gained by all the delicious food we’ve eaten, with portions for giants at every restaurant. We got a taste (!) of this on Monday evening, enjoying a late dinner in a newly burgeoning part of the city. Brunch with Alysa the next morning was indeed also a feast, made only better by the conversation about her life here in Tel Aviv. Moving halfway across the world is no joke, even to a place you love, and she’s managing it well, while staying in close touch with Aaron and Rebecca, still living in the States.
From there we walked through the craft fair and the nearby Shuk HaCarmel, Tel Aviv’s central market, once again overwhelmed by the abundance of just about anything you want to eat and/or buy. We were already full from brunch and heading to a tasting tour in the afternoon, so we mostly just looked and picked up a few basic items, just enjoying the experience. You don’t hear shop-owners at Montgomery Mall shouting over one another to attract customers, but here, the meek do not attract customers, nor do they inherit the profits they seek. Shouting and hocking are the most primal forms of advertising and still work well for the shop owners here. Just make sure you don’t stand too close!
We found our tasting tour guide, the lovely Penina, a young British archeology grad student at Hebrew University, who guides people like us as a side job. Our tour was all through the Levinsky Market, with Penina providing wonderful historical and cultural background for the whole area and for specific shops, several going back generations to the beginnings of Tel Aviv. The Market has become a hip stomping ground and home for a new flowering of culinary creativity. At one point, we wanted to sit down to rest a bit before the tour started and tried to ask the waitress, “may we order just a drink and no food for now?” She answered, “we actually don’t serve food, just drinks . . .” Fine! We’ll eat with Penina. Scrumptious: varieties of herring, marinated vegetables, gourmet custom-made fruit soda, stuffed grape leaves, olives, falafel, spices to taste, bourekas served with roasted egg and freshly ground tomato, Turkish coffee, the mostly heavenly babka and finally, halvah . . . sigh. Peace process? Political conflict? Water issues? Housing problems? Just take a break and eat a bite of fresh falafel. The problems will still be there when you’re done and you’ll be better fortified to work on them.
We did indeed catch up with Noah for a short afternoon break at the beach, the end of a beautiful spring day – finally, after a very long, cold winter – and caught up with his short-term and longer-term plans. His dad, our beloved friend Jonathan, z’l, would be happy to see this young man finding his own deep connection with Israel and trying to live here at least for now. Walking along the streets of the city, we too were again inspired by the irrepressible energy, creativity and ingenuity all around. Even with all of it’s socioeconomic and other problems, when you remember that Tel Aviv grew from literally nothing (okay, sand) just over 100 years ago and is now a thriving, cosmopolitan city with a vibrant culture, you can’t help but be inspired.
And finally, the most delightful end to this very full day, dinner with Mira Kux, near Tel Aviv University, where she is a student in Middle East studies and political science. As usual, Mira is continuing to blaze her own trail with such intelligence and passion, moving around the neighborhood with native comfort and ultimately guiding us to the train station to catch our train back to Binyanima, and then by cab back to our apartment in Zichron Yaakov, quiet, lovely, home. As we sat on the train, we saw the news of a third terrorist attack in two weeks, this time in B’nei B’rak, an ultra-Orthodox part of Tel Aviv, leaving five Jewish citizens dead. Before we left for this three-day trip, we were advised to avoid travelling to Jerusalem during Ramadan, which starts this coming Shabbat, since violence often increases with the arrival of this season. Sadly, past experience is instructive here again. While we’ve watched the coming Negev Summit with interest and hope, such progress often provokes negative reaction in other corners. So, from the comfort of our peaceful temporary home here, overlooking the Arab village of Furaidis, “Paradise”, we again offer prayers for peace and hope for the future, against all odds.
Do you hear that swoosh of air going by? That’s the sound of me (and Jonathan) exhaling fully after a week of holding our breath. Our son Koby was in Poland with his k’vutza (group) on a seminar as part of their program. Poland, you know, the one right next to Ukraine? After much discussion, and worrying by parents in the States, Canada and here, they did go ahead with the trip and it seems it was most profound. And, thankfully, safe. While visiting several important Holocaust sites, and learning about the Jewish resistance efforts during WWII, the group also participated in two service projects for Ukrainian refugees and got a first-hand look at the situation. They wrote their own group blog each day, shared their impressions and their feelings as they absorbed all of this intense suffering, from 80 years ago and from today. Koby received invaluable support from Adat Shalom to participate in this whole year-long program and has promised he’d share more with the community on his return.
Meanwhile, back at this ranch . . .
It was great to see many of you this past Sunday on Zoom when we had some time to get to know Rabbi Elisha Wolfin, the spiritual leader of the Masorti (Israeli Conservative) community here in Zichron Yaakov. I asked Elisha to talk about the evolution of liberal Judaism in Israel, something that has not always been accepted here and still struggles for full legitimacy in this democratic Jewish state. Elisha reminded us that while the liberal movements, Reform and, later, Conservative Judaism spread westward from Germany, and have really flourished in North America, those liberal movements did not find much footing in Eastern Europe, nor in North African or Arab Jewish communities (especially Morocco, Tunisia, Iran, Iraq, Yemen) from where most immigrants to Palestine and modern Israel came. Especially in Eastern Europe, those Jews who followed a Zionist path to aliyah were either religious or secular. And, as is well known, the secular Jews were “religiously” secular, explicitly rejecting religion as Communist and Socialist ideologies tended to do. (My sister-in-law Ruthie’s kibbutz Ein Shemer had a banner of Josef Stalin hanging in the dining room in the early years of the kibbutz, removed only after it became clear that he wasn’t such a hero after all.) Conversely, religious Zionists were, and still are, schooled in traditional Jewish life, based on strict adherence to halacha. Hence the official, recognized form of Judaism in Israel is Orthodox. I note, somewhat sadly, that there is no liberal weekday minyan here, not on Zoom, not in person, so my talit sits folded up waiting for Shabbat; I really miss our Adat Shalom weekday minyan and look forward to rejoining it soon.
It is such a paradox that in an explicitly Jewish state, major forms of Jewish expression are seen as simply strange if not outright offensive. Wouldn’t this be the obvious place for all forms of Judaism to manifest? That was certainly the ideal of Zionist visionary Ahad Ha’am, who imagined a new State of Israel as the cultural and spiritual center of the worldwide Jewish community. But if change takes time, even a few generations, that change is apparent. While the government still does not recognize Masorti or Israeli Reform (forget about Reconstructionist and Renewal) clergy or communities, there is a growing interest in and desire for this more liberal approach to Jewish spiritual life as a generation of Israelis expresses their need for something other than black or white. As I noted during the call, I think of Ruth Calderon’s inaugural knesset speech, mentioned in an earlier blog, when she shared that, though she was raised in a strongly Zionist home, and has always felt committed to the ideals of the State of Israel, her “Tanach to Palmach” socialization and education left her feeling something was missing. So she started studying Talmud, picked up a Phd and founded a liberal yeshiva. Most Israelis don’t go that far, but more and more are participating in liberal Jewish spiritual life. On Purim morning, the congregation here joined with a liberal chavura visiting from nearby Pardes-Hanna for a shared megillah reading. Personally, I was so delighted with the two little girls arriving in Purim-inspired ballet tutu’s, (I miss the Miss Ellie community at Adat Shalom!) but certainly also appreciated the display of participation in this Jewish holiday from folks who are not officially “religious.”
That liberalization is even catching on among a small number of Orthodox Jewish Israelis. Last Shabbat morning, Jonathan and I joined a different local synagogue community which is “shivyoni”, meaning egalitarian. In this case, that label indicates that it is a traditional Orthodox group, in which there is a mechitza (physical divider/barrier between genders) during services, but which also welcomes men and women for equal participation and leadership. When counting heads for a minyan, they wait to be sure they have 10 men and 10 women, or at least they try. During the Torah service, a male gabbai stood on one side of the shulchan (reading table) and a female on the other side. The two took turns calling male and female honorees to the Torah for aliyot, evenly splitting the honors. Likewise, men and women shared the responsibility of leading the prayers. A woman led the Torah service, carried the Torah through the women’s side; the men got their turn when it was time to return the scroll to the ark. The mechitza was removed for the d’var Torah – given this week by a man – since there is no prohibition against mixed seating to hear a Torah teaching, only one during prayer. This coming Friday night, they will host a . . . female rabbi, a maharat, as they are called in liberal Orthodoxy, taking a cue from that movement in the US. It may be surprising to hear this, but I really enjoyed it as I have other such places I’ve visited. While I don’t follow the rationale of the separate seating myself, I like the idea of a place where a plurality of practitioners can participate together and where “thick” Judaism is accessible to a wider group. Needless to say, the question of how to welcome and integrate those who are gender neutral or gender non-conforming is one that still needs thought and a good solution.
And there’s another facet to this subject that’s been on my mind: the extent to which Jewish religion is often the only option for us Diaspora Jews who want to express our Jewish identity, while here in Israel, Jewish identity is so “thick” and generally integrated into everyday life, participation in Jewish spiritual life is not universally chosen by Jewish Israelis. Again, somewhat paradoxically, because Jewish traditions and ideas are practically part of the oxygen here, religious life in general is ironically a smaller piece of the portrait of Jewish society, when compared with the Diaspora. In an uncanny way, Jewish religious affiliation in the Diaspora is stronger because it has to be. As Elisha remarked on Sunday, most Israelis are appalled at the idea that they have to “join” a synagogue to be part of the Jewish community in North America. All of our marvelous shlichim, Erez DeGolan, Sahar Malka, Ayelet Levi and Idan Sharon, experienced Jewish religion personally for the first time at Adat Shalom! They gave us Israeli culture and we gave them Jewish religion, at least our version of it.
Likewise, for North American Jews, trying to maintain a minority identity in a mostly welcoming and also mostly Christian-oriented culture has left us focused on Jewish religion more than any other expression of identity. And this isn’t always a recipe for success, individually or as a community. As one congregant wrote to me recently, “The chore of having to make “religion” the sole (or main) expression of our Jewish-ness is daunting, but in the diaspora, that’s what we have to do.” In his definition of Judaism as “an evolving religious civilization” Mordecai Kaplan was onto something. Religion is important to Jewish identity, maybe even at the core of it, but religion alone is not a satisfying expression of the fullness of that identity. We need to know our history, our literature, our music, our art and architecture, our sports and, for sure, our food. Israeli society supplies the ground and the fertilizer for all of that Jewish civilization to grow and thrive. It ain’t always pretty; as Elisha commented, Israelis (maybe Jews in general?) need to argue, to speak their minds candidly. On the other hand, you never have to wonder what they’re thinking. Their thoughts are rarely smoothed over with the polite concealments we have in American culture, for better or worse.
The meeting point between Jewish religion and Jewish identity is porous and changeable throughout our lives, of course. We Diaspora Jews need Israel to push us to see outside the walls of religious practice and to remember that Jewish identity is bigger than the synagogue. At the same time, Diaspora liberal Judaism is slowly catching on here, modified to fit an Israeli culture, and is important in helping the dream of the Zionist founders to come to life.
The “shivyoni” egalitarian Orthodox community recited Psalm 130 on Shabbat morning in solidarity with the victims of the war in Ukraine, a most fitting prayer to offer from the Tanach:
Out of the depths, I call to you ETERNAL ONE. My God, hear my voice, let Your ears be attentive to my plea for mercy.
