Dear God, Where's my skirt?

On Friday I decided to go to Jerusalem to spend Shabbat in the Old City at the same hostel I stayed at the last time I was there.  I felt a strong need to get off the kibbutz and enjoy a more spiritual and religious Shabbat than I've had in a while, plus the allure of the Ashkenazi foods I grew up with (gefilte fish and kugel, to name a couple) was incredibly tempting.  (For as much as I love the food of Mediterranean Jews, the Eastern European stuff will always hold a special place in my heart.)  So I packed my bag quick, hitchhiked to Rehovot, and hopped on a bus to J-town.

After stopping at the shuk and also buying a new pair of cheap brown sandals to replace my way-past-dead tan flip-flops, I walked to the Old City, bought some bread from a vendor, and managed to make it to the hostel without getting lost!  Huge accomplishment, if I do say so myself.  As I expected, the moment I walked in I was greeted with warm smiles befitting the return of a good friend more than the entrance of a stranger.  I picked out my bed, got myself comfortable, schmoozed a bit then went to get ready for Shabbat.

That's when I noticed that disaster had struck.

After making my bed I had taken out the one skirt I'd brought with me - one of the beautiful, silky wrap-around skirts I'd bought since coming to Israel - and spread it on the bed in hopes that it might de-wrinkle a bit.  I'd gone downstairs and when I returned to take my shower, my skirt was gone.

Now, I know that I have a penchant for misplacing things, forgetting what I've done with something, or other similar acts of mental clumsiness.  But I searched high and low for that skirt, on every visible public surface of that hostel, under beds, and through all my belongings (which amounted to one lightly-packed backpack), and it was absolutely nowhere to be found.  I talked to every single person in the building asking if anyone had seen it and with the exception of the one girl who saw me take it out of my bag, all answers were negative.

If the last time I was there was any indication of the norm, then I had no reason to feel that either I or my belongings would be at risk among such generously warm-hearted girls.  In fact, once they heard I had nothing to wear for Shabbat, two girls dressed me up like a doll in a black skirt, black shoes (since my new brown sandals couldn't possibly work with black), a beautiful azure blue shirt, and a necklace to match.

But their kindness did not negate the fact that I was upset over losing my skirt.  And unfortunately, it tainted my entire Shabbat experience.

Yes, it's just a skirt.  It's a material possession, and not even an expensive one at that.  It's more or less replaceable, and it's not as if it had significant sentimental value, other than being something I bought myself in Israel.  Being a person who doesn't buy a lot of souvenirs, that was important to me.  And not knowing where it is, if someone took it or if I absentmindedly put it somewhere else is challenging for me to handle.

Still, I tried to enjoy myself.  I made a new friend before dinner Friday night and we went together to a family's house for some wonderful food and warm companionship.  But in this ultra-Orthodox community, I wasn't entirely comfortable with the man of the house.  His wife was absolutely lovely and often chided him for bringing up topics or making comments on things that might have been better left unsaid or ignored, but I felt ill-at-ease with my impression that he thought I was new to religious Judaism and somehow ignorant of the customs.  Far from it - just because I'm not an orthodox Jew doesn't mean I don't know the blessings, the rituals, the rules.  Secretly, I was offended.

The next day we ate lunch with a most eclectic group of ultra-Orthodox Jews.  The wife - a happy, smiling, loving woman who loved bright colors, art, and sequins - was very much into Jewish mysticism and seemed to connect every aspect of her life to spirituality and God.  Some of her guests were equally esoteric while others were more interested in pragmatism, though all seemed impassioned and excited to be living lives founded in unwavering faith in God.  Though the woman's smile and spirit were contagious, I felt challenged by the way even the most seemingly mundane things were given a spiritual significance.  Additionally, when I tried to offer my own opinions or potential reasons for religious experiences, she doubted them and almost immediately countered with explanations she considered more correct, more true.  Perhaps she was right, but I was silently defensive and I began to recognize in myself a distinct unwillingness to accept the outlook and way of life she represented.  (Click here to read about my observations of the dichotomy between pragmatism and spirituality in Judaism.)

