A Religion Divided

I recently read Rodger Kamenetz's book The Jew in the Lotus, a poet's observations, thoughts, and experiences with a delegation of Jews who met the Dalai Lama in India in 1990 to share with His Holiness the secrets of Jewish survival in the Diaspora.  The Dalai Lama, faced with living in exile from his native Tibet and leading a people and religion so far from home, looked to the Jews as an example of a strong, hearty people who have not only survived but thrived in nearly 2,000 years of exile from Israel.

Among the many topics that were brought up by the delegates - which included religious and educated Jews from every corner of Judaism - Jewish mysticism was talked about at length.  Though the Jewish man who served as the expert on Kabbala admitted it was not a widely-used aspect of the religion, his presentation unearthed many points of connection and similarity between Jewish mysticism and Buddhism.  It seems, at least when looking at it from a purely mystical point of view, that the two religions are not so far apart.

Within an hour of reading the last page of The Jew in the Lotus, I pressed "Play" on a movie that perhaps should have been given to the Dalai Lama as a gift: The Fiddler on the Roof.  What other piece of art so vividly depicts Jewish survival?  And though most Jews today find no use for the confining rabbinic Judaism of an early 20th-century Russian shtetl, there is no doubt in my mind that Tevye's traditions are precisely what has maintained Judaism, at least throughout a significant portion of its existence in the Diaspora.

But after reading discussions of mysticism in Tibet and watching Tevye celebrating, contemplating, and even questioning Tradition, I began seriously considering the nature of Judaism and this dichotomy between the spirituality of Kabbala and the rationalist Judaism of Anatevka.

I fall among the population of Jews who have heard about Kabbala and know some of the ideas in it but am otherwise ignorant of this rich dimension of Judaism.  In fact, I think this book alone has increased my knowledge and understanding of it three-fold.  Admittedly, though, the structure of modern Judaism itself is not entirely to blame; I have never really sought mysticism, never felt a need for it in my life, never significantly questioned what lies outside the here and now.  Judaism has always been a religion of pragmatic action for me, one which does not demand meditation or soul-searching.  That is not to say that the religion doesn't make room for such  spiritual introspection, but that it hasn't needed to be a part of my religious life in order for me to consider myself a Jew.  I suppose I just identify more with Tevye than Buddha.

To be blatantly honest, I have always been skeptical about mysticism of any sort.  I've never really discounted it, but I certainly didn't understand it well enough to give it any credence or bear it any mind.  My limited experience with spiritually-minded people have led me to label them as benign hippies without a solid footing on earth, searching for something that may or may not be there while potentially ignoring reality.  This wasn't a life I wanted to lead and I felt I had everything I really needed in the traditions with which I was raised.  Any questions Judaism couldn't ask I would figure out on my own.

But I am undoubtedly the product of the traditional Judaism that has, throughout the last couple hundred years, been distinctly removed from Kabbalistic Judaism.  In fact, some great Rabbis have forbidden the intense study of the esoteric before the age of 40, fearing that if a person (or more specifically, man) did not have a strong basis in Jewish law and rabbinic teachings then he could fall prey to misunderstanding and misuse of Kabbala's powerful teachings.  Though the age limit is rather arbitrary now, this belief might have been a contributing factor to why much of Judaism seems to ignore Kabbala.

On the other hand, there are the Chassidic Orthodox Jews who follow the teachings of an 18th-century Rabbi known as the Baal Shem Tov.  Chassidic Orthodoxy has put much more of an emphasis on mysticism and spirituality in Judaism, integrating aspects of Kabbala into its teachings and practices.  For them, Kabbala is not something to be kept secret, but it is still used carefully and is firmly couched in rationalist Judaism.

Of course, the history of Rabbinic and Kabbalistic Judaism and their current relationship is much more complicated than all of this, but the observation stands:  Today's Western Judiasm does not greatly advertise its own esoteric.  And even though I'm personally okay with that, I wonder how many Jews have been missing out on being Jewish just because rabbinic Judaism didn't speak to them.

As Fiddler on the Roof so poignantly portrayed, sometimes Judaism suffers from a little too much tradition, making it challenging and sometimes near impossible for people to move around within the confines of generations' worth of a "This is how my parents did it" philosophy.  Tevye's daughters, each wanting something a little more modern, a little more daring, a little more free, showed how this type of traditional Jewish lifestyle can be incredibly stifling.

Even now, over a century later, that problem still exists.  Certainly the Reform and Conservative movements have done a lot to give Jews an outlet for creativity and modernity while still holding on to Jewish values and roots, but The Jew in the Lotus does bring up the idea of Jewish renewal - either actively modifying religious practice or simply allowing it to happen in order to increase its significance in an ever-changing world.  Upon reading that I thought "Judaism?  Change?  But what would happen if it does?"  Then I realized how silly that sounded and began to consider instead how Judaism might change and what those changes would mean for us as a people.

Anyone who suggests that today's traditional Judaism is exactly the same as 2,000 years ago is, quite simply, wrong.  Even those who think that traditional Orthodox Jews are living just as their role models were five hundred years ago are wrong.  If we were to somehow remove ourselves from this time and look at modern Judaism in the context of our history, we'd find that we have shifted a great deal, for better or for worse.

I've already mentioned that most of the Jews in Israel are not religiously inclined.  The majority are secular people with a Jewish education, living in a secular country with religious laws.  When you're surrounded by so many of your own ilk, when you're not the minority as Judaism is throughout the world, it's easy for the Old World traditions and customs to be ignored.  After all, what use are they in a place where we don't have to distinguish ourselves from anyone else in order to survive?  Perhaps, then, it is here, in Israel, where this Jewish renewal must take place.  For if we are to continue into the future as the Dalai Lama suspects we shall, we need to make Judaism mean something for every one of us, whether it's rationalistic, esoteric, or something altogether different.