*Please join me this coming Sunday, March 20, 9:30am-10:30am (note the earlier beginning time!) for a Zoom conversation with Rabbi Elisha Wolfin, a Masorti (Conservative, i.e. liberal Jewish) spiritual leader.*
For You, God, are Most High
Surpassing all others
Those who love God, hate evil
God is a guardian of the souls for those devoted followers
God will save them from the grasp of evildoers
-Psalm 98
Like all of you, we are watching the unfolding Russian war against Ukraine with horror and anger. The contrast between our idyllic sabbatical lifestyle and the news is almost too much to bear. Who wants to visit ancient sites, practice for the megillah reading or even talk about the political challenges here when such a crisis is growing with each passing minute. On the other hand, what good does it do anyone in Ukraine (or in the neighboring countries now absorbing the more than 2 million refugees who’ve fled the war) to sit in my apartment and wring my hands? As I often do, I’ve found some solace in prayer, in the opportunity to express myself in the words of our siddur. Sometimes the liturgy just says it best. So, when it was my turn to lead Kabbalat Shabbat for the community here last Friday, I turned to these verses from Psalm 98, shown above. These lines have always stood out for me. They seem a rather sinister departure from the more common psalm verses we chant on Friday night, many of which highlight the renewal of creation, and the joy in resting from it. But, as the prophet Isaiah surely knew – God is the “creator of malice” – life includes these dark times as well, and so must our prayers. Searching for a way to highlight these words during the service, I worked out a way to sing them to the melody of the Ukrainian national anthem. I found myself practically shouting the last phrase, “God will save [the devoted ones] from the grasp of evildoers” wishing that my prayer could somehow help. Perhaps the only one it will help is myself, but that is better than nothing.
And just to keep it real, I can add that while I am more than capable of expressing myself in Hebrew, I found myself too shy in the moment to explain the melody and why I chose it for these words, so, other than Jonathan, I’m not even sure if anyone got it! Oh well, Shabbat will come again this week.
Tomorrow night is Purim. We have little bits of costuming to wear to the Megillah reading tomorrow night and Thursday morning. I’m going as a wood nymph, something I can wear that doesn’t interfere with my reading glasses, and Jonathan has a neon cowboy hat. I will delight in chanting the verses of chapter 8, my assignment, which includes Esther’s moment of truth and then the famous climax when Mordecai rides out in the king’s robes and “all the city of Shushan rejoiced and was glad”. And everyone’s favorite, “for the Jews there was light and joy and gladness and dear connection”, so beloved a verse it was conscripted into the Havdalah service. But I bet it is going to feel kind of macabre doing all this celebrating right now. Our Purim celebrations will be as prayers for peace and justice, for a restoration of safety and security for refugees and victims. I’m holding onto a teaching from a colleague in NY who highlighted the tiny phrase from the Megillah, “et zot”, meaning “this moment”, as in, “this is the time to act”, as Mordecai tells Esther. May our leaders have the courage and wisdom of Queen Esther to act to bring a safe and complete end to this madness.
The weather has been uncharacteristically cold and windy the last few days, the sky a little darker. Our local Purim celebrations, originally planned for outdoors, at a cafe and then in Ramat HaNadiv, the local memorial park, have now been moved indoors. The stores are selling costumes and we saw Harry Potter running home from school near the synagogue just today, but the chill in the air is also noticeable. Maybe that’s fitting for a year when Purim can just as well be a little muted. Instead, let’s turn our Purim attention to the custom of matanot la’evyonim, gifts to the poor. We may not be able to stop the Russian army, but we can strengthen the hands of those trying to protect innocent victims caught in this despicable, unjust war through no fault of their own. Pick your favorite place and give: local Federation emergency fund, HIAS, UNICEF, IRC, JDC, among many other worthy groups. And may Puti . . . oops, I mean Haman’s name be wiped out.
By now, if you’re reading this, you’ve likely also seen the announcement about my plans to transition to a new position this coming fall. So many of you have sent so many good wishes – I’m extremely grateful for all your kind words. I’m trying to respond individually, but may not have gotten all caught up yet. And we still have more than 6 months in our current configuration, so, you’re not rid of me yet.
Back to our regularly scheduled program . . .
Being the second youngest in his original nuclear family of 6 kids, Jonathan has a large web of nieces, nephews and now great-nieces and nephews. His eldest nephew was born when Jonathan himself was a young teen. I say this to explain that, yes, we are entirely too young to be called grand uncle Jonathan and grand aunt Rachel, yet, somewhat alarmingly, this is what we are!
Last week, we caught up with one of the elder nieces and her family, enjoying a visit we had previously postponed when one of her daughters tested positive for omicron. We were delighted to bring a Thai dinner by special request from our grand-niece, from the local mall – owned by the kibbutz where they and Jonathan’s sister live – and join this family of 5 on a Thursday night, which is when the weekend begins here. Our niece Yasmin, mentioned in an earlier post, and her husband Atar, are parents of three wonderful kids. Yasmin is a local high school Tanach (Hebrew Bible) teacher and Atar is an artist and art teacher, traveling to Tel Aviv several days a week, teaching all different kinds of media, while he himself is a successful painter. Their son Maayan Zoomed into our Kitah Zayin at Adat Shalom last year when we were learning about modern Israel, acting as my own personal show and tell. Their daughter Romi, who shares my love of Pad Thai, met us in the kibbutz parking lot and walked us back to their home, her warm grace belying her pre-adolescent age, and we were quickly scooped into their busy home to gather around their family table. As the family chatted about all kinds of things – Atar is helping to build a new playground for their youngest daughter, Gali’s, kindergarten class – I thought about some differences between typical Israeli homes and typical American homes, first and foremost the difference in size and the perception of how much space we “need”. This awareness of personal space – physical and moral – is one of the principles of Jewish ethics, in particular, the practice of mussar, which says, “no more than my space and no less than my place.
Yasmin’s kibbutz home is comfortable by Israeli standards, with room for three kids to spin around the shared living space, and a kitchen big enough to prepare meals for an active family. Their dining table is intimate by American standards, but, to tell the truth, it was more than big enough for us and made it easy to share dishes and conversation. Emphasis on connection and relationship, not on personal space. (And, Daisy, their puppy, wanted in on the action too.) Perhaps this is just the result of geographical and economic reality – Israel is a tiny country and, until recently, not very wealthy – but it seems a good lesson for us in the west, accustomed to spreading out and taking up whatever space there is. Do we really need all of our space? Another family visit pushed the question further.
On Shabbat we finally made it to visit our youngest Israeli niece Ayala, her husband Ori, their toddler and their newborn in Kiryat Ono, on the outskirts of Tel Aviv. I had not seen this lovely pair since before their wedding, when I was last here in 2016, and they were just dating. Now they are a family of four and doing an outstanding job of juggling being professionals (he, a career officer in the IDF ), full-time students (she, now working on a 2nd bachelor’s degree) and parenting an adorable two-and-a-half year old and a one-month old. It seems I will not have grandchildren of my own any time soon – again, far too young – but being with these little ones is a taste of the deliciousness I anticipate (someday!) The toddler was shy for about 5 minutes, then eager to share his toys and to ask, “why?” about everything, right on cue developmentally. The newborn slept peacefully while her parents served lunch, politely waiting until we were all done eating before tactfully announcing the end of her nap. The tired parents somehow remained good humored, patient and firm with their toddler, while they chatted us up, mostly in English, not their native tongue, and managed all of this activity.
Among the whole extended family, this couple are the only ones who’ve adopted a traditional Jewish lifestyle, what I would categorize as “Dati Le’umi” – which is basically modern Orthodox. They are completely comfortable in the modern world and also observe Shabbat, kashrut and other Jewish laws with precision and clarity. So, for instance, not only could we not bring homemade food from our kitchen here, which is not kosher, we also could not bring hechshered items from a store since they’d be transported in a car on Shabbat. I share this without an ounce of judgment or disparagement, more out of interest and respect. And, yes, it felt terrible to show up at the home of new parents and have them feed us rather than the other way around. And not just some little nibble, but a full homemade Shabbat lunch, with “Iraqi” cholent, the delicious stew cooked hot and slow (from chaud and lent in French), often started on Friday morning so it will be ready for Shabbat lunch. But we will get them back another time soon.
As we entered Kiryat Ono, with its many apartment buildings and otherwise low-key atmosphere – this is not the fast-paced, cosmopolitan center of Tel Aviv, but more of a bedroom community – we were immediately aware, again, of the difference between Israelis and Americans in how much space we feel we need to live. Ayala and Ori live in a modest apartment, smaller than the one we’re renting in Zichron Yaakov, which is . . . small, but, we’re surprised to discover that it is more than sufficient for us. Our young niece is living with her young family in a smaller space, but it seems more than fine. Heck, if you can have homemade cholent and fresh beet salad for lunch, who cares what size the table is? As long as there is room for your bowl and your tush? And, you have your brilliant and adorable young grand-nephew sitting nearby to explain all the ingredients in the salad – in perfect Hebrew mind you! – what’s not to like? All I’m saying is, our 2700 sq ft home in Bethesda now seems absurdly large for two people who’s young adult kids drop by now and then. Wicca Davidson, let’s talk.
In between the nieces, we scored a visit with Micha and Rachel Balf of nearby Kibbutz Maagan Michael. Special shoutout to Rabbi Fred from Micha who was a shaliach in Boston when young Fred Dobb was an undergrad at Brandeis, and again in Washington around 2006-7 when Fred was already “a big rabbi at a big shul in Washington DC!”. Rachel is one of the regular Torah readers at Kehilat Veahavta and we quickly realized the connections. Micha and Rachel welcomed us into the kibbutz for a Friday morning brunch in the chadar ochel (kibbutz dining room), then handed us bikes and took us on a tour of this beautiful place, where they’ve lived since the 1980’s. They spoke with understandable pride about the success of the kibbutz, one of the few that still operates as a collective. Micha’s career has been in education, first as a teacher of civics and literature, and later as principal of the regional high school. Rachel is a social worker. Both of them are especially enjoying their current role as grandparents, whose grandchildren live on the kibbutz as well. Our tour of the kibbutz ended with a stop at their home, also lovely, also right-sized. If I saw it in a real estate ad, I’d dismiss it as insufficient in size, but entering the space it seems more than ample and a wonderful place to live.
Earlier this week, I stopped at my favorite local coffee shop, right near our apartment. They already know me by now and start pulling the decaf coffee grounds down from the shelf (apparently, no one else orders decaf) and the soy milk from the fridge. The usual? Yes, the usual, I answered, squeezing past another customer to the counter credit card reader to pay my bill. It is barely enough room to maneuver, but then again, it was fine. And, finding a seat at a small table outside where the sidewalk disappears into the street and I can smell the citrus from the fruit market across the narrow road, I settled in to enjoy my steaming cuppa decaf. New customers squeezed past me, the cafe owner edged his way through with a tray full of drinks, and it was all rather cozy. But somehow, not crowded. Right-sized.
And finally, yesterday, with a few hours of freedom before meetings and other commitments, we made the drive back to Akko, the ancient and modern city I mentioned in my blog about cooking. I wanted to show Jonathan the remarkable site of our cooking class and around the old city, which is home to Jews and Arabs living in close proximity, another locale of mostly peaceful coexistence which erupted in violence last spring, but which has now resumed its peaceful rhythms, at least for the moment. While we took in several old and ancient sites – Napoleon was here, R. Moshe Chayim Luzzato was here, the Crusaders were here, the Romans were here, several Mishnaic sages were here, some say even D’vorah the judge was buried here – we also learned the local art of close navigation around others walking the same very narrow streets. Often, you have to turn sideways to fit two people passing one another in a kind of pedestrian dance, before emerging into a wider plaza where a motorcycle might be zooming by. I guess it could get claustrophobic, but people seem fine with it.
We adjust to the space we have and, in doing so, find out that we may not need so much. In an earlier visit with Jeremy Benstein, he remarked about why so many young Israelis go abroad after their army service. They feel boxed-in here – there’s not much room, and not many places to go inside the national borders. This is very different from the States where a traveler can stretch their “legs” easily, even within the same state. So, off they go to visit India, Thailand, South and North America, bringing back new cultural ingredients to refresh what’s already here, and then, usually, settle into the available physical space with expanded minds and hearts. Apparently, the founder of mussar, R. Israel Salanter, said, “the greatest distance is between the human mind and the human heart.” I assume he meant that the task of spiritual practice is to bring the two together, to integrate our cognitive and emotive intelligence into one consciousness, like the Buddhist idea of bringing the jewel (the mind) into the lotus (the heart). And at the same time, the spaciousness in our consciousness, to dream of what is possible in the world: peace, plenty for all, health and safety, should never be limited.