And throughout it all, I could not stop thinking about that stupid skirt.

One of the beliefs members of the ultra-Orthodox community often hold is the concept of fate, predestination, and that all things happen for a reason. These are concepts I have always personally had trouble accepting for a variety of reasons.  But if I put aside my walls and barriers and unwillingness for a moment and think as they do, I can ask the following questions:

Why did my skirt go missing?  And what am I to learn from it?

For the last few years I have been making a conscious effort to calm myself in the face of trifling upsets, to go with the flow a bit more and make clear distinctions between what truly matters and what is simply not worth worrying about.  Intellectually-speaking, I know that losing that skirt is not really that important.  It wasn't a prized possession of significant monetary value, it wasn't a gift or memento from a long-lost friend, nor did its existence in my wardrobe make any real difference in the grand scheme of things.  And losing that skirt provided strangers an opportunity to act in kindness and generosity - in a word, a mitzvah (good deed).  Looking at it that way, perhaps it was a good thing I lost that skirt.

But similarly, in the grand scheme of things, why would God not want me to have it?  Did he feel I only need two instead of three?  Or maybe he has better fashion sense than me and it was actually ugly or made my butt look big.  

You see where my skepticism of this philosophy starts kicking in?

By the end of Shabbat, I was feeling worn out and frustrated, upset and even angry that the weekend I had been looking forward to turned out to be so much less than I expected.  But as I contemplated it all on the bus ride home, it occurred to me that the events of the weekend had revealed my own insecurities and defenses, things that I still have to work on in order to become a kinder, happier, and more open person.  Isn't that what we should all be working towards, religious or not?

How's Israel?

My favorite question, and the hardest to respond to, this is the one thing my friends and family are sure to ask every time we talk.  "How's Israel?"  How can one possibly respond to that succinctly?

I realize most of my posts of late have been about holidays or history (or both) with little description of the daily activities that make this experience what it is, and some of you may be reading this thinking "Sure, that's all well and good, but how's Israel?"

(At least I like to pretend that's what you're thinking.)

Before answering that question I have to make one very simple but very significant distinction:  Israel is not the same as the Ulpan - they are two different worlds entirely, complete with different languages, types of people, experiences, and various other qualities, separated by this thing called a "kibbutz" in the middle.  To give you an idea of the differences, a simple list should suffice:

Ulpan (based on averages and overall impressions)
Primary Languages: Spanish, English
Median age: 18 years
Popular music choice: Kumbia, Latin pop
Free time activities: sunbathing, partying, napping, yelling
Most common meals (outside of dining hall): anything heated up from a frozen package (schnitzel, pizza, etc.);     pasta; rice; hard-boiled eggs; anything with chocolate

Israel
Primary Languages: Hebrew, English (Arabic and Russian, too)
Median age: 29.4 years
Popular music choice: American pop, Mizrahi, anything on the Galgalatz radio station
Free time activities: having not spent too much time off the kibbutz, I'm not so sure.  Napping?  Shoe shopping?  Yelling?
Most common meals: hummus; falafel; shawarma; Israeli salad; schnitzel; anything with chickpeas, sunflower seeds, or sesame; hard-boiled eggs; anything with chocolate

As you can tell, there are some similarities between the two.  In either case you can generally count on some amount of English by most of the population, schnitzel and chocolate are loved by all (though not at the same time), and yelling seems to be something of a favorite pastime for Israelis and Ulpanistim alike.  But the two are definitely different and at times - when I'm in class or at lunch or sitting in my room blogging - I am convinced the Ulpan is not even part of Israel, and that it is not until I get away from the Ulpan, cross the kibbutz, and step off of it that I enter into the country I thought I'd been in all along.