Traveling in the North, Part IV: A perfect end

After traveling throughout Northern Israel for a few days and relaxing at my friend's kibbutz for Shabbat, I was ready to move again on Sunday morning.  I had plans to meet with a friend and see the Baha'i Gardens in Haifa before going back to my kibbutz and I was excited to get on my way.

My friend's host mom and grandma from the kibbutz drove us both to Akko where my friend had to run some errands and I had to catch a train to Haifa.  By this time I was feeling somewhat of a pro on Israeli public transportation and feeling a little more comfortable asking for directions in Hebrew, so hopefully I didn't seem like quite so much of an ignorant tourist when asking which platform I needed to be on.  Upon walking through the turnstile at the Akko train station I was hit with another small dose of the uniqueness of Israeli society: on the other side of the turnstile stood a female employee of the Israeli rail system, handing me a small piece of chocolate and saying "Chag sameach" (Happy holiday) as I accepted it.  The chocolate was wrapped in paper displaying the Israeli rail logo and a printed wish for a happy Pesach.  My first thought was "Wow!  How cool is that?!"  My second was "Pesach starts tomorrow night.  What are they going to do with all the leftover chocolate?"

I got to Haifa and called my friend who walked to meet me at the station.  As I waited for him, impatient and greedy taxi drivers watched me with an air of discontent, perhaps having hoped I would accept their outrageous prices and let them whisk me off to wherever my heart desired.  But my friend showed up and together we got on a bus to get to the top of the hill where the entrance to the Baha'i Gardens was situated.

I first met this friend two years ago when we went on the same Birthright trip.  With the exception of a few Shabbat weekends the following semester, I hadn't really seen him since then.  He had graduated that same year and moved around a bit, working at jobs and internships, until he moved to Israel last September to do a Kibbutz Ulpan program on a kibbutz in the North.  Following the Ulpan he decided to make aliyah (become an Israeli citizen) and join the army, which as of last Sunday he had been in for a week.  The most exciting part of it all? Free public transportation, courtesy of his army I.D. card.

I've never been to San Fransisco, but I imagine bus rides there must feel similar to our ride  through Haifa - up and down and left and right, traversing a city built on the slopes of Mount Carmel.  For someone with a history of motion sickness, I was incredibly thankful to get off the bus, even though it meant stepping out into seasonally uncharacteristic temperatures of 35 degrees Celsius (that's about 95 degrees Fahrenheit for my American readers).  Apparently this is what I have to look forward to.  Joy.

We walked around, talked, and relaxed a bit before joining a rather large tour group to actually go into the gardens, which I already knew were magnificent and pristine, having seen them from a different, closed gate.  And truth be told, despite the fact that I was surrounded by families of tourists that sometimes make me a little embarrassed to be one, too, I was happy to have a guide to tell me some of the secrets of this religion.

The Baha'i Faith is a more contemporary monotheistic religion developed in the 1800s in Persia (modern-day Iraq).  It follows in the footsteps of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam and claims to be a continuation and perfection of those faiths.  However, unlike its religious predecessors, the Baha'i Faith teaches that most of the world's religions are valid and as such, it supports a peaceful and non-judgmental outlook in which true harmony can exist among everyone, regardless of belief or background.  In fact, its primary goal appears to be universal unity.

The Gardens were built to beautify the surroundings of the Shrine of the Bab, a prominent teacher in the early history of the Baha'i Faith.  The Gardens are filled with symbolism, the most obvious of which is the great use of symmetry - a metaphor for perfection and harmony.  The Shrine is located in the center of 18 terraces with nine on either side, representing the 18 disciples of the Bab.  Because the Shrine is a holy place and pilgrimage site within the Baha'i Faith, all the elements of the Gardens are meant to promote feelings of peace, harmony, and tranquility.  I imagine had I been there without my large backpack and not surrounded by a tour group, I would have felt similarly.  Still, its magnificent beauty did have something of a calming effect, even in the middle of the third-largest city in Israel.

I think that's a salient point - that this shrine of a minority world religion is in the third-largest city of a decidedly Jewish country.  And what a sight to see!  Eighteen terraces of pristine gardens flowing down a mountainside smack-dab in the middle of a city.  And to think: New York City couldn't get over the idea of a small Muslim Community Center being built in its midst.  Priorities, people, priorities.

Because we got there a little late we weren't allowed to the Shrine or go past it, but I was happy to have seen as much as I did.  So I went to the bathroom (thank goodness for tourist attractions with clean public restrooms!), refilled my water bottle, and got on the bus again to take us back down the mountain.  We went in search of lunch and eventually settled on a little shawarma restaurant (where I conversed entirely in Hebrew!), then walked back to the train station and said our goodbyes.  It was only 2:30 in the afternoon, but I wasn't terribly interested in walking around a city after having hiked through such beautiful landscapes - would have paled in comparison - so I got on the train and headed back "home."
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As I spoke with friends in the days that followed and compared notes of our travels, it was hard for me to believe that I'd done so much.  Me, who has done no significant amount of traveling even in the United States.  Me, who has never done something quite like this, and certainly not alone.  Me, who always wants everything planned, who wants details and time tables and maps and lists.  Before coming to Israel, I never would have guessed that I would travel across a country on buses, trains, and by hitchhiking; hike with strangers; hang out with soldiers; and spend time with long-lost acquaintances.  People told me Israel would change me, but I never realized quite how much.

And to think, I was just hoping for a tan!

The Kosher Dilemma

I interrupt the Northern Travels Saga for the following commentary.

Growing up in a small town, I was used to having to work to maintain a Jewish identity and lifestyle.  I took for granted that my family kept Kosher and celebrated all the holidays while our minuscule Jewish community remained dedicated to our old synagogue.  As the only Jewish student in my class in my city and perhaps in a 20-mile radius, I was used to being the representative Jew.  In fact I relished the opportunity to be the example for my heritage and answer the questions of classmates and teachers.  Plus I'll admit, I liked the bragging rights that went with taking days off for all the major Jewish holidays.