At the end of the Book of Exodus and again in the beginning of the Book of Numbers, the Torah goes to great lengths to describe the construction and ritual use of the original menorah, the seven-branch lamp which, according to the Torah text, stood in the mishkan, and which we know existed for sure in Temple times. It is depicted on the Arch of Titus in a frieze showing the spoils of war which the Romans extracted from Jerusalem after the destruction of the 2nd Temple. While we often envision the modern Israeli flag as the most obvious visual of Israeli society, the menorah is the official state symbol. When the modern State of Israel was established in 1948, the menorah was a potent sign of Jewish renewal and reclamation and the end of the diaspora which began with that Roman destruction in the first century CE. But it has even more importance in the foundation of Judaism as a religious civilization.
As we’ve studied in past Torah discussions, there are multiple rabbinic commentaries on the description of the menorah in the Torah which point to it as a reference to the Garden of Eden. R. Shai Held and others have remarked on this connection in recent times, highlighting the many details rendered in botanical images, which harken back to the Tree of Life in the Garden. From Exodus 37:18-20:
Six branches issued from [the menorah’s] sides: three branches from one side of the lampstand, and three branches from the other side of the lampstand.There were three cups shaped like almond-blossoms, each with calyx and petals, on one branch; and there were three cups shaped like almond-blossoms, each with calyx and petals, on the next branch; so for all six branches issuing from the lampstand. On the lampstand itself there were four cups shaped like almond-blossoms, each with calyx and petals . . .
All of this was on my mind as I approached my Torah reading for this past Shabbat, so much so that I asked R. Elisha if I could say a few words before I began the reading. So, not only was I sweating to learn the 13 verses of Torah, all in this highly technical language in which one calyx starts to sound like another, but now I was also offering to speak about it all, in Hebrew. A glutton for punishment, for sure. But the Garden beckoned, so I put my head down and tried my best. Who knows what the authors of the Torah text were thinking about in so painstakingly describing the construction of this and other parts of the communal spiritual space. But the rabbinic creativity in connecting it to the Garden of Eden is inspiring. In my short d’var Torah – a “d’vareleh” I would call it – I said:
Seen through the lens of its symbolic meaning, the menorah calls up all the drama of the Garden, of the discovery of our human mortality and vulnerability, and also reminds us of a place of primordial beauty and generativity. And, since it became the custom for synagogues throughout Jewish history to include a menorah in memory of this original one, we too invoke that image of the Garden, so that whatever the simplicity or grandeur of our communal space, we have a little window on our first human experiences.
A few weeks ago, we took a walk with our brother in law through the Langa Grove [a historic park in Zichron Yaakov]. He reminded us to pay attention to the new almond blossoms, the first trees to bloom and to announce the arrival of spring. And here we are on Shabbat Shekalim, the first of the special Shabbatot which lead to Pesach. Let’s read these verses which point us to the image of the Garden and also help us to raise up our faith in the coming season of health and liberty, to see the decline of the pandemic and the festival of Pesach.
Amen and may it be so for us and for all dwellers of the earth, especially those innocent citizens of Ukraine caught in the crossfire of a maniacal and unjust invasion.
Here’s what else I learned: don’t write your d’var in English and then try to translate it into Hebrew, even if that means
your final product will have to be a bit simpler in phrasing and linguistic substance. In fact, that is what I tried to do. I leaned heavily on my sister-in-law Ruthie for her precise eye and tireless devotion to editing – she has more patience than most saints – and went above and beyond the basic request for help. So much so that I had to practice the Hebrew version to be sure I understood it myself. I did manage to do so and delivered my first (and perhaps only!) drash in modern Hebrew. Phew. And yet I live to tell the tale, and even made it through the tough Torah reading with good success. The cherry on top was that the honoree for this reading was R. Elisha’s mother, celebrating her 80th birthday. I should only look and sound as good as she does, even now
It happened to be my birthday as well. So we ended the day with a family celebration with Koby, cousin Josh and his amazing sons, both living here as well, one an officer in the IDF (just received the Presidential Commendation for outstanding service, just to kvell a little) and the other a precocious (and somewhat frustrated) music teacher and high school guidance counselor. Listening to the next generation talk about their perspectives, their dreams, their questions was wonderful for us. Among the threads of conversation, we chatted briefly about the war in Ukraine and the Israeli response to it. While there were many expressions of concern and prayer offered during the Shabbat service, the official government response is ambivalent: the foreign minister condemned it and the prime minister is attempting a stance of neutrality. And now Bennett seems to have a potential role in brokering a cease-fire. Whatever official statements made by various leaders, my prayers are with the citizens, young and old, bearing the brunt of this attack as sacrificial lambs while the world watches. May it end quickly.
And we carry on – what choice do we have? Yesterday, we made a trip to another less well-known historic site, Tel Dor, an important port city stretching back to Phoenician times (approx. 1500-300BCE), with updates from Roman and Crusader periods as well. Yet another spot where every stone has a story to tell and has been carefully excavated and preserved under Israeli rule. And just to take the shine off a bit, while we wandered around the ruins and took in the beauty of the Mediterranean waves gently splashing over them, we eavesdropped on a tour guide doing his best to present some of the extraordinary history here to a group of somewhat unruly middle school students, stopping several times to try to bring them to order, or at least to civility. Youth is wasted on the young.
We continued on to the Mizgaga Museum nearby at Kibbutz Nachsholim, housed in a glassworks factory which operated for all of maybe 3 years trying to produce bottles for the wine in the nearby vineyards, part of the Rothschild family vision, until it was finally determined that the glass bottling operation was not really viable. More recently, a museum has been created there to showcase a spectacular collection of archeological artifacts from the area, dating back to Phoenician times. The ingenuity of ancient peoples – no internet, no youtube instructions, no fancy tools or 3-D printing – is astounding. As we walked through the exhibit, I kept wondering why all this history was of no interest to the Ottoman Arab residents who populated this area before Jews started arriving here in the late 19th and early 20th century. Or maybe it has been of interest, but we don’t know about it. Our guide explained that they were likely busy just trying to earn a living, like we all are. (He added that relations between Arabs and Jews in this area in earlier times were often very good, mentioning that the local Sheik had hoped to marry his daughter to Meir Dizengoff’s son – it didn’t happen but is maybe one small example of warm relations that we don’t often hear.) Fair enough. Israelis have certainly also been busy with day to day needs. But the endless interest in history – not just Jewish but of all periods – which inspires all this archeological industry and its careful presentation to the public must be based on a primal love for this land. May that love also inspire a commitment to peace and justice.
At the end of the museum, a poem by the great Israeli poet Yehudah Amichai is posted on the wall:
Instructions for the Waitress
Don’t clear the plates and glasses
From the table. Don’t rub
The stain out from the tablecloth! It’s good for me to know
There lived others in this world before me.
I buy shoes that were once on another man’s feet
My friend has thoughts of his own
My love’s a married woman
My night’s used up with dreams
Drops of rain are painted on my window
The margins of my books are filled with others’ comments.
On the blueprints of the house I went to live in
The architect has sketched in strangers at the door
On my bed’s a pillow, with
The indentation of a head, no longer there.
So please don’t clear
The table,
It’s good for me to know
There lived others in this world before me.
____________________________________________________________
** Mazal tov to Gili and the whole Sherlinder-Morse-Dobb family on this upcoming simcha on Shabbat! Jonathan and I are cheering you on from over here and are with you in spirit.**
In our family, everyone says my tombstone will read “let me just make a quick salad”, since I seem to need to do this at many if not most family meals. Indeed, I really like having fresh, uncooked vegetables on the table; I also enjoy having something healthy that I can eat with abandon with little concern over the calories. I love the combination of vibrant colors, and the varied textures in your mouth as you crunch your way through cucumbers, peppers, varieties of lettuces and other ingredients. While I was raised with this kind of food aesthetic as a kid, my real love of salad was ignited by my first visit to Israel in 1990. At the time, I was assigned to the ‘cold self service’ tray as part of my kitchen duty at Kibbutz Ein HaShofet (a large, Hashomer Hatza’ir kibbutz, named in honor of “the judge” Louis Brandeis.) There, I learned the value of a truly beautiful scallion – “we eat this for the green!” the manager would shout at us if we served wilted onions – and the delight of chopping and mixing vegetables precisely.
Fast forward to now, and my affection for salad has only grown deeper, especially after an extraordinary cooking class last week. The inimitable Naveh’s contacted me to invite me to join them and a small minyan of their neighbors for a private cooking class with an Arab teacher in the Israeli city of Akko. They kindly drove over to collect me, since our absurdly expensive rental car is now back on the lot at the airport. We drove past several growing towns on the way with many construction sites, Israel’s struggle to solve its housing crisis on full display. We found ourselves a parking spot in the town, just along the beach, and made our way to the class, located in the Arab quarter of the old city.
The class was offered by Beit Elfarasha, literally, “the butterfly house” in the hope that one small transformative place can
have a large impact, just like the flapping of the wings of a butterfly which can initiate significant change in faraway places. It is a collective of Arab women who share their love of cooking and local culture with lucky visitors like us. We spent the day with the wonderful Man’ar Kurdi, a kind of calm, skilled Julia Child, completely at home in the kitchen. Gently guiding us through the preparation and blissful eating of a 5-course meal, we learned not only about the use of central ingredients (soumak spice and date syrup are my new favorites) but also about the culture from which these culinary traditions derive. We shared expressions of wonder at the spectacular flavors and textures, and also at the kind of strength it takes to prepare meals like this during the holy month of Ramadan, when adults – including those in the kitchen all day – are fasting daily, eating only before sunrise or after sundown. While the group chatted happily through the various courses, a solemn quiet settled over the room when Man’ar shared the trauma of religious violence that descended on her neighborhood, during the ethnic riots that erupted here last spring. And the complete lack of response from the authorities. As she said quietly, “there are no police here.” She graciously steered the conversation back to best techniques for rising the pita dough, but the bitter dose of reality was there for us to taste as well.
Among Man’ar’s recipes, she taught us how to make her “Million Dollar Salad” (salat million dolar – סלט מיליון דולר) which I’ve already tried to replicate twice with limited success. Maybe you can try it?
Chop everything very finely, especially the onion, and include stems from lettuce and herbs:
Equal parts of:
Cucumber
purple or green onion
romaine lettuce
fresh parsley
Small amounts, almost as garnish, of:
toasted almonds
toasted peanuts
toasted pumpkin seeds
Pickles (we did not include these)
Dressing: (this makes a large amount, adjust as appropriate)
½ c Olive oil
⅓ c Lemon juice
2 Tbs Date syrup
fresh basil* to taste
fresh dill to taste
Salt
Pepper
*per Man’ar, fresh basil is the key taste ingredient here. Who can argue with that?
A large bowl for one, a fork, and a quiet table . . .
Earlier in the week . . .
As mentioned above, I paid a visit to my cousin Josh’s world religions class in the International Baccalaureate program at Givat Haviva, the educational institute affiliated with the Kibbutz Federation, the network of over 250 kibbutzim. Among the programs in place at the institute is this newly established IB program with a truly international student body. Just two years old, the program has a mix of Jewish, Arab and international students who learn together and, so far, are surpassing benchmarks for success in their IB test scores. Josh teaches a 2-year world religions class, this group focusing on Taoism, Buddhism and Judaism. I was invited to join them to talk about Judaism, the liberal version of it that I practice and my perspective as a female leader. While none of the students in this group is a native English speaker, English is the language of instruction for the whole school. Keep that in mind while I now tell you that these young people are so impressive in their astute questions, their expansive curiosity, their remarkable ability to discuss complex topics like modern theology, as they sit side by side with students from very different backgrounds, including some that are historically hostile. After a bit of introduction – and the fun of seeing their surprise and delight when they figured out that Josh and I are cousins – we delved into the Torah’s creation story and into a short excerpt from Arthur Green’s Radical Judaism. As I left at the end of the class, I felt truly encouraged about the future.