I am feeling the undeniable urge to be brutally honest and the truth is, I'm getting a little sick of the Ulpan.  Don't get me wrong, I love my teacher, my work, and learning a new language, but learning, working, eating, and (trying to) relax[ing] with 24 of my not-always-closest-friends is getting a little tiring.  Alright, a lot tiring.  I'm sure you can understand such frustrations, especially coming from the unsociable nerd I am.  (I still don't understand how Kumbia and cheap Vodka are still so appealing to some of my comrades.)

Israel, on the other hand, is awesome.  It's getting hotter so I am incredibly thankful that the kibbutz pool is open and I've been making great use of the area roped off for laps.  I am still in love with the rude and gruff Israelis who surprise me at every turn and I'm looking forward to doing more traveling in my last seven weeks in the country (wow, can't believe that's all that's left!).  As my Hebrew improves I get increasingly more eager to test myself among the natives, and my favorite compliment is, unquestionably, "You've only been here over three months?!  Mitzuyan!  Where did you learn Hebrew before?  You didn't?  That's impressive!" . . .or any variation thereof.

I'm happy with the things I've done, the people I've met, the experiences I've had in Israel thus far.  Let's add some of them up, shall we?

• Been to the Tel Aviv Opera
• Saw Victor Wooten perform in Tel Aviv
• Hiked two portions of the Israel Trail
• Stayed in hostels in Jerusalem and Haifa
• Been through at least four "Old Cities" (Jerusalem, Akko, Yafo, Ramla)
• Bought three wrap skirts and two pairs of Thai Fisherman's Pants (which I'll just refer to as "Israeli pants" even though they're not)
• Eaten plenty of falafel, shawarma, pita, and hummus, but I'm nowhere near done tasting all of that
• Traveled to and stayed in a few kibbutzim and moshavim around the country
• Met, talked to, and befriended complete strangers
• Hitchhiked
• GOTTEN TAN!  BY ACCIDENT!

The kibbutz itself has also afforded me some wonderful experiences, such as meeting Shoshi and her family, and more recently the Nadav family, all of whom feed me gratuitously and offer me unsolicited hospitality in ways that only Israelis know how:  "Just come over for some nes cafe any time you want!"  And just in case my mom or any other Jewish mommies back home are worried I'm not eating enough, fear not: the Jewish imahot here wouldn't dare let such an atrocity happen.  (I've come to terms with the fact that I've got some serious gym-work ahead of me when I get home.)

Another wonderful kibbutz surprise:  On Thursday night I went to the pub (which I just about never do) and serendipitously met a Canadian girl turned Israeli who just finished her army service and is living on the kibbutz for another month before going home to visit, then moving to Jerusalem.  Turns out she's been here the whole time, at least when she wasn't on her base, and I never met her!  Well, I suppose it's not that much of a surprise; after all, it is a pretty big kibbutz and she was only home on weekends.  Anyway, she's a little older than me and, well, I think I made a friend :).  (Funny how no matter what age I am a new friend always makes me a little giddy.)

And these recent kibbutz surprises come right when I needed it most, just as I was reaching my threshold of patience for the Ulpan and some of its members.  I guess if you're patient enough, some of the things you need in life can find their way to you.  You just have to keep your eyes, mind, and heart open.

So how's Israel, you ask?  

It's wonderful!

Just as long as I don't have to spend too much time on the Ulpan.

Israel- Defying the Odds

I fully admit this video is entirely about bragging rights. Feeling pretty proud of this country I'm in :)

The New and the Old - Tel Aviv and Yafo

In case I hadn't already figured it out, I have firmly come to the conclusion that it is impossible to see even a single Israeli city in one day, let alone two, even if it is meticulously planned out and run by expert Israeli tour guides.  On Tuesday we had our third tiyul - trip - this time to Tel Aviv and the neighboring city of Yafo (Jaffa - like the oranges).  We went to Independence Hall, saw many "firsts" of the area and the country (first kiosk, first train station, first Jewish neighborhoods, first movie theater, etc.), went to Yafo and walked through the Old City, saw remains of an Egyptian tomb (Egyptian dude moved to Yafo a long long time ago), learned about Greek, Jewish, Christian, and Arab influences on the city, ate at Doctor Shakshouka (awesome!), shopped in the Shuk HaPishpeshim (flee market), saw Rabin Square in Tel Aviv and learned about assassinated Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, then got on the bus and came back to the kibbutz.