As I grew older and began comparing my Jewish experiences to those of friends in larger cities I become increasingly aware of the challenges we faced and had been overcoming for years.  The sheer fact that my parents drove more than an hour just to buy Kosher meat (and sometimes three hours for Pesach shopping) - while normal in my reality - was beyond comprehension to friends who lived in the very cities to which we traveled.  Without Jewish classmates to commiserate about the challenges of Kashrut, I taught all my non-Jewish friends about the Kosher symbols on food packages, the rules of separation, the answers to their many "what if" questions.  "What happens if you accidentally eat something that isn't Kosher?"  Answer:  "I get struck by lightening."

Just kidding.

(I think.)

Though I never considered my experience more difficult than for other Jews, it's true that it can be hard to be an observant Jew, and the ordinarily basal act of eating is one of the greatest challenges.  Every single packaged product I buy in a grocery store must have a hechsher, Kosher symbol, stamped on it.  When I cook, making an entirely dairy meal devoid of any trace of meat (or vice versa) is habit.  And though I will eat at non-Kosher restaurants, I'll never order anything with meat, and I've learned to ask about even the tiniest details like what kind of stock is used for the soup.  But instead of complaining about these seemingly trivial matters, I take pride in living my life this way, continuing the traditions that have been passed to me through my mother, from her mother, through endless generations of Jewish women and families.

Still, it's not easy.  So you can imagine my excitement about being in Israel where Kashrut is taken for granted because unlike anywhere else in the world, it is the norm.

Most restaurants are Kosher, and even those that aren't certified as such are almost guaranteed to be using Kosher meat.  Almost all the meat found in standard grocery stores is likely to be Kosher (although pork is sold, too), as are the dry foods, candy, canned goods, and other packaged products.  And whether or not Israelis intend to eat Kosher, many of them do by default.  In a sense, Israel makes it easy to be nonobservantly observant.

I have noticed, however, that in some ways keeping Kosher in Israel is harder than I thought.  It's easy to forget to look and just assume.  But even then, it's a much easier task than in the Diaspora, and especially in comparison to a small town in the Midwest.

What I never would have expected, though, is how hard it is to keep Kosher during Pesach.

As if the rules weren't strict enough, during Pesach we up the ante and proclaim that what was Kosher the rest of the year isn't quite Kosher enough for this week-long holiday.  In order to fully remember our slavery in Egypt and our freedom today, we do not eat anything that is chametz including (but not limited to) leavened foods that are explicitly forbidden on Pesach.  While this includes standard carbohydrate items such as bread, pastries, pasta, cereal, granola, crackers, and others, it is also expanded to include any foods that were eaten during the rest of the year.  As a result, people who keep Kosher lePesach (Kosher for Passover) do not use anything that was opened or used before Pesach, they buy all new food, and even use different dishes, utensils, and kitchen appliances (blenders, mixers, etc.).  By being so stringent, one can be certain not to accidentally consume chametz on Pesach.

My entire life I have observed Pesach in the traditional manner of my family.  In the weeks preceding Pesach we clean the entire house - Spring Cleaning with a deadline, as my Mom has always called it.  She is particularly careful about cleaning the kitchen, including inside the cupboards and drawers and on all the top shelves that we can't reach anyway.  Two or three weeks before Pesach my mom starts doing her Pesach shopping which includes about 20 boxes of matza plus all derivations of the square tasteless cracker (matza meal and matza flour), pounds of chicken or turkey to serve at the seder, baking necessities (oil, butter, margarine, etc.), and every other staple kitchen food.  Oh, and eggs.  Lots of eggs.  A veritable gross of eggs.  (No exaggeration.)

And a couple before Pesach, the kitchen gets the final touches, the counter tops are covered, the chametz dishes and food is packed up and moved to the basement only to be replaced by the full set of Pesach dishes, most of which spend more time out of the cabinets than in as my Mom doesn't seem to stop cooking the entire week.  By the time we sit down for the seder, nearly everything in the kitchen has been replaced.  Let the matza-eating begin!

In my small room on the Ulpan at a non-religious kibbutz I did my best to reenact the ceremonial Spring Cleaning.  I wiped down every surface and cupboard, went on a search and destroy mission to capture the dust bunnies under my bed, and washed the floor with a full bucket of water.  Our Ulpan mom was kind enough to clean one of the floor's refrigerators for me and the one other girl who keeps Pesach, and I, too, went on a Pesach shopping spree the day before the holiday began, re-buying some basic items such as olive oil, salt, and strawberry jelly, and of course the requisite box of matza.  I added that to the plasticware I bought earlier, stashed my chametz in a cabinet, and felt ready for Pesach to begin as I sat down for the seder last Monday night.

I had hoped that even though the majority of the Jewish population in Israel is secular or non-observant, Pesach might be a little different.  I know a number of American Jews who don't keep Kosher the rest of the year but are zealously careful about their food and kitchens for Pesach.  And since Kashrut is easier in Israel, I thought certainly there would be a good number of people keeping Kosher lePesach.

Wrong.

Here I am, a Jew in Israel, and I'm still the minority.  It's an interesting sensation, to say the least.

My colleagues on the Ulpan have mostly been raised as secular Jews and as such, most of them are entirely unaware of the rules of Kashrut on Pesach, so it shouldn't surprise me to find them all eating cereal, pasta, and other foods that are distinctly chametz.  But I was a little more shocked at some Israelis' reactions when I told them I couldn't eat with them because I keep Kosher lePesach.  Some made light of it, some seemed not to understand it at all.  When conversing with those that don't keep Kosher for the holiday, I could read the ever-present question behind their eyes: "Why do you do that?"  And deeper down, I speculate that perhaps they were wondering, "What's the point?"

That's a good question.  What is the point?  Why put myself through this every year?  And in Israel, why bother?  What's so special about maintaining a unique Jewish identity in a Jewish country?  Besides, it would be easy enough to not eat bread, but worrying about the dishes, too?  Is it really so big of a deal?