And the grand finale of the week: Shabbat dinner with Rabbi Sid, Sandy and their daughter Jenny, along with Jeremy Benstein and Annabel Herzog. Jeremy led the Kabbalat Shabbat prayers at the synagogue, Rabbi Elisha warmly welcomed the Schwarz-Perlstein visitors, asking Jonathan and me, “is this your rabbi?” Yes, indeed. Hosting guests in your residence is the best way to feel like you really live here and we loved making a Shabbat meal to share with everyone. Sid and Sandy seem unfazed by the time difference – it takes me at least a week – and Jenny is continuing to thrive in her work and her life in Tel Aviv. The evening included a round of that uncanny game, “Jewish geography”, with several previously unknown connections revealed over dinner and dessert.
Sunday, back to yoga and Hebrew – this lesson was all about the importance of dreams – and then the wonderful Zoom call with Jeremy on Sunday afternoon. It was really great to see so many of you there. Stay tuned for the next one coming up soon with Rabbi Elisha and some conversation about the remarkable growth of liberal Judaism in Israel.
Finally, lest anyone think it’s all sweetness and light every day, I’ve been noticing that subtle shift from the delights of
being a visitor to the more real-life challenges of trying to live here, if only very temporarily. Fortunately, nothing serious at all, but a few medical challenges have been unwelcome curve balls, especially tricky since we don’t participate in the nationalized medical system here. Luckily, we have some “vitamin p” – “protectzia” – the ability to use our personal network to get what we need. I hope you all stay well. Spring is indeed around the corner. I was so happy to see Jennifer Gold’s poetic description of our upcoming Purim celebrations at Adat Shalom – I’m on deck to read a chapter of the megillah here and have to get to work on my costume. And while Purim masks may be in the making, it seems that the Corona masks are slowly coming off – safely I hope!
Every society has its own complex social codes, those often unconscious or subconscious guidelines for behavior and interaction, based on gender, socioeconomic status, race and, for sure, religion. Israel is a civil society which intends to be fully pluralistic while also being explicitly Jewish. Learning the code for this society as a visitor, even a somewhat frequent, somewhat well-educated one, is an interesting puzzle. This was all on my mind this past Shabbat, as I walked home from the morning service. Walking, as opposed to driving as I normally would in Bethesda, means passing people on the street at much closer range and with more time to sort out an interaction. This past Shabbat, curious to explore the “code” here in Zichron Yaakov, I decided to experiment simply by wishing Shabbat shalom to everyone I passed. I wanted to see what the responses would be, especially since I myself don’t really fit into any neat category. My clothing is secular, though modest, and my head is uncovered, yet anyone could see that I was carrying a talit under my arm. So, I don’t fit into the “Da’atiya” (religious) box, nor would a religious person carry their talit in town, since that’s prohibited on Shabbat. But on the other hand, having a talit at all means something, doesn’t it?
I walked along the road and here’s what I got: 1) the woman in yoga tights and running shoes smiled back and wished me Shabbat shalom in return, 2) the young religious couple, he in a black hat but no payot and she in a colorful headscarf but no wig, looked at me a bit surprised and then wished me Shabbat shalom in return, 3) the Orthodox teenager in a white shirt, untucked tzitzit and payot would not look at me and did not respond at all (maybe that has more to do with being a teenager than with any religious affiliation). Then I reached the ‘midrachov’, the pedestrian walkway lined with shops and cafes, which is also the last leg of the walk to our home here.
To be sure, there are no observant folks hanging around here on Shabbat, at least not that I could see. Surprisingly, while the businesses are all quiet on Shabbat morning, just about everything is open by about noon. This past Shabbat it was an absolute party atmosphere, music blasting from different shops, many people sitting at outdoor tables sharing meals, kids calling out to each other and lots of people just shmying around. This kind of activity on a Shabbat is somewhat new for Israel and, at least to me, portrays the increasing disdain among secular Israelis for the control religious leaders have historically had over public life here. For me, it was even more strange and disorienting than the earlier part of the walk. While I can’t say I identify with the officially ‘religious’ residents here, neither is it comfortable to make my way from shul through all this consumer activity, my mind still marinating in the images of the precise construction of the mishkan explained in great detail in the Torah reading during services. Much of the delightful sense of “home” I feel was lost to me as I took these steps through the walkway. I make no judgment about how people spend their time on Shabbat or any other time (here or at home in Bethesda), and fully support a free and open society. At the same time, being part of a community that has a baseline agreement so that everyone (?) can feel comfortable is affirming. Pushing my way through the crowds of people drinking coffee and buying jewelry, not so much.
After Shabbat lunch with my sister-in-law Ruthie and brother-in-law Yuval, we showed them around some other parts of town, away from the busy crowds. Ruthie is trained in linguistics and remains our own personal Hebrew coach, generously offering explanations, cues and corrections any time we might ask, another facet of ‘cracking the code’. As we walked together, we spoke about the miracle of modern Hebrew, a kind of invention of the early generations of modern Zionists. While based on the beauty and terse compactness of Biblical Hebrew, the modern version is a vibrant expression of a ‘new-old’ culture (to use Herzl’s phrase) that is very much still evolving. It is an elastic linguistic system, constantly developing, and at the same time, seems firm in its commitment to its own linguistic culture. Ruthie pointed out that other languages borrow freely as they evolve, while Hebrew often does not. She gave one example: in Russian the word for computer is ‘compudor’, while in modern Hebrew it is ‘machshev’, based on the Hebrew root chet-shin-bet ח–ש–ב, indicating ‘thought’, ‘thinking’, ‘idea’. The etymology makes complete sense, and also retains its cultural identity, making it less universal. No doubt there are plenty of examples, ‘televisia’, for instance, which are just direct appropriations, or even ‘pelefon’ often used to mean cell phone, which is a mash-up of telephone and the Hebrew ‘peleh’, meaning ‘wondrous’. But, Ruthie’s point remains: modern Hebrew is not giving up its identity as an expression of modern Israeli culture. It is a fitting manifestation of the tenacity and passion of its architects, and of the pioneers of modern Israel in general. Sababa! (“Just great!”, a favorite Israeli expression, which comes from Arabic.)
Later, we caught a quick Shabbat nap before heading out to visit Shir and Gil Naveh at their home not far away. While it took no more than 20 minutes to drive home that evening, getting there was another story. Basically, we joined in a massive Shabbat afternoon traffic jam, sending us on several dead ends (no, Google Maps, the dirt road that parallels the highway is not an exit ramp onto said highway, but rather is separated from it by a metal guardrail) and retracings of our driving steps, all the while enjoying the sense of community we strongly felt as we realized that everyone else was also following the Waze app suggestions for navigating around the source of the backup. So, a backup with several others created by the first one. Fun. Finally, we reached the Naveh’s home in Beit Herut, literally, “House of Freedom”, a moshav founded by American settlers in the early 1930’s. As we arrived, so happy to reconnect with these lovely friends from Adat Shalom, we dropped our things in their house and headed out with them for a walk along the beach. Shir describes their neighborhood as as a “disheveled Garden of Eden”, very lovely and perhaps a bit unkempt, but isn’t that part of the charm? We reached the beach just at sundown, the sky glowing with layers of orange and purple and the sun just barely showing itself above the dark water before quickly disappearing altogether.
Shir and I fell into a long conversation about Israel, the passionate and inspiring founders, their descendants now struggling to face major challenges in their search for justice, peace and stabillity, while the outside world seems less and less tolerant of Israel’s right to exist. From my usual perch at home in Bethesda, the “matzav”, the “situation”, meaning the Israeli-Palestinian and also Israeli-Arab conflicts, looks almost black and white. From here, the truth of its complexity is undeniable. There are no easy solutions and while we who identify as liberal Jewish Americans may often feel sharply critical of Israel’s civic policies, seeing them through the eyes of Israeli citizens (or even residents like the Naveh’s) helps paint a much more nuanced picture. It may be satisfying to reduce these questions down to simple answers, but that simplicity may be based on ignorance. I look forward to more opportunities to perceive the nuances while we’re here. Simple answers may be emotionally satisfying but are probably not effective in addressing the issues.
We arrived back from our walk to find Gali, now a 5th grader, relaxing at home. Her brother Amitai joined a bit later, breathless from an afternoon of soccer. Both of them have grown so much! Gali shared some of what she’s enjoying here – horseback riding – and also looks forward to returning to Rockville before the start of the next school year. Moriyah, now a senior in high school, is already back in the States living with her grandparents while she finishes her school program. Maayan, their eldest daughter, is now in an officer training course with the Israeli army and will remain here as a citizen. Moriyah plans to join the army after she finishes school, so the family will likely be back and forth. I hope we can plan a welcome back celebration for them this coming summer or whenever they arrive.
Sunday morning, another yoga class – this one in English, such a relief! After ferrying Koby to the dentist here in Zichron Yaakov – an infected wisdom tooth? – and returning him to his residence near Haifa, we made it to Rabbi Elisha’s Sunday evening Talmud class, taught in Hebrew, quite a challenge for us, but we managed to keep up. Among the treats of this class, we read an original midrash by the extraordinary modern leader and teacher Ruth Calderon, based on the Talmudic story, further illuminated by Rashi, of Bruriah and her tragic end. I’ve linked Caleron’s inaugural speech (with English subtitles) as a member of Knesset here and cannot recommend it strongly enough if you haven’t already seen it.
Yesterday we visited with Jonathan’s childhood friend from Albuquerque, whose grown son now lives here in Jerusalem, a modern day Breslover Hasid. Gershon wears a crocheted black kipah (the type of kipah you wear is part of the code), long, untucked tzitziot, and otherwise modern clothing. We weren’t sure if he was the kind of Hasid who would not dine with a woman – much less a woman in secular dress who also has the title rabbi – but we were pleased to learn he was more than comfortable with all of us. We found a kosher restaurant, the kind that is not open on Shabbat, and had a wonderful Israeli meal together, learning a bit more about the variety of Breslover Hasidim, their annual pilgrimage to Rabbi Nachman’s grave in Uman (now in Ukraine), favorite Jewish texts to study, and even talked Iyengar yoga, just to round out the discussion. Gershon’s father, a staunch supporter of AIPAC, here in Israel on a short visit to see his son and to work on a project at Hebrew University, observes his son’s activities with mostly good-humored irritation.
This morning, we awoke to a beautiful day and got out early to hike through Ramat HaNadiv, the local nature preserve and memorial to the founders of Zichron Yaakov. The early signs of spring are appearing, the ground littered with cyclamen blossoms and a few brave red poppies poking through earth. The sun felt warm and the air was still cool. After I send this post off to our office, I will head over to Givat Haviva, to visit my cousin Josh’s class in world religions. More on that later. For now, wishing you all good health, good humor and at least some moments of contentment.
Well, here we are just about three weeks in, starting to feel just a smidge less like tourists and more like regular folks. The
cute shops in the toney pedestrian walkway are still cute, but less compelling than before. After all, the same gifts and crafts that are for sale now were there last month and will be again next. Now I know my way to the synagogue and the yoga studio (and my favorite health food store) on foot without using my GPS and have gotten some insider info on the best ways to do various things. We’ve figured out how to get our laundry done before it runs out, and have gotten used to the dogs that bark incessantly every night from the house just down the hill. The Talmud comments that the second “watch” of the night begins when the dogs start barking. Yeah, it’s getting real.
And yet there are still wonderful discoveries. Yesterday morning the rain paused for a while and I awoke to an absolute symphony of birdsong, one exotic call responding loudly to another for several minutes. I lay there for a few minutes listening to the remarkable conversation and thinking this reminds me of . . . a rainforest. If only Rabbi George, or John Togut, z’l, were here to help me identify this cornucopia of sounds.