Whew.

Here are some of the basics that you should know about Tel Aviv and Yafo:  Tel Aviv is the second largest city in Israel but is the most cosmopolitan.  Similarly, though Jerusalem is the capital city, Tel Aviv is the artistic and economic center of Israel.  It is home to skyscrapers, beach-front hotels, markets and malls, theaters and concert halls, corporate offices, R&D centers, and a vibrant 24/7 social atmosphere for Israelis and tourists alike.  It was built on the outskirts of Yafo (Jaffa, in its common English transliteration), a predominantly Arab city, and today Tel Aviv and Yafo are part of a single municipality.  Tel Aviv-Yafo population: 404,000 (5% of the total Israeli population).  Population of greater Tel Aviv Metropolitan Area: 3,206,400 (about 42% of the total Israeli population).

Forefront: Old
Background: New

Tel Aviv's name has an interesting etymology combining the old and new in a couple of different ways.  The name was chosen in homage of Theodore Herzl's book Altneuland - "Old New Land" (Herzl was the founder of modern Zionism and a primary figure in Israel's modern history).  When the book was translated to Hebrew, the translator opted for a more symbolic rather than direct translation of the title and chose the name of a city that also happens to be mentioned in the Bible.  The name itself is difficult to translate to English because although "Aviv" is simply "spring," a "tel" is a formation that is unique to Israel.  It is a hill that has developed from the recurring construction and destruction of civilizations built one on top of the other - new on top of old - in layers.  Thus it was a fitting title for the translation of Herzl's book because the antiquity of ancient civilizations is juxtaposed against the youthful revival of spring.

Tel Aviv and Yafo are almost complete opposites in a variety of ways including history, religion, and architecture.  While Tel Aviv is a bustling metropolis, Yafo maintains its old winding alleyways and stone buildings, vast flea market (another skirt and pants for 75 shekel!  Woo!), and slightly slower-paced life.  Yafo also has a strong Arab population as it has for much of its history.  History, too, is a significant difference between the two cities; Tel Aviv was founded in 1909, but stories of Yafo go back to antiquity in both the Bible and Greek mythology.

I could talk a lot more about the tiyul, but I have to admit that while I do enjoy Yafo, yesterday's trip wasn't quite as enjoyable for me as our two previous ones.  Yes, Tel Aviv has a lot to offer (like the Victor Wooten concert I went to on Monday night), but I'm not much of a city girl and I prefer the art galleries and winding stone roads of Yafo.  And I can't quite put my finger on it, but for some reason I have something against touristy destinations and the tour groups of foreigners that frequent them.  Nevermind the fact that I am a tourist and was part of a tour group yesterday, nevermind that I love Israeli tour guides, and let's forget entirely that were it not for tourists, non-Hebrew speaking Anglophones wouldn't be able to go to restaurants around the country.  Yes, I realize I'm being a big ol' hypocrite, but I suppose I'd just rather be surrounded by the natives than people like me.

Still, despite the plethora of tourists and the inevitable "sheeple" (sheep + people) feeling I get whenever I'm in a tour group, I really did have an enjoyable time.  Like I said, lunch was amazing, I bargained for some more Israeli clothes, and I got to see and learn about one of Israel's most interesting cities.  All in all, a pretty good trip.  :)


P.S.: The Photos page has been updated with a link to the album featuring my pictures from our trip.  Enjoy!

Do you hear the people sing?

I’ve already written extensively on Israel’s Memorial Days, both for the Holocaust and members of its military.  Obviously, Israelis have raised memory to an art form.  After all, what other country gets the vast majority of its citizens to completely stop in unison at a given moment?  But with so much mourning you might wonder if people in this country have anything to celebrate.  Well, a person can only wallow in self-pity for so long before he simply tears off the shroud and throws a party.