Regardless of whether it's Jews or Christians asking, Israelis or Americans, friends or acquaintances or strangers, my answer will be the same.  To me, it is absolutely important, no matter where I am or how hard it is.  To me, observing these rules and traditions is what makes me Jewish and connects me to the broader global Jewish community.  When I eat matza instead of bread, I am acting upon a cultural memory of slavery and simultaneously rejoicing in my freedom.  I am so free I can choose to eat this crumbly, uninteresting sheet of burnt flour!

Nobody ever said being Jewish was easy, but I'm glad for the challenge.

חג שמח לכולם

Traveling in the North, Part III: To the sea!

On Friday morning I had to get from Kibbutz K'far Gil'adi to the central bus station in Kiryat Shmona.  There were no buses around the kibbutz so my only realistic option was hitchhiking into town.  To my American friends and family this will seem an absurdly dangerous idea, but in Israel hitchhiking is a perfectly viable means of transportation.  My fellow shvistim, hikers, also had to get a ride to the beginning point of the next segment of the trail, so the three of us stood at the side of the road just past the kibbutz entrance, one of us with our finger pointed to the street, waiting for someone to stop.

Before too long a middle-aged woman stopped and though she didn't have room for all three of us, there was plenty of space for me alone.  So I quickly said goodbye to the friendly shvistim, hikers, got their phone numbers, and got into the car.  The woman driving was incredibly kind and we had a pleasant conversation for the entire ride to the bus station.  Even though it was a bit out of her way, she dropped me off directly in front of the station, then I said many thank-yous, wished her a Shabbat Shalom and Chag Pesach Sameach (happy Passover), and was on my way.  No exchange of money, no unnecessary formalities.  Just a simple trading of the honest goodness of two strangers.  (That is also now on the list of "Things I wouldn't be able to do in the U.S.")

Jezzar Pasha Mosque, Old City, Akko

I got on a bus to Akko, labled as Acre on most maps, spelled thusly I'm sure because of the French influence.  In 1799, the French army under Napoleon's leadership failed an attempted siege of the city which was heavily protected by a moat and other barriers, plus artillery.  Today, the Old City of Akko remains as part historical site, part tourist attraction, and part living space on the edge of the greater city of Akko.  When I got to Akko I walked to the Old City and was impressed with its great walls hiding loud, bustling streets filled with Israelis, Arabs, and foreign tourists alike.  A great green-roofed mosque caught my eye immediately with its stately placement in the midst of such touristic chaos.

I browsed some shops a bit before going in search of Humus Said, a hummussia that had been described to me as having "the greatest hummus in Israel."  By the time I found it in the middle of the shouk (market), I had little doubt that the claim had truth to it.  The small, humble restaurant was filled to capacity with hungry people of all backgrounds, and Muslim waiters slid swiftly between tables and chairs carrying stacks of pita and hummus plates to the customers, then balancing even taller stacks of finished plates back to the kitchen.  I patiently waited in "line" (because such things do not truly exist in Israel) for what may have been more than 20 minutes before getting into the door.  Once in, a man asked how many and when I told him it was just me, he quickly sat me at a table for four already occupied by two guys.  Didn't matter - there was an open seat and that was a precious commodity in such a lunch-hour rush.  I sat and, having no menu to even pretend to read, asked for the basic hummus plate - hummus with chickpeas on top and olive oil, served with a plate of vegetables and warm pita.  It arrived within minutes and I dug in.  Now, I realize this may be a point of contention, but I actually enjoyed the hummus at the kibbutz slightly more.  Blasphemy, I know, but I think I might be entitled to the opinion.  Still, it was a wonderful meal.

Humus Said: Putting the "mmm" in "hummus"

After paying the 15 shekel and squeezing my way out of the tiny hummussia, I wandered the Old City some more.  Walking along the wall I had a beautiful view of the azure Mediterranean Sea, and I calmly took in the majestic view.  As I walked and observed, the Muslim Azan, Call to Prayer, began emanating from the minaret of the green-roofed mosque.  The call was stunning to hear, strong and significant as its melody lilted over and among the crowds.  I know Muslims do not consider it music, but for someone outside their religion it was impossible to overlook the musical beauty in the call.  It also reminded me that though Israel is a Jewish country, there are many of differing religions, creeds, and ethnicities living within its borders, none of whom should be forgotten or lost amidst the Jewish majority.

After having spent a few hours in the Old City of Akko, I found my way back to the central bus station where I got a bus north to Naharriyah, from where I got on a sherut (shared taxi) to my friend's kibbutz in Beit HaEmek.  She made aliyah less than a year ago and joined the Israeli army; when she's not on the base she lives on the kibbutz with a group of other Israeli "lone soldiers."  Lone soldiers are characterized as those who's family or parents do not live in Israel, whether because they are not Israeli by birth or because their Israeli families have moved to other countries.  Most of the soldiers at the kibbutz had moved to Israel from the U.S., and it was fun spending Shabbat with all of them.

Perhaps the most enjoyable part of that Shabbat was seeing the camaraderie among the soldiers.  They really were a family of the strongest kind, strangers thrown together but sharing in a singular experience that is new, exciting, and absolutely terrifying for all of them.  They took care of one another, and for a day I was welcomed into that family with open arms.

I felt as if I had been traveling non-stop for over two days already, so it was a welcome reprieve to relax and do nothing with yet another group of strangers-turned-friends for Shabbat.  And Kibbutz Beit HaEmek is also a beautiful kibbutz with old gnarled olive trees at every turn.  It's a shame I didn't take pictures at the kibbutz.  I guess I'll just have to return sometime!

P.S. Don't forget to check out the Facebook photo album on the Photos page!