Almost a whole week has passed since I wrote here, so there’s a bit of catching up to do. We’re finding th
at the weather forecast is not necessarily to be trusted, for better or for worse, so we’ve tried to embrace an attitude of ‘carpe diem’ whenever the weather seems to invite it, weather channel be damned.
On Tuesday, we jumped into the car and drove just a short distance to the artist colony of Ein Hod. For the most part, road signs in Israel are well organized, usually presented in
Hebrew, Arabic and English – though it seems to us there is less English than in the past, and that is fine. But sometimes, one can get a bit turned around. Now just to be fair, those of you who know me are thinking, yeah, but you (Rachel) get lost in Carderock Springs, so you’re not a good example. And you wouldn’t be wrong. But Jonathan is usually able to reason himself through even a complex road trip, so if we got a bit lost on the way to Ein Hod, you can be sure it was because the signs really were confusing! So much so, that we ended up taking a little unplanned hike. We told ourselves to just go with it. The lovely path was marked by the official SPNI hiking blazes and it was a beautiful, sunny morning. We set off with cautious optimism, but also took special notice of the large animal droppings along the way, and felt a bit nervous about the notices of wild boars we had seen not far away. Soon enough we discovered that this hiking path led to an Israeli cattle ranch, with several big-horned bulls grazing lazily. Think “Ferdinand” I told myself as we slowly backed away and found our way back to the car. And just then, a young artist found us in the parking lot adjacent to our actual destination and pointed us in the right direction. All’s well that ends well, and that’s no bull. Ein Hod itself was lovely, though rather quiet. We took in some older and newer Israeli art, including several beautiful acrylic paintings by one of the recent artists in residence there, depicting the local landscape with great skill and beauty.
Last week, we enjoyed another visit with Koby who joined us for a trip to the remarkable Roman-period ruins at Tzipori. This site is known for the discovery of the ancient city that was occupied by different peoples for over 2000 years, and which is home to an incredible collection of mosaic flooring in homes, and in a spectacular synagogue, whose ornate mosaic floor depicts not only several biblical scenes (the binding of Isaac, for example) as well as an artistic rendering of the Zodiac system – shown in a synagogue. Today we tell the story of the Macabees, the 2nd century BCE Jewish fighters who rebelled against Hellenist (Syrio-Greek) rulers and influence, but the synagogue at Zippori tells a different story of the integration of neighboring and ruling culture into Jewish spiritual life. Or at least an attempt at some deference to that ruling culture. In another building, in the remains of a Roman villa, we saw the “Mona Lisa” of Tzipori, a work of mosaic portraiture so refined and painstaking it took my breath away. Sara Sennett, look out!
We joined in with the Veahavta (synagogue) community for their Shabbat evening and morning prayers and a bi-weekly Torah discussion which replaces the traditional Torah reading on those weeks – an interesting rhythm. Rabbi Elisha led a text study based on an interpretation of Parashat T’rumah by the great Hasidic master the S’fat Emet, Rabbi Yehudah Leib Alter of Ger, whose commentaries we’ve read at Adat Shalom many times. We’ll have a chance for a Zoom visit with Elisha to hear more about his unique path which began as a HaBonim shaliach – very secular – and led to his ordination as a Masorti (Israeli Conservative) rabbi in a Jewish country which has yet to fully embrace Jewish pluralism.
Sunday, back to yoga and then Hebrew, both two times per week, and then to Zoom into a family baby naming from New York. Our Hebrew class this week focused on a discussion of 9/11, reading a news article about it, then composing our own written reflections. It is a hard subject to discuss and while we learned lots of new vocabulary (disaster, (in)stability), I’ll be glad to move onto another topic. On the other hand, since we’ve been here, two new baby girls have arrived, one on each side of our family, one in Israel and one in the US. We’re so grateful and glad that everyone is healthy and look forward to meeting these new little leaves on our extended family tree.
And finally, Jerusalem. Finding ourselves with a beautiful weather forecast and no obligations for the day, we got out early and made the drive south, with just a general idea of what we might do upon arrival. On this visit to Israel, we’ve both wanted to avoid being tourists as much as possible, though the locals immediately spot us as such. Having been to Jerusalem multiple times, it has not been primary on our agenda. On the other hand, how can one come to Israel without visiting this beloved and complicated city? With plans to return our rental car next week (it costs as much as our apartment!) we thought this might be a good moment to make the trip. It was in fact a wonderful day, bookended by incredibly stressful road travel there and back.
First, a short diversion about driving in Israel. While much of life here is grittier, rougher and more stressful than other places in the world, and certainly the rolling hills of Bethesda, MD, driving here may require psychiatric attention. I exaggerate only slightly. I’ve managed to get behind the wheel myself 3 times already – the only times I’ve driven a car in Israel – and done so on relatively easy drives on smaller roads to visit family and see local sights. I made one 5-minute drive to the synagogue by myself and that was a huge accomplishment. The roads are narrow, the drivers are aggressive, the pedestrians are fully entitled or oblivious and, jeez!, the road signs are often in a foreign language! My yogic breathing training has been rather helpful here. Needless to say, with all of this, Jonathan, whose nerves are stronger than mine, did all the driving to and from Jerusalem. Most of the way there was pretty straightforward, on major roads that are indeed improved each time we’ve visited. Once in the city, navigating through the municipal streets which are crowded, poorly marked, poorly maintained, sometimes monitored by only vaguely effective people directing traffic, and with pedestrians of all ages only vaguely observing cross-walks, makes for a hair-raising experience. We did eventually find our chosen destination and parked our car with relief.
On the way, I contacted our wonderful Idan Sharon, now living in Jerusalem as a student at Hebrew University, and got an immediate, warm response saying he happened to be free that afternoon. Before meeting up with Idan, Jonathan and I made a short visit to the old city, where we walked the ramparts, something he’d done as a child and I had never done. Climbing high up to the top of the wall surrounding the city, I experienced a full bout of acrophobia, something new for me. This unfortunately made it a little difficult to fully absorb the magnificent views of the surrounding city, but I managed to get some of it, including viewing the panorama through the narrow slits carved in the wall for the purpose of sharpshooters, whether with arrows or guns.
The old city’s name seems a gross understatement, since “old” doesn’t even begin to capture the layers of history under every stone. It is a fascinating mix of Jewish, Christian, Muslim and Armenian communities who’ve lived here as neighbors – sometimes friendly, sometimes not – for many centuries. The environment is thick with a unique kind of intensity, so much religious devotion and fervor crammed into such a small place. While the Kotel, the Western Wall, is a favorite destination for Jewish and many other visitors, we were satisfied with a distant view and chose instead to wander some of the less familiar streets in the Jewish and Armenian quarters. Obviously a place of great importance in Jewish history, the Kotel plaza is a most complicated and, at least for me, disturbing place. Today, it is a lighting rod for religious and political infighting among Jews and a sad portrait of our people’s inability to embrace pluralism. Organizations like Women of the Wall are continuing to fight for the redemption of this holy place from the strangle-hold on it by ultra-Orthodox fundamentalists. Progress against the religious-political machine is incredibly hard and we wish them success. Our walk through the old city ended just in time to hear the noon-time muezzin call to worship from a nearby mosque, while a group of modern Orthodox Jewish school boys played soccer during their school day just below, shouting to each other in modern Hebrew, their tzitziyot flying behind them as they pursued a goal.
After a short walk outside the old city, and with the help of our trusty What’s App app, we soon found Idan, just outside of Machane Yehudah, the city’s famous open air market. Did I say earlier that this is just a bit larger than the market in Haifa? Let me edit myself here: it is at least 10 times the size and about 10 times as overwhelming. We commented to each other that we could only imagine what it would be like on a Friday morning as people got ready for Shabbat. Just about every kind of food you can imagine can be procured there, with a special emphasis on fresh produce, spices, dried fruits, baked goods, and all kinds of souvenirs, gifts and other dry goods. People of every age and religious affiliation crowd around each other searching for the best of whatever they’re seeking. I could have happily spent the whole day just going from stall to stall tasting a bite of each offering. Isn’t this how Tom Sietsema does it?
Idan took us to a restaurant in the market called, “Richmo”, a ‘workers’ restaurant which has been a favorite place he’s gone with his grandfather, a Yerushalmi, over the years. No frills and fantastic, basic food. You step up to the window and place your order with the wizened headmistress who quickly and somewhat gruffly fills your plates and bowls, “mah od?” – what else do you want? – and hands them off to you to proceed to the cashier. We shared plates of smooth, delicious hummus “garinim” (with a whole chickpea stew on top), eaten with raw onion as Idan taught us to do during his time in Bethesda, “or my grandfather will never forgive me”, some heavenly kibbeh soup, made of dumplings filled with meat (not for the vegan Idan) and moujadara, the Lebanese rice and lentil mixture with caramelized onions on top. And birra schorah, the Israeli “dark beer”, sort of like root beer, which Jonathan remembers fondly from his childhood.
And then, with Idan as our guide, we took our transit cards and rode the Jerusalem light rail up to Har Herzl, the national cemetery, where not only the great Theodore Herzl is buried but also the leaders of Israel and many of the great number of fallen Israeli soldiers. (David Ben-Gurion, we remembered, is buried at his own beloved kibbutz in the Negev, Sdeh Boker.) It was a beautiful day, cool and sunny, and the cemetery was an inspiring place to catch our breath after all the activity of the old city and Machane Yehuda. The architecture and landscaping is very simple, to allow visitors to reflect on the people buried there and on the history they embodied. We stopped to remember Yitzchak Rabin, who made such progress towards peace only to be assassinated when that peace was deemed too threatening to the fundamentalist right wing, or at least to the criminally insane Jewish assassin who took his life. We recalled the day Rabin was killed, hearing the news on Shabbat afternoon (in the US) and watching in shock and horror as reports began to roll out in the media. Our eldest son Gabriel was a baby in our laps at the time. His middle brother Gideon, born two years later, has the middle name Isaac in memory of this great leader, and in memory of Jonathan’s grandfather, z’l.
Idan is doing very well, and as you might expect, seems to be taking Hebrew U by storm. Enrolled as a student of educational philosophy and Jewish studies, he is not only excelling academically, but is also a student leader overseeing a team of student leaders who provide service to the student body, everything from travel opportunities to personal counseling. We saw this first hand as he fielded an emergency call from his office while we were in transit, reporting a student in need of emotional support to which he responded immediately and then went off to see her to the hospital. He showed us a photo of his main squeeze and we hope for an in person introduction before we leave. You promised a visit to Zichron, Idan! (And this reminds me to get in touch with Sahar Malka and Ayelet Levi . . . coming up.)
After this glorious day, we made a somewhat harrowing escape from the city via byzantine Haredi neighborhoods (courtesy of Google Maps) – how do people live with this traffic and daily chaos!? – and arrived home after 2 hours to our quiet town to collapse into bed. The Egged bus service is starting to look really good.
Today is just a quiet day of meetings with locals and with some Adat Shalom people, working on some educational ideas for the near future, I hope. I’ll be tuning in for our board retreat on Sunday and look forward to keeping in touch.
Warning: the following sentences may seem impertinent if you’re not a yoga practitioner. If that’s your affliction, you may want to skip down to the next part. Otherwise, let me share about the thrill and confusion of being in an advanced Iyengar yoga class taught in Hebrew.
This was yesterday, Thursday. I decided to walk to the studio since our bed seems to leave me with very achy hips each morning and a good brisk walk seems to take care of it. Except that this walk left Jonathan trudging through a sleet and hail storm on his way home, and me, two hours later, on my way home in part 2 of the same storm. So, if you’re picturing us in shorts and sandals with a sun hat, think again. Winter is in full swing here, though the temperature is still hovering around 50 degrees Fahrenheit. But no matter: we took the rain as an opportunity to clean the mud from the Kineret off of our shoes.
This time, I arrived at the yoga studio – the front room of the owner’s home – to find a small class of 5 others, and a Zoom set up in front of the teacher. I quickly took off my shoes, put away my things and set up my mat in the one spot available in the room. Entering any established group takes chutzpah and there is often a particular kind of insularity among Iyengar students. Why should this one be any different? But I took my place without trouble and found, as is often the case with Israelis, what appears to be a bit of diffidence quickly dissipates and the real humanity and warmth is clear.
After a short opening reading by Thich Nhat Hanh, the class commenced with the invocation to Patanjali, thought of as the founding sage of hatha yoga who likely lived in the 2nd century CE. This opening invocation is as close as Iyengar yoga classes get to anything that feels like ritual or religion, though the words themselves are just an ode of admiration and appreciation for a human being, not a prayer to any god or to God. It would be like starting an American political debate by ritually acknowledging the founders of American democracy (actually that might be a good idea . . . ) Still, even with this, I’ve often felt ambivalent about participating, even though I am deeply grateful to this mighty tradition of wisdom and practice which brings benefit to all aspects of our humanity, and which my own Iyengar yoga teachers have insisted is not a religion. And yet here I was in a small group of Jewish people – including at least one who I know is fully observant (modern) Orthodox — who all closed their eyes and began the chant, delivering the Sanskrit passages with as much personal comfort as if we were reciting the Sh’ma. I joined in with the group feeling oddly comfortable and strange at the same time, and wondering to myself what Zionist visionary Theodore Herzl or founding prime minister of Israel, David Ben Gurion would say. (Ben Gurion was famous for standing on his head each day, so maybe he’d find it all completely logical?) When the chant was finished, we began our practice of the postures. I mostly kept up and the teacher kindly offered a few English phrases when he thought it was needed. As I mentioned earlier, this teacher is at the ‘master’ level and that was evident, even through the screen of a foreign language. He took us through a series of supported inversions and other restorative postures, often practiced at the end of the month according to the Iyengar method. I learned how to do supported handstand, and, yes, it’s just as disorienting and renewing as it sounds. (And now the yoga part is over . . . )
By midday, Jonathan, who’d gone to see his sister Ruthie after drying off from his walk home from the yoga studio, and I were both back at the apartment, for our midday Hebrew class. Again, a mix of grammar (very hard!), conversation (much more fun) and reading, this last part, a combination of reading the newspaper and some other passages we’d composed individually for homework. The teacher manages a just-right mix of being patient and challenging. This week two students returned to the class, an Italian couple in their 70’s in the process of making Aliyah. As with the Russian example from before, listening to them speak Hebrew with an Italian accent is delightful and another reminder of klal Yisrael, that idea of being part of a larger people who stretch across many denominations, cultures and nationalities.
Being an adult student takes a special kind of courage. The very fact of your participation in the class is an admission that you don’t know everything, and perhaps don’t even know much. But without this willingness to be a little vulnerable, the extraordinary experience of learning and discovery are closed to you. I’m finally coming to understand that this is a lifelong practice and feel blessed to have the opportunity to continue learning.
Before the evening was done, I joined my bi-weekly class on Zohar, the central text of Jewish mysticism taught by the singular scholar and translator of the text in our time, Daniel Matt, who teaches the class on Zoom from his home in California. We study this most enigmatic and elusive text in the original (medieval, Iberian-influenced) Aramaic, with both a modern Hebrew and English translation in hand to help us make sense of what we’re reading. Our teacher seems to have a world of knowledge about each word we read, delving into layers of understanding that would remain hidden for a regular person like me. Almost as a complement to our modern Hebrew class earlier in the day, here, we learn that many of the ancient words evolved to mean almost their opposite in modern parlance. What we would call “forgotten” in modern Hebrew actually means “found” in this Aramaic, for example. And then, off to bed before my meager and still depleting supply of brain cells finally ran out.
Friday, a trip to the Talpiot market in Haifa, followed by a visit to Ikea to find a mattress pad for my achy bones (see above.)
Among his many wonderful songs, the Israeli musician David Broza has one called, “Haifa” and the chorus says, “Haifa, Haifa, A city with a bottom, Haifa, Haifa, A city with a future, Haifa, Haifa, A real city, ho ho ho . . .” (The “bottom” refers to the foot of the Carmel mountains, where the downtown area began.) To me, Broza is saying, ‘Haifa is a place for real people, who do real work and live real lives,’ not a big, fast place like Tel Aviv, or New York, or even Jerusalem. Haifa has always been a special place for Jonathan who spent a year here as a young boy while his father was on sabbatical at the Technion, the MIT of Israel. Haifa has historically been a place of relatively harmonious ethnic coexistence in contrast to other parts of Israel. Jonathan reminded me that the Jewish residents of Haifa explicitly asked their Arab neighbors not to flee during the war of independence, hoping that they’d remain in their homes even after the State of Israel was established. That peaceful coexistence has mostly held, though it was badly compromised in the recent violence that erupted around the country in the spring of 2021.
We drove in to the Talpiot market, Haifa’s main open market, akin to the bigger ones in Jerusalem, Machaneh Yehudah and in Tel Aviv, Shuk HaCarmel, and got a dose of this reality. Covering a few square blocks are stalls and vendors overflowing with fresh produce, nuts, spices, dried fruits, fresh fish, a big Russian store with all kinds of meats and Russian dishes, along with several small restaurants. The vendors are Arab, Russian, Jewish, and the infrastructure is basic. We went in part to fulfill Koby’s request for his group. When we offered to treat everyone to pizza or something else ‘off-budget’, he said they really needed fresh vegetables. What parent would refuse to respond to that?! So, off we went, following another set of byzantine driving instructions, and navigated our way through the vendors hocking their items, overwhelmed by all the options, getting distracted by varieties of halvah for sale by the brick. We finally made a big purchase from one helpful vendor who bobbed his head politely when I ignorantly wished him “Shabbat shalom”; this tourist (who should have known better) that he was an Israeli Arab, not Jewish, and, in fact, likely working on his Sabbath, so I could enjoy mine. We left with armfuls of produce for the HaBonim group and a few groceries for ourselves, dropped everything off at the kids’ residence in nearby Kiryat Haim, a suburb of Haifa, and then made our way to Ikea.
Ikea is “celebrating 20 years in Israel!” according to the company delivery trucks. We went in search of a mattress topper to give me a more comfortable night’s rest. After attempting to research this purchase a few times and a ridiculous phone conversation with a mattress store employee, we followed the majority advice and went to the Ikea just outside Haifa. Being there really put the Talpiot market in perspective. If the market highlighted Broza’s lyric that Haifa is a “real” city, the juxtaposition of the shopping experience at the Ikea in Haifa made it even clearer. The Talpiot market was brimming with all kinds of people, mostly working class – shoppers and sellers alike – a kind of microcosm of Israeli culture. The only sub-category of Israelis we didn’t see were those of Ethiopian descent. Otherwise, the market was a rainbow of Israeli minorities. Ikea, on the other hand, was filled with people who appeared mostly white, educated, younger and wealthier. Lots of Israeli couples with young children or expecting them shopping for their homes in this mammoth and yet ‘hip’ store. We were rather elder among the shoppers and were glad to find what we came for and get out, after several attempts to get help from various staff. (Of all the challenges to married life, trying to assemble Ikea furniture is the one we remember most irritatingly.) Everything still has fake Swedish names, but the customers and staff speak in Hebrew and the café is dairy – no Swedish meatballs for us. We found an item that would fit into our car, bought it and left by midday, relieved to get away from this overwhelming place and home to get ready for Shabbat.
Friday night turned rainy and cold again, something we experienced first-hand as we made the 25 minute walk from our apartment to Kehilat Ve’ahavta. We arrived soaking wet but happy to join in their Kabbalat Shabbat which begins with what Israelis have often called, “shira b’tzibur”, a community sing. Rabbi Elisha sat on a simple chair with a gathering of about 30 community members, all singing from a shiron (a songbook) of Israeli folk songs, taking requests from the community. What a beautiful way to begin Shabbat, just the sounds of people’s singing voices as they settled down to let go of the week and enter this special realm of time. After a few selections, the shironim were collected and returned to the shelves at the back of the room while we turned to our siddurim to begin the more formal prayers and songs of Kabbalat Shabbat, starting with the beloved Yedid Nefesh and then into the psalms and L’cha Dodi. Again, the service is led in the most low-key of ways, no fancy musical arrangements (or technology – this community follows the Masorti guidelines for prayer which means nothing on Zoom) making the service comfortable and relaxing. This is one of the most beautiful segments of Jewish prayer. The culminating prayer/poem, L’cha Dodi, which refers to the resilience we gain from Shabbat practice in the face of the challenges of our lives and depicted through the historical experience of Biblical Israel, has special resonance for me when I’m here in Israel. This is the place that inspired those verses, and in its modern incarnation still struggles for this release from strife and sadness, still reaches for the ever-elusive realm of Shabbat serenity and joy. Singing this poem on Friday evening gives us a shared language for invoking that realm, for claiming it for ourselves whatever the vicissitudes of our lives, our community, our world. Before the ma’ariv prayers began, Rabbi Elisha gave a brief taste of the wonderful d’var Torah he sent out to the whole community before Shabbat, this time focused on the legacy of the great Zionist teacher and leader Aaron David Gordon, usually referred to by his initials as “Alef-Daled Gordon”, who died 100 years ago.
One more walk through the rain back home and we finally gave up and drove – made it to the lovely home of Jeremy Benstein and Annabel Herzog, who kindly invited us for Shabbat dinner. I know several of you know Jeremy and/or know of his work as an activist and academic. Jeremy reminded me of the last time he visited Adat Shalom, just over ten years ago, to talk with us about his work in environmental education, especially through the Heshel Center, which he helped to found. I’m hoping to organize a Zoom conversation with him on a Sunday coming up – stay tuned.
On Shabbat afternoon, we caught up with Jonathan’s family on Kibbutz Ein Shemer, this time getting to see his niece Yasmin and her family, including their youngest daughter who was born just after our last visit in 2016. Well, we’ve fully entered the, ahem, mature aunt and uncle stage where we can’t get over how big these grand-nieces and nephews have gotten. What are you feeding them, we asked our niece, their mother?! We met them at the amazing greenhouse located on the kibbutz, but which is known around the world. The Ecological Greenhouse at Kibbutz Ein Shemer is an innovation hotspot for agricultural and technological research. Our niece Yasmin’s father-in-law Avital Geva is one of the founders of this unique place (he’s also profiled in the famous book Like Dreamers by Yossi Klein-HaLevi) which welcomes students and researchers from all over the country interested in addressing the ecological challenges facing humanity with new agricultural and technological solutions. Our grand-nephew Maayan, aged 14, proudly took us through certain parts of the greenhouse to show us things he was developing, along with others, young and older. While we were there, we met Mike, a mechanical engineer, who emigrated to Israel in the 1980s from England and who is now working on a system for growing food without soil and vertically, since, as he explained to us, there is very little space left on the planet that is suitable for agriculture that has not already been developed. His incredible, painstaking research is producing real results – so far, he’s been able to grow all kinds of herbs as well as a few vegetables including beans and carrots he explained, his eyes lighting up with quiet enthusiasm.