Traveling in the North, Part II: Im tirzu, ein zo agada

Officially being added to the list of things I would never have done at home and thus make Israel seem that much more amazing is the following story:

I arrived safely and uneventfully at the northern town of Kiryat Shmona with the intention of proceeding to Kibbutz Snir or the Banias National Park as a bus would allow.  Somehow I found out about this beautiful park with waterfalls, streams, and the ruins of an ancient pagan temple, and decided I must absolutely see this while in Israel.  But plans changed when I happened upon two young backpackers at the bus platform who were going in that general direction.  I told them I was planning to hike in the Banias, they explained they were embarking on a multi-day trek following portions of the Israel National Trail, and - surprise of surprises - they invited me to join them!  Despite how much I wanted to see waterfalls in Israel, a part of me urged "This is a great opportunity!  Screw your plans!  LIVE!"  And so I joined them.  The bus came and we were off.

The day's plan was to hike from Kibbutz Dan (the "Dan" of NaanDanJain Irrigation Systems) to Kibbutz K'far Gil'adi - 12 km and approximately six hours of fairly easy hiking on roads and through fields.  Unfortunately, my two hiking buddies were maybe a little too anxious, seeing as we got lost within the first couple kilometers.  Luckily, what they lack in navigational skills they make up for in kindness, perseverance, and optimism, so we only jokingly complained about the extra few kilometers we undoubtedly walked.

Though the roads and paths were often blasé and uninteresting, the scenery was anything but.  Fields and groves of wheat, avocado trees, orange trees, and more; hills and valleys with a few grazing cattle; mountains to the North and West with small clusters of homes nestled amidst them; and two streams to occasionally break the silence of the land.

As our shadows grew longer behind us we stopped more frequently in an effort to appease our increasing fatigue.  By the time we were within a couple kilometers of our destination we paused at a bus stop, happy to see a bench.  Thank goodness for that alluring bench, for had it not beckoned to us and had we not stopped, we might never have seen the car stop to drop off a hitchhiker, might never have considered our tired legs, might never have asked the driver for a ride, and might never have made it up the hill to their kibbutz -- and our goal.  Then, as if luck were not already generous enough, we were offed a room with beds and a shower for the night - all for free.

(This was incredibly fortunate for me because though I had planned to go to Akko after the Banias and possibly stay with a friend who lives nearby, it wasn't certain whether or not I'd be able to use her couch.  Thus, in accepting this random offer from a couple of strangers, my sleeping arrangements for the evening were magically secured.)

Having carried many a kilo with us all day, we were beyond blissful to put our stuff down and dine at a hummussia, a specialty hummus restaurant, for dinner.  Having never been to such a place before, I was amazed at this menu featuring a variety of tasty meals served in a plate of hummus alongside a heaping stack of warm pita.  I ordered hummus with fresh sauteed mushrooms and onions, and it was possibly the best hummus and mushrooms I have ever eaten.  Meanwhile, my friends ordered hummus shakshouka (remember when we made that?) and hummus with beans and other tasty things.

We went back to our room (though not before getting lost yet again), cleaned up and digested, then set out for the pub at which we lasted approximately 29 minutes before deciding we were far too tired to stay there.  So we left the pub and made our way back (without getting lost!), and promptly collapsed, each of us on a much more comfortable surface than any of us had expected for that night.

Throughout the day I kept wondering about this rather uncharacteristically spontaneous decision I had made to change my plans so drastically.  In some ways I was upset I didn't get to the national park which looked so beautiful and breathtaking in the photos.  But with every thought of the trip I missed, I came back to pleasant thoughts of the company I was with, the sheer experience of making friends out of strangers and doing something I would certainly never have done on my own.  Where did that little, urging voice come from at the bus station?  Surely that was not me.

"If you want it, it is not a dream"

While we were at the restaurant, I noticed a quote painted on the wall.  It was originally written by Theodore Herzl -- father of modern Zionism and one of the primary reasons for Israel's existence as a Jewish country.  "Im tirzu, ein zo agada" - If you want it, it is not a dream.  I remembered it from my days at summer camp where we always sang it after lunch on Friday afternoons.  And as I sat in that restaurant on a kibbutz in Northern Israel with two people who did not exist in my life 12 hours earlier, after having hiked nearly 15 kilometers on the Israel National Trail, after making a decision that was so utterly unlike any decision I would normally make, I looked at that quote and felt an understanding of it.  Total and complete comprehension.

"If you want it, it is not a dream."  It is the Optimist's Creed, a call for action and strength of conviction, and something we should all remind ourselves of daily.  For myself, I have always wished I could be more spontaneous, less uptight, and generally more willing to move with changing circumstances instead of fighting the universe.  And for years I thought "This is just how I am.  I cannot change that.  I will simply accept it."  But among the many things Israel has taught me, I have learned that oftentimes, what we deem impossible is simply our fear putting artificial constraints on a perceived reality.  Anything is possible.  I believe that is what that little voice in my head was telling me - that I need not be so certain of my plans and that I should take opportunities as they present themselves instead of caching them and perhaps inadvertently putting them out of reach forever.

Here in Israel, I am living the dreams I never even knew to want.

What would Tevye think?

I thought my family's seders were big, but Kibbutz Naan has put things in perspective for me.  30 isn't so big.  1,100 is big.  Very big.

Last night was the first night of the holiday of Pesach, or what most of my friends know as Passover.  It is a seven day holiday, though outside of Israel - the Diaspora - Jews celebrate an eighth day.  Similarly, though there is always a seder - a large meal and ceremony that retells the story of the Exodus from Egypt - Diasporic Jews also have a second seder the next night.  A traditional seder is organized into segments filled with symbolic foods, stories, and gestures which all serve to remind us that we were slaves in Egypt and were freed, a prelude to the true beginning of the Jewish religion and people.  There is, of course, a grand meal in the middle of the seder which in my family has always consisted of poultry, brisket, chicken soup with kneydlach, mashed potatos, salads of every variety (except pasta), gefilte fish, charoset, and at least enough horseradish for my aunt's and cousin's traditional horseradish-eating contest.  First to cry loses.

But this year I am in Israel, and what's more, I am at Kibbutz Naan, home of the largest seder in Israel.  Miss this?  Well, seeing as my Mama's matza balls were nowhere in sight, I couldn't possibly miss it.  

And to think, we thought cramming 30 people into a dining
room was challenging!