All of this gives me hope for the potential of human innovation to solve even the most overwhelming problems. And at the same, it seems a fitting evolution for this tiny country which required its residents and citizens to push past adversity, push through skepticism and simply put their faith in hard work, in fact, to make hard work into a religion from its infancy. Here is what A. D. Gordon said in his time:
The Jewish people has been completely cut off from nature and imprisoned within city walls for two thousand years. We have been accustomed to every form of life, except a life of labor- of labor done at our behalf and for its own sake. It will require the greatest effort of will for such a people to become normal again. We lack the principal ingredient for national life. We lack the habit of labor… for it is labor which binds a people to its soil and to its national culture, which in its turn is an outgrowth of the people’s toil and the people’s labor. …
We must create a new people, a human people whose attitude toward other peoples is informed with the sense of human brotherhood and whose attitude toward nature and all within it is inspired by noble urges of life-loving creativity. All the forces of our history, all the pain that has accumulated in our national soul, seem to impel us in that direction… we are engaged in a creative endeavor the like of which is itself not to be found in the whole history of mankind: the rebirth and rehabilitation of a people that has been uprooted and scattered to the winds… (A.D. Gordon, “Our Tasks Ahead” 1920)
While we visited with family at the greenhouse, I got to Zoom into the Shabbat morning service at 7727 Persimmon Tree Lane, at which our own Zev Wadhams Unger was called to the Torah for his first Aliyah and who spoke with such presence about the Torah’s Shmita practice, outlined in this week’s Parashat Mishpatim. I think it was Zev who said, practicing Shmita gives us our spunk back – may it be so, Zev, for you and for all of us! I believe A. D. Gordon would agree!
Apparently, the prayer for rain in the land of Israel works, at least this winter. Today and most of this week, the forecast is for rain – 82%, 94%, 100%. With highs in the 50’s and the rain coming and going in spurts – but every day! – it is still nice weather for us visitors. Jerusalem is predicting real winter snow, enough to close down the city.
To catch up . . .
We joined the weekly Talmud class with R. Elisha, on Monday morning. This one is in English, and there is another in Hebrew that we hope to try. R. Elisha’s class is his own compilation of Talmudic stories of women, his own “tractate Nashim” and he teaches with great skill and enthusiasm. This week, we read and discussed the remarkable story of “Yalta”, the wife of the Talmud’s Rabbi Nachman (different from the Hasidic master of the 19th century, but perhaps his namesake?) It was an excellent class, made even more so by the group of students, all middle-aged and elder women, all knowledgeable, insightful and interesting. It felt to me like I had entered the council of wise ones, all reading the text with discernment, sharp analysis, good humor. If only Yalta could see us reading her story! And kudos to Jonathan for taking his seat surrounded by all these strong women.
We’ve now temporarily officially joined Kehilat Ve’ahavta, the synagogue community that Elisha leads and look forward to participating with them while we’re here. (Our Hebrew ulpan is also organized by the synagogue.) It seems a very friendly group. There are many native English speakers and the challenge for us will be not to lapse into English all the time.
Yesterday, Jonathan pushed us to get up and out early to make the most of the one beautiful day this week. And what a day it was! We drove up to the northern tip of the Kineret, just under an hour’s trip from our apartment, found our way to the perimeter trail that borders much of the lake and enjoyed a wonderful walk for close to four hours. The lake is beautiful and it is easy to see why it has inspired many verses of poetry and song, not to mention the significance it has for Christians. The water is expansive and serene and, like the poet Rachel says, you feel you can touch the Golan mountains that appear to border the lake, but which are really still far off in the distance. The trail is marked well and clearly by the Society for the Protection of Nature in Israel – SPNI or חברת הגנת הטבה בישראל (Chevrat Haganat HaTevah B’Yisrael) and is home to multiple species of wildlife including a variety of birds, small mammals and even a wild donkey who had so much personality we thought it might in fact be Shrek’s Donkey himself. We saw several people with fishing poles and chatted with one Russian immigrant who laughed (with us, not at us) when we showed him our muddy hiking shoes. Hearing modern Hebrew with a Russian accent has always charmed me since it is a living example of that extraordinary story of Jewish emigration to Israel from all over the world. It is a country of immigrants and, at least in our personal experience, very welcoming for visitors. I know this is not always the case and that racism – even among Jews – is alive and well here too.
After the lake, we stopped to hydrate at Aroma, kind of the Israeli Starbucks but with a much bigger menu, and made our way to visit Rena Milchberg’s cousin, Laurie Sartani, who is a beautiful master potter. We tried to control ourselves, but ended up buying much of what she had for sale in her small studio, some of it to give as gifts to family members here. The rest we’ll have to figure out how to get home.
The day ended with a visit to my cousin Josh Yarden, an anthropology and comparative religion teacher in the International Baccalaureate high school program at nearby Givat Haviva. This is the same program that our own Mira Kux (daughter of Kim Bayard and Brian Kux) graduated from last spring. Both Mira and Josh shared with me, completely unsolicited, how much they loved learning and teaching, respectively, in the program and in their classes together. My cousin Josh has been a longtime inspiration for my own connection with Israeli culture and history, encouraging me to come on my first visit in 1990. He showed us around his newish home in the newish town of Harish, built on the site of a previous kibbutz to serve a growing Israeli population and to bring greater stability to this region of the country, inside the Green Line, east of Caesaria and southeast of Haifa. There are several such towns in Israel, further examples of Israel’s ingenuity and ability to accommodate rapidly changing demographic needs. As we approached his apartment we took note of the handfuls of Haredi young men, perhaps heading home after their evening prayers. And yet it is a place that is completely modern and comfortable for people who are fully secular, like my cousin.
And today, Wednesday, we grabbed a bit of time this morning before the rain started up again by exploring a different part of Zichron Yaakov, learning more of its founders’ history and, then, wow!, seeing our first view of the Mediterranean Sea from several lookout points within a nearby neighborhood. Even in the cold wind, the water looks beautiful, its shore laid out with several agricultural installations, Kibbutz Magan Micha’el, modern roads and then the residential tract from which we took in the whole view. The people who built all of this faced enormous adversity: meager resources, lack of agricultural know-how, a very tentative and constantly-shifting geo-political environment, malaria and probably loneliness and lots of skepticism. Certainly the beautiful landscape must have sustained them some of the time. How they accomplished all that they did is still miraculous. In the moments when I can’t think straight, my head too jumbled up with the mental fatigue of trying to live and think in a foreign language, missing some of the creature comforts to which I accustomed, I think of those pioneers who managed to accomplish so much with access to so little, other than their own sense of purpose and passion. Is it perfect here? Definitely not. Is it yet a dream still unfolding, built on the vision and strength of its founders? Definitely yes. Pirke Avot, 2:16 famously says, “it is not upon you to complete the job, but neither are you free to desist from trying.”
“Yom Rishon” – “Day One” which is what Israelis call “Sunday” and is a full day of work and activity here. It’s already been a full day for us too, but first a few reflections on our first Shabbat here.
Friday morning, I ventured out to shop for Shabbat and indeed, the streets were filled with others doing the same. Our landlord’s assistant rushed me out cautioning me that there might be no challah left at the bakery by 9:30am. Luckily there was, as well as pastries, fresh salads, other goodies. I always love the feeling of being part of a whole town that is getting ready for Shabbat, people greeting each other, strangers and friends alike, with an anticipatory, “Shabbat Shalom”. It’s one of the many times I feel at home here in a way I don’t at “home” in the States. We enjoyed a midday visit with Jonathan’s sisters, Ruthie, who lives on nearby Kibbutz Ein Shemer, and Debbie, down from Katzrin in the Golan Heights, and Ruthie’s husband Yuval. Ruthie filled us up with her usual balabusta spread of lunch with multiple homemade desserts while I tried to ask my Israeli family to comment on how the USA looks to them from here, without success. (I’m in the middle of Congressman Jamie Raskin’s incredible memoir, “Unthinkable”, and have the events of January 6, 2021 very much on my mind.) Later, Jonathan retrieved our son Koby from his apartment in a suburb of Haifa and I stayed back at the apartment to make Shabbat dinner. We had a great evening catching up with him, hearing about his Israel program thus far, the ups and the downs, and how this experience is affecting his life plans and general perspective. He was flattered that Rabbi Fred invited him to share some of this with our community later on. On my own first visit to Israel, I was just a few years older than he is now and I remember well how much that experience really altered my view of my own life and of the world I know.
Shabbat morning, we joined in Shabbat services at the local Masorti (Israeli Conservative) congregation Kehilat V’ahavta and were delighted. It is a small, traditional and very warm community with many folks from the USA, now transplanted here. We knew there were some people in the community we’d know, and there were others we met, from Gaithersburg, from Rockville, etc. The communal space is simple and lovely, located in a storefront in a shopping center. The service is also simple and very lovely, lots of singing and no performing. One thing that deeply impressed me was how Rabbi Elisha Wolfin seems to know the Jewish name (as opposed to Hebrew) of all the congregants. So, if it were me, he’d know me not only as Rachel Hersh, but also as Rachel Hannah bat R’fa’el v’Tziporah, no notes needed. For each Aliyah, the honoree was invited to share specific prayers with him – on the bimah – and he crafted a beautiful, meaningful misheberach for each honoree, on the spot. Wow. To me, this seemed the true ideal of a rabbi, each person in the community engraved on his consciousness. Perhaps it’s not that way all the time, but even some of the time is impressive. It’s a small community, and in this way at least, small is beautiful.
Shabbat was a beautiful day and we took a long walk with Koby through the streets of Zichron Yaakov and into a small beautiful hiking and biking park, “Ramat HaNadiv” (“Heights of The Benefactor”), passing lots of Israelis out for afternoon walks with their family and friends. “HaNadiv” – “The Benefactor” is a reference to the founding funder of Zichron Yaakov, Edmond Rothschild, son of James Rothschild, for whom Edmond named this early pioneer Zionist town. And like almost every park in Israel, among the wild natural beauty, there are ancient ruins under archeological excavation. The ones here are not yet labelled so we don’t know when they’re from, but guess maybe Roman.
Saturday night, we drove Koby back to his place and his program, had an adventure trying to buy gas and made it home.
And now, today, Sunday. Our first day of official classes! After numerous emails with the office, I was very excited to attend my first Iyengar yoga class in person. Hooray! I mapped out a walking route, packed up my yoga mat and off I went on the 30 min walk through the town. I arrived at the yoga center, opened the modest front door into a great-looking yoga practice room. It was 5 minutes until the start of class, but no one was there . . . I started to feel a little like Alice in Wonderland. When no one responded to my knock on the internal door, after a moment of just standing here, I decided I’d open my mat and see if anyone came. About 15 minutes later, I could hear people in the back rooms and knocked again, only to learn the class I hoped to attend had been switched to Zoom because the teacher had to quarantine. But they did not notify me of that – oops. Oh well. In the end, I met the well-known founder and owner of the center, Eyal Shifroni, who kindly welcomed me into his studio and to a class later in the week. I stayed to work on my own practice while he did the same, just the two of us. This is kind of like saying, yeah, I just hung out and did a little workout with B.K.S. Iyengar (or fill in the name of your favorite famous yoga teacher or other guru here). I will indeed go back for a real class later, but this may have been just as rewarding in the end.
And, finally, at noon today, Jonathan and I joined our first Hebrew class. Wow, it took some doing to find the right teacher, the right level (in modern Hebrew, we’re well-matched) and the right Zoom link, but it all came together in the end and it was a great class. We worked on grammar – not my favorite – and then reading a short newspaper article written for advanced Hebrew students, so not just a regular newspaper article, but also not simple Hebrew. It seemed a ‘just right’ combination of accessible and challenging for us both and we (mostly me) had to keep from correcting each other, giggling like school kids, and then preempting the corrections. Let the teacher do her job! Now we have to do our homework.
Tomorrow, we’ll be back at the synagogue for the weekly Talmud class, led by the rabbi. So begins the first ‘real’ week . . . it’s exhausting and wonderful.
The sun has set on our third day here in Zichron Yaakov. We’re starting to get the hang of it. It turns out there is a fair amount of construction right around our apartment. Yesterday and today, we were awakened by a disturbingly close sound we thought was an animal under our bed. Turns out it was masonry work going on right behind our bedroom wall. Right behind it. But hey, we need to get up anyway and try to get our body clocks adjusted to the time zone here. A little better every day so far. With our clear covid test results from the airport here, we’re now allowed to move about in public. Today was beautiful and chilly. More cold rain and wind is anticipated over the weekend.
Last night we took a field trip to Tel Aviv, to deliver a small care package to a friend of our family (Orit and Hagai, we still have Adi’s package and are in touch with her too.) Our young friend is here on an internship with Masa, and is living and working in the New York of the middle east. We enjoyed a long walk down Rothschild Street after dinner, again outside, and reminded ourselves of the distinctive Bauhaus architecture that is characteristic of parts of Tel Aviv. The influence of that turn-of-the-century architectural style is well represented here, along with the many other ways that 19th and early 20th century European culture is baked into modern Israeli society. Being in the big city was nice for a few hours. Driving back to our smaller locale, we felt grateful we had chosen this more human-sized place to live.
We’ve been mostly getting acclimated geographically and logistically, with the help of our landlord and our family here. We’ve scoped out some good local coffee, found the grocery store and the (Israeli) Conservative synagogue in town. We had lunch out at a restaurant patio today and when asked what I’d like to drink, replied confidently, “mayim chayim, b’vakasha”. When the waiter tried to save me by suggesting I might’ve meant, “mayim karim?” (cold water?) I repeated myself only then realizing what I meant to say was, “mayim chaMim”, hot water (I like mine with lemon), not ‘living water’ which is what we usually require for a mikvah! Oh well. I giggled, and he smiled kindly and brought me a glass of hot water, mayim chamim. My ego is soothed by the strong placement Jonathan and I both received for our ulpan (Hebrew language class.) Twice a week, once to focus on Israeli history and the other on Israeli literature. For now, everything is on Zoom . . . Omicron is going strong here too.
We hope to see our youngest son Koby tomorrow. He’s here on an academic year program with HaBonim and they’ve now got a few covid cases in their group, so everyone is being tested every 5 minutes or so (only a slight exaggeration). We’re glad to step into our first Shabbat here, covid or not.
So far, there is little if anything here to suggest the wide gaps in the larger Israeli society, leaving Palestinian and other Arab Israelis with much less access to most of the things that citizens of first-world countries expect, including fair and equal justice under law. Today we walked through the “Kenwood” of Zichron Yaakov, an absolutely beautiful neighborhood of large, well-heeled homes, many of them overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. As we passed by one house under construction, we could hear the builders reviewing their plans in Arabic. Jews, apparently, are busy with other professions.
As the afternoon sky began to darken, we could hear the distant sounds of the muezzin, the call to worship sounded from the minaret of the mosque in the Muslim community nearby. It was soothing and reminded me to at least recite psalm 145, “Ashrei”, which opens our mincha (afternoon) prayers.
Es Schver Tzu Zayn A Yid – It’s Hard To Be A Jew
So goes the Yiddish saying, oft quoted and applied to a myriad of different situations and times in Jewish history. Everything from, “the Cossacks have attacked my home” to, sarcastically, “why doesn’t Starbucks have decaf!?” It is a phrase that kept going through my head as we planned and finally departed for this sabbatical. No doubt our desire to spend a few months in Israel is on the rather low end of urgent needs during this dreadful pandemic chapter, but in the end, it has taken quite a burst of energy and commitment to face all the obstacles along the way. And there have been many. Overseas travel anywhere during the pandemic is complicated and nerve-wracking. Israel takes that to a whole new level.
First, as you all know, we had to adjust and readjust our travel plans as the Israeli government made changes to their border policy over the last few months. We’re going! We’re not going. We’re waiting to hear if we might be able to go. We’re probably not going. And then, suddenly, we’re going, right now – before they close the border again! With each of these changes, we had several steps to adjust. Which documentation to compile, when to get the various covid-related tests and documents, scanning in Jonathan’s sisters’ Israeli identity documents to prove first-degree relationships (which, in the end, were not relevant anyway). Wading through multiple iterations of entry applications, covid PCR tests, presenting copies of our vaccination records. Managing all of this made us appreciate how hard federal agency administrators must work, and grateful that we have other kinds of professions. But, in the end, we were indeed cleared for takeoff.
And then, the takeoff. As I now write these lines from our charming apartment in Zichron Ya’akov, I can verify that it all worked out, but at every turn during the journey, it seemed it would not. After successfully changing our our original departure flights (because they were reserved before the border was closed), accepting the most gracious offer to host our 13-year old dog by Lori and Stuart Levin, and waiting with bated breath to get the required clear covid tests (since, of course, one of us felt suspiciously ill in the days leading up to the test), we packed and left for Reagan National airport.
The first obstacle was the snow and ice storm predicted for the time of our connection to JFK airport in NY. Not to be deterred, we left many hours early, to avoid the DC area storm and make it to NY for the flight to Tel Aviv. The Delta agent in DC calmly walked us through the presentation of all the documentation we were required to present. At one point, I fully expected this lovely, Black, DC resident to break out in perfect Israeli Hebrew, her command of the complex documentation (mostly in Hebrew, with just a bit of English) so confident. At the gate in DC, we met a very nice Delta stewardess who became like a friendly guardian angel to us. She chatted us up while we waited for the flight to NY, she herself anxiously waiting to board the delayed flight to make her own connection. In the end, Delta fixed the mechanical problem that caused the delay and we got out of Dodge only slightly late.
In NY, we took advantage of my aunt’s gracious invitation to stay at her empty apartment on Long Island, not far from the airport, rather than wait at the much less hospitable JFK for hours. We made our way to her home in Lawrence and enjoyed a window of quiet comfort, sampling the local kosher Chinese in this town with a large Orthodox Jewish population. But because there was some glitch in Delta’s online check-in system, we rushed back to the airport early, fearing we’d be barred from departure for some arcane reason relating to a detail in one of the travel documents we had not successfully addressed. Along the short drive, now through sleet-covered nighttime roads as the storm we left in DC arrived in NY, our kind Lyft driver navigated around several accidents, each one an ominous signal: go back – you’re not going to make it!
Our check-in fears were apparently for naught – the Delta agent in NY asked to see all of our documents again and offered only an apology for why the first presentation in DC, which should have been sufficient, was needed again. He handed us our boarding passes and we left for the gate. Winding our way, lugging as much carry-on baggage as we were permitted, we were struck by the wide variation in adherence to the covid mask mandate, even among airport staff, but especially among religious Jews travelling to Israel. Apparently, they believe in HaShem, but not so much in masks. Much of the airport was empty, the terminal shops closing down as we passed by, since it was Sunday night. By contrast, our gate was packed with travelers. Because the airline had cancelled the two previous days’ flights to Tel Aviv, our flight was now oversubscribed. Many of the travelers were Jewish men in black hats, payot (or ‘payis’, the side-locks religious Jewish men believe they are required to wear) and tzitziyot, Jewish women in wigs and/or head-scarves, long skirts and black tights. Some of them were praying or reciting psalms. Most were wearing their face masks explicitly incorrectly – under the chin but not covering nose or mouth, or variations on this theme. Jonathan and I both found this outrageous and bewildering. Jewish law itself says, “dina d’malchuta dina” – the law of the land is the law. Furthermore, adherents of traditional Halacha (Jewish law) will go to great pains to observe every detail, every letter of kashrut (dietary) and family purity laws, for two examples. Yet these observant Jews were flouting a most urgent and explicit public law. I’m glad for them if they feel God will take care of them, but on this one, I put my trust in Dr. Fauci and feel it my duty as a citizen and as a human being to be respectful of the rules which impact the whole community, even if I don’t personally see any value in wearing a mask (which I do.) We kept our masks on and did our best to politely request that those in our midst do the same.
Another delay was announced, but we were all assured this would be short, leaving just 30 minutes later than planned. We were summoned for boarding, Jonathan having to explain to the gate staff that, yes, a CPAP device is a medical apparatus, and, as such, permitted as an additional personal item. Then just as we walked through the gate, we were all ushered into a second security check. This was just like the main airport security protocol, except that it was unexpected and it was midnight. We were required to remove all of it – shoes, laptops, coats (and scarves!), everything in separate bins, through the scanner. The security staff were practically shouting at us since everyone was confused and somewhat resistant. One woman on staff grabbed my half-full bottle of cranberry juice, purchased just before at the last open airport shop, and demanded the receipt. Somewhat flustered, I tried to explain that I made the purchase at a self-checkout station and did not request a receipt from the machine, so, no, I didn’t have one. She dumped the bottle and said, sorry, though she didn’t seem sincere. I didn’t care about the juice, but was offended and mostly just mystified by the behavior. Why would they care about my fruit juice? (It’s not even 100% fruit – just the “cocktail” kind!) While the whole detour was unsettling and seemed unnecessary, we quickly surmised that someone higher up was making sure we were all secure for travel and that the flight would be safe from any nefarious plans, so we made our peace with it and boarded the flight. This is something Israelis and Palestinians live with all the time, so we can tolerate it if we need to also. Then the real fun started.
By now it was close to 1am on Monday “morning”. It took a while to get the whole plane boarded and there was much jostling of luggage, polite announcements from the crew interspersed with less gracious requests to please wear masks correctly and reminders that it was a full flight so, cooperation was needed in every way. At one point, a man dressed in Haredi (ultra-Orthodox) garb asked if Jonathan and I would switch places so his young son, maybe 12 years old, could sit in the empty seat in our row without sitting next to me, a woman. We declined, Jonathan more gently than I. A second request came a few minutes later, and we declined again. Each time, the man answered with a shrug and “okay! It’s no problem.” The boy didn’t take his seat next to me until the stewardess, the same one we met earlier in the day in DC, approached and said he’d have to get settled, that he didn’t need to worry about me, she continued, “she’s a mother too and we all have to work together here.” The poor boy dutifully sat down, careful not to let even a thread of his clothing touch mine. I was interested to see his uncanny combination of interests. In his travel bag were a copy of Pirke Avot (the Talmudic tractate which distills much Jewish wisdom into more pithy statements on ethical living), a chumash, several graphic novel-type Yiddish books written for his age and community. He enjoyed several hours of martial arts action movies and Disney cartoons on the airplane video screen. I so wished I could lean over and chat with him, ask him about his interests, his travel plans, show him that I’m not the verboten contact his Jewish community insists I am. Nevermind that I am a hazzan and a rabbi! Sadly, though we are defined by the world as part of the same religious community, the same ethnic community, we may as well be as distant as they come.
I thought, okay, now we’re off! I put my gum in my mouth and promptly dozed off. I awoke an hour later, thinking we’d made such a smooth take off that I didn’t even notice, only to learn that we were still on the runway, that there had been some additional confusion about boarding and baggage, which delayed our flight and now the wind had picked up – again the same storm from earlier – enough to ground the flight. So we sat on the runway until almost 4am, 3 hours later, with the engines turned off to reserve fuel . . . until the pilots determined it was safe enough to lift off. Even then, it was a shaky ascent, one that Jonathan characterized as the scariest he’d ever experienced. For me, it was another moment of true prayer – may we all be safe, may our pilots and crew have the expertise the fly this plane in this weather. The flight did manage to complete the journey, with several bouts of gut-rattling turbulence, and we landed. And damn if my eyes didn’t well up with tears again on the landing, as they always do on this journey. Even with the lingering nausea from the turbulent flight, with the emotional and physical exhaustion of getting here, the verse from HaTikvah resounded in my ear: od lo avda tivatenu – our hope is still not lost! Li’hiyot Am Chofshi B’Artzenu – to be a free people in our land. Surely that verse meant something different to our ancestors who embraced Naftali Herz Imber’s poem as their national anthem, but the power of it is not diminished for our time. To paraphrase Peter Parker’s Uncle Ben in Spiderman (the original written by Stan Lee, whose family was Jewish), inspired by ancient Greek wisdom, with great freedom comes great responsibility. So, even with the miraculous development and evolution of the modern State of Israel, the dream of being a free nation is yet unrealized as we struggle to find our way to build the just society that is essential for that true freedom. More on that later . . . for now, a day to find our feet, get some sleep, and just exhale, while we wait for the all-clear signal from the authorities to come out of the required post-flight quarantine.
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