The seder was set up in the Ulam Sport, meaning roughly "huge giant sport building," which is basically a basketball court and bleachers.  Still, big enough for a seder of this size.  The walls were draped with paintings of people and flowers, some artistically depicting our slavery in Egypt while others displayed larger-than-life flowers and other spring scenes.  Long tables filled the room, leaving  space only for a few isles and a large bimah, stage, in the center.

As if the guest list didn't tip you off, Naan's seder is anything but traditional.  Not only do they have their own hagadah (the small book used for the seder) tailored to fit the needs and aesthetics of a non-religious kibbutz, but their seder is a celebration of the talent and beauty of their members.  Instead of the traditional family-style seder where songs are sung off-key and the retelling of the Exodus might pause to answer questions and debate contemporary politics, each song in this seder was performed by a choir of children or adults, and accompanied by a band.  Some portions featured choreographed dances and skits from the students, portraying aspects of our slavery or freedom (the high school girls' dance depicting the burden of slavery and their celebratory timbrel dance were two of my favorites).

I can only imagine what Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof would think of such a breach of the cultural Jewish norm.

Though the songs and narrations were entirely in Hebrew, I was able to follow some of it, at least enough to get a general idea of what was being said.  In a traditional hagadah, the retelling of the Exodus is almost secondary to the descriptions of the Passover traditions and the arguments among the Rabbis of Old regarding how and why and what is meant by this, that, or the other thing.  But in the Naan hagadah the story of the slavery, the Exodus, the crossing of the sea, and even reaching Israel 40 years later is told and recreated in song and dance.  In some ways, I almost preferred this since I felt it made the true reason for Pesach and this meal more significant.

Now, I say "almost preferred this."  Sure, I had a wonderful time, and my ears loved the sound of Pesach songs in four-part vocal harmony accompanied by piano and brass instruments.  I loved seeing the children dressed in costume and depicting Chad Gadya and the Four Sons.  I enjoyed the ruach (spirit) and joy, and the food wasn't bad either.  But it wasn't home.

I missed the blue Maxwell House Haggadah stained with maror and wine from decades of use.  I missed my Mom's juicy charoset, a mix of apples, nuts, cinnamon, and a little extra wine to make Papa happy (they didn't even HAVE charoset!).  I missed the karpas part of the seder where my cousins and I eagerly dip red potatoes in salt water and use that to temporarily satisfy our hunger until we get to the Festive Meal (even though we're supposed to be remembering our salty tears throughout years of bondage).  I missed the family contests and traditions that have absolutely nothing with remembering the Exodus and absolutely everything to do with celebrating our quirky nature and love for one another.

And because I'm in Israel, even temporarily, I will not be celebrating the second seder, the more intimate one which I would normally celebrate at my house with my immediate family and various members of our town's Jewish community.  When I would in other years have been in the kitchen all day helping my mom chop vegetables, wash dishes, and set the table with our finest china and silver, today I am, well, blogging.

Normally Pesach is one of my favorite holidays, but this year as I celebrate it in the Holy Land only 45 minutes from the Jerusalem we pray every year to return to, all I can think about is how I wish I were celebrating it with the people I love the most.  Like a giant magnet, Tradition is trying its hardest to pull me in the direction of my family during this most celebrated of holidays.  So instead of saying "Next year in Jerusalem," I proclaim "Next year with my family, wherever that may be."  

Traveling in the North, Part I: Take my breath away

Note: I have added a Maps section where I have posted maps of the various kibbutzim and towns I have visited in Israel throughout this program.  It will be updated as I travel and should serve as a reference for the places I mention.


Another note:  I have updated Flickr with some photos that are also posted on Facebook albums, and the Photos page has a link to the newest Facebook photo album from my trip to Northern Israel.
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Last Wednesday afternoon I excitedly embarked on a self-organized journey in Northern Israel where I planned to spend my few days of chofesh, vacation, before Pesach (Passover).  I have a few contacts in the North and figured it would be a wonderful way to see them and some of the country, and it would cut down on expenses since I wouldn't have to pay for hostels.  After riding on a multitude of trains, buses, shared taxis, and strangers' cars, and hiking through kilometers of roads, fields, paths, and city streets, I can confidently say I had a wonderful - albeit exhausting - time!

I planned first to stay with a woman whose number was given to me by a member of my synagogue.  I contacted her and she was more than happy to host me at her house, even though it was a couple days before Pesach and she was hurrying to finish cleaning and preparing.  Of course, that didn't stop her from being a wonderfully gracious hostess, yiddishe mama (Jewish mother), and personal tour guide from the moment she picked me up near Tiberias.  As we drove to her moshav (explanation to come), she pointed out all the mountains, valleys, and explained their history and significance.  "You can see Tzfat on that hill, that's the Upper Galilee over there, those two cliffs are like that because they separated when the tectonic plates shifted.  Oh, let's stop here so you can get a picture!"  You get the idea.

She also told me all about her moshav on Mount Arbel.  For reference, a moshav is a uniquely Israeli type of community or settlement developed in the early 1900s during the Second Aliyah, a period of time when a large number of Jews immigrated to Israel.  Moshavim share many qualities with kibbutzim such as their agricultural traditions and close, supportive environment.  However, land and homes on traditional moshavim (plural) are generally privately owned and operated unlike traditional kibbutzim which share everything.  As we drove through the moshav, she pointed out her neighbors' olive groves, orange trees, almond trees, and other crops. Some families had livestock as well, and she told me about how her husband's parents had had a dairy farm on the moshav which they'd sold ten years prior.  Today, many on the moshav do work outside in nearby towns or cities but the community maintains its unique and comfortable atmosphere.

We drove into one section of the moshav that had been developed by and for the second- and third-generation moshavnikim (moshav citizens).  How beautiful it was to drive down the quiet road lined on both sides by quaint houses tucked behind tall trees and blooming gardens!  Behind my hostess's house were a line of fruit trees - pomegranate, pomelo, shesek, orange, clementine, and - of course - a grape vine.  The house itself was of a comfortable size with large windows letting in morning sun and a magnificent view of the Arbel and Nitai mountains.  Can you imagine a more perfect way to wake up?

The adjective "breathtaking" is often used to describe views of beauty, but rarely have I experienced something truly breathtaking.  In the past I would use the word because it seemed appropriate but without ever knowing that something could, in fact, take your breath from you.  Upon looking at the amazing views surrounding the entire kibbutz, I was stunned at how suddenly the word "breathtaking" became the most accurate description of what I saw.  Soft rolling hills of green speckled with the yellow and pink of Spring, larger heights and mountains to the North and East proudly standing guard over this precious land, the white stone city of Tzfat sitting serenely atop a mountain in the distance and sparkling with light as Day imperceptibly gave way to Night . . . all was breathtaking.

Needless to say, I was incredibly excited to see more of this part of the country on my hike the following day.  Little did I realize, though, that my plans might change so dramatically . . .

Breakfast - Israeli style!

Limonana - Israeli-style lemonade made from fresh
lemons and mint leaves

In French class throughout junior high school, high school, and even college, food was used as a way to learn about the culture, and what better way to teach?  Teenagers, food, and school - it's a win-win situation for everyone involved!  Except perhaps the custodians. . .

As I'm sure you can imagine, hungry students in a Hebrew Ulpan are no different - food is just as alluring, even if we have to make it on our own and -gasp!- clean up after ourselves, too.  That is why today our teacher declared Yom Bishul, Cooking Day, where we were put into groups, given recipes in Hebrew, and set loose in the kitchen with plenty of raw ingredients in hand.  Two hours later we had a most magnificent feast!

Our taphrit, menu, included shakshouka, falafel, vegetable salad (Israeli salad), tehina (sesame) salad, eggplant and mayonnaise salad, fresh lemonade with mint, and brownies (for no reason other than we're addicted to anything containing chocolate).  I worked with three other students on preparing the shakshouka, a main course made with poached eggs in a tomato-based vegetable stew.  All of these dishes were fairly simple to make, and I've included recipes as possible, and a link to one recipe that would be a little too long to include in the list.  Enjoy!

Finished shakshouka.  We made a huge batch for 17 people,
but it is easily adjusted for any number of servings.

Authentic Israeli Foods:
1. Shakshouka

2. Falafel - We used a prepared falafel mix that just needed to be prepared then fried in a giant pot with lots

of oil.

3. Tehina - This comes as a sesame sauce that we mixed with water, fresh lemon juice, garlic, parsley, and salt.

4. Eggplant and mayo salad - Roast eggplants on an open flame if available (gas range works), peal them and scoop out the innards, mix that with some mayonnaise, lots of garlic, parsley, lemon, salt, and pepper.  Other sources suggest preparing this with tehina instead of mayo. (Don't worry, Mom, I still much prefer your baba ganoush!)

5. Lemonade - melt a bit of sugar into boiling water, mix that with fresh lemon juice, and add fresh mint leaves.  Can also be pureed together with the mint leaves to create limonana, which is the Hebrew name combining limon (lemon) and nana (mint).

6.  Brownies - two girls made these from scratch, but there's nothing intrinsically "authentic" about these in Israel.  They're just good, ol'-fashioned brownies!

Who says learning Hebrew can't be tasty?

P.S.  Pictures of our cooking exploits are linked to the Photos page!

Make that "Unsociable Nerd"

In my last entry I proudly proclaimed my nerdiness in a poetic explanation of the secrets and wonders of the Hebrew language.  I'm nearly positive that the only thing that could have made it more nerdy would be if I had included footnote citations ala Chicago Manual of Style.  Hmm...come to think of it...

So it doesn't astonish me in the least that while I had every intention of maybe possibly going to the pub with a few friends who I hadn't yet asked, I ended up showering late, putting on some halfway-decent pub-appropriate clothing, then sitting down and turning on my computer.  With that last action, my plan for socialization with my peers flew out the metaphorical window.  Another quiet night in.

The reality is that while my peers (most of whom are younger than me by two or three years and many fresh out of high school) take Thirsty Thursday very seriously and party hard on Fridays as well, I am just not interested in that particular brand of fun.  Still, I tell myself that I should push myself to be with them, even for a little time here or there.  I should be sociable and allow myself to be included in their activities.  While I'm here, I should make the most of my experiences and enjoy spending time with the people around me.

But I happen to be particularly bad at following my own advice.

Quite frankly, I don't like drinking, smoking, loud music, and rambunctious frivolity.  If I am spending time with friends, I prefer board games and movies, popcorn and hot cocoa or lemonade (regardless of the season), swapping anecdotes and funny tales, and getting drunk on laughter and companionship.  And though I enjoy it, I don't want to be expected to dress up or wear makeup or be the least bit concerned about my hair.  If I do dress up and go out, it's more likely to go swing dancing or to a symphony concert than to a club.  That is not to suggest that my comrades on the Ulpan are constantly partying or superficial, but I recognize a definite difference in their personalities and mine as manifest in their preferred social activities versus my own.  Many of them are very nice and their vitality and love of life is often refreshing, but there is a point at which I long for the sort of calm, quiet amusement I've always been attracted to.

I'll admit, part of my disinterest in spending a lot of time with my classmates is this feeling of division between us - in age, maturity, goals, or position in life.  Because of my age and the American educational system and social structure, I am one of the only ones here who has been in a university and worked significantly in any job.  The fact that I am studying for a degree and teacher certification, am expected to pay for college primarily on my own, live on my own most months of the year, and work, distinguishes me from many of the other ulpanistim who have just recently graduated high school, live with their families, and haven't had the opportunity or expectation to have a job to this point.  This actually identifies a very interesting difference between America and many other countries.  I am discovering that in comparison to many European and South American cultures (if the students here are any representation of the cultures from which the emanate), Americans have an overwhelming sense of responsibility, ownership, and individuality instilled in them from a young age.  Throughout school we are taught how to learn, how to study, how to prepare for a life through and after high school, into college, and into the working fields.  Many of us are expected to start working part-time as soon as we're legally able to, and sometimes earlier if you get a baby-sitting gig.  Entrepreneurship, motivation, and success are - for some - three of the most common words in our vocabularies as we grow up.  And in some cases, our sense of esteem and worth is strongly correlated to our our success in school and work.  Really though, it seems that America's obsession with success is a little of an anomaly and may explain my obsessive and anal-retentive tendencies.

Or maybe I'm the anomaly.  Alright, so I know I'm more obsessive-compulsive than most, and I've been reprimanded on more than one occasion for being a little too anal or worrisome or concerned about trivial details.  (You'll be happy to know that Israel is, indeed, teaching me to chill.)  But am I really so much more mature than my fellow 21-year-olds?  Why is it that I don't usually enjoy myself with copious amounts of alcohol and loud music?  And is it really so odd that my idea of fun is more likely to involve a good book or a couple close friends than strangers and mixed drinks?

I suppose ultimately I should learn to trust myself and my own tendencies for what they are.  I can't expect myself to change just because my circumstances are different, nor should I try.  Maybe this is one bit of advice I should heed.

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P.S.  I wrote most of this entry while listening to Tchaikovsky.  Nerd cred.

Adventures of a polyglot

For those of you who know me, it will come as no surprise that language fascinates me.  In English, I consider myself a LEA: Language Enforcement Agent (a much better designation than "Grammar Nazi" and synonymous to the male title, LEO: Language Enforcement Officer).  I hold proper use of the language in the highest esteem and though I cannot explain English grammar, I love the sound of it.  Additionally, I am constantly searching for new words to add to my lexicon like spices in a kitchen; I like to mix and match and turn and twist sounds and syllables in my mouth, and as my fingers tap the keyboard or wield a pen I am thrilled with the opportunity for prose.  I like to experience life through language, narrating in silent monologues to reinterpret my experiences, thereby turning a pretty tree or a bumblebee into a superfluous metaphor.  In this way, my world is rearranged.

But I digress.  What I really want to talk about is Hebrew.  My classmates must think I'm nuts with how excited I was to begin learning the past tense yesterday.  It was like learning how to read all over again, but this time with the profound understanding of what this knowledge would do for me.  I was actually giddy to watch the past two months of learning fall into place for this moment.

Say it with me now:  NERD.

Hebrew is a captivating language to study for a few reasons.  First, it's the only language whose modern version was adapted directly from its ancient version instead of undergoing hundreds or thousands of years of linguistic evolution.  Second, Modern Hebrew is highly influenced by German, Russian, Yiddish, English, Spanish, Ladino, and Arabic, among others, and though this influence is primarily noticeable in the vocabulary it has also shaped some of Hebrew's structure and pronunciation.  Third, Hebrew has an astoundingly systematic structure.  Despite the few requisite exceptions (because no language is complete without some exceptions to the rules), Hebrew's grammatical structure is so crisp and pure that it's almost mind-boggling.

In comparison to English whose exceptions outnumber cases of adherence to the rules, or French with its fourteen tenses and large variety of verb conjugations for each, Hebrew is blissfully simple in terms of its structure.  (It should be noted that while English only has two "true" tenses, there are actually twelve collective tenses when modals and compound tenses are included.  We just never learn them as such.)  Perhaps "simple" is the wrong word; certainly it has its complications.  But it is structured, and almost mathematically so.  How wonderful that my love of language can be combined with my love of analysis!

One of the fascinating things about Hebrew is its system of shoreshim, roots.  Each noun, verb, adjective, and adverb is constructed around a three- or four-letter shoresh which connects it to all the other words with that shoresh.  So for instance, the word עבודה, "work," shares the root letters .ע.ב.ד with the verb עובד and its infinitive לעבוד.  From those root letters derive the past tense of the word in the third-person singular, עבד, and though we haven't gotten to future or imperative tenses, I can assure you they are all permutations of the same shoresh.  Similarly, and perhaps more interestingly, the shoresh for the verb "thinking," חושב is also found in the word for computer, מחשב.  Makes sense, no?

There are also binyanim, "buildings," which are classifications of verbs that all follow specific patterns and rules of conjugation.  In addition, each binyan identifies the voice - whether it's active, passive, causative, reflexive, or any combination thereof - and each verb can be adjusted based on the title of the binyan to adopt that particular voice.  We haven't gotten that far in the grammar yet, but I've learned it's possible.

When we were first learning how to form the infinitives based on the verb (seemly backwards from other languages), our teacher kept telling us to "listen to the music!"  The music?  It took me a while to realize that she was talking about the vowel sounds of the verb groups.  Generally-speaking, it's not the consonants that create the groups but their uniform vowel sounds.  Once we put it all together in a grand table identifying five of the seven binyanim, I fully understood what she meant.  And knowing that makes it astoundingly easier to pronounce new words without the dots and dashes that usually designate the pronunciation.

All of this is interesting in and of itself - this system of roots, verb classifications, and precise rules in gender and quantity that permeate throughout.  But the most fascinating?  That all the grammar has been adapted from the ancient Hebrew of the Tenach, the Old Testament.

As young students in Hebrew school we were taught that Hebrew is not only the language of the Torah but the language of Creation, that of G-d Himself.  And while that does make for a nice, simple explanation to an inquiring 10-year-old, its strength lies in the myriad connections and seeming perfection of the language.

Regardless of the genesis of this language (ha, Genesis, get it?), this was not a language that was created or developed willy-nilly.  There is attention to detail as found in its ineffable structure and plethora of correlations between words and ideas.  There is utter simplicity, confounding interplay, and brilliant mechanisms built into the language in ways that both French and English lack.  There is nothing superfluous, nothing wasteful about this language.

(Except that one darn preposition unique to Hebrew that I just can't quite figure out.)

I don't ask you to agree with me, but there is almost something divine about it all.