And that is precisely what Israelis do.

The day immediately following Yom Hazikaron is Yom Ha’Atzmaut, Israel’s Independence Day.  In a single day the tone of the country changes completely, moving from sadness to utter joy with the swiftness and seeming effortlessness of replacing the Tragedy mask with that of Comedy.  Melancholy songs and stillness are replaced with concerts, fireworks, and barbecues (not unlike our own Independence Day), and the country suddenly overflows with celebration.  Our own kibbutz ceremony was filled with song and dance of a more cheerful tone, and sanguine laughter and applause erupted after every performance.

For as talented as Israelis are at remembering, they are equally talented – if not moreso – at living in the moment and celebrating it for all it’s worth.

It is worth pointing out the curious timing of all of this.  Independence Day is when it is because it is the anniversary of the date when David Ben-Gurion announced the Proclamation of the State of Israel in 1948.  But Yom Hazikaron could be any day of the year.  It could just as easily be in January as August, so why should this solemn, even depressing day directly precede the most joyous political holiday in Israel?

Jews have long understood the concepts of sorrow and joy and the intricate relationship between the two.  As a people we have experienced destruction and expulsion time and again throughout our long history.  In some instances – namely the destruction of the temples – we are taught that we brought the tragedies upon ourselves because of our own failures.  However, there is one hardship in our history that, as a young teenager in Hebrew school, made me wonder.  In discussing the various punishments the Jewish people have endured, I asked the rabbi “But what about the slavery in Egypt?  We hadn’t gotten the Torah yet and weren’t technically Jews.  So what did we do to deserve that?”

At the time he didn’t give me an answer, but as I grew up I divined that it wasn’t a punishment; rather, the generations spent as slaves in Egypt served to teach us and prepare us for freedom, for who can truly appreciate freedom unless they have experienced captivity?  And how can a people have compassion for those who are not free unless they themselves have suffered the same injustice?

Thus the concept of suffering begetting joy is born into us, both individually as Jews and collectively as a nation, and Israel’s decision to celebrate their independence only after remembering what it took – and continues to take – to earn it seems to reflect that.  The timing is, in and of itself, a metaphor for Israeli existence and survival: that sorrow and ecstasy are both present in life, that neither should be forgotten or ignored, and that often, one leads to the other.

If you will, permit me one last metaphor:  The timing of Israel’s Yom Hazikaron and Yom Ha’Azmaut appears to have a Biblical connotation as well.  In the first chapter of Bereshit (Genesis), each day of Creation is marked by the phrase “It was evening, it was morning, the [first, second, etc.] day.”  Again, darkness precedes the light, and we continue that tradition when celebrating all Jewish holidays, starting at sundown one day and concluding after sundown the next.  With that order in mind, we should never take the light, the joy, for granted, and though we should not dwell on the negative, we should recall the night that preceded the day to make it that much more worthy of celebration.  In so doing, let us hold onto that memory of darkness to remind us of what not to allow in this world in order that we might reach an era of everlasting light, endless joy, and universal peace for all.

Empty chairs at empty tables

In the musical Les Miserables, Marius sings a melancholy song to a simple melody bemoaning the loss of his friends.  In the middle of a revolution, the middle of war, he pauses to reminisce about those who have gone, leaving memories and empty chairs behind.
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Tonight is erev Yom Hazikaron, the evening of Israel's Memorial Day for fallen soldiers, and unlike the colorful and triumphant Memorial Day of the United States, Israelis throughout the country are mournful, contemplative, melancholy, and reminiscent.  The evening began with the sound of the siren at 8:00 PM sharp and the entire country stood at attention.  As the sirens wound down at 8:01, the ceremonies began.  As always, this kibbutz's ceremony was marked by the arts - music, dance, and film - and in addition to honoring all fallen soldiers, it was a memorial to all the members of our kibbutz who died fighting for Israel.

The ceremony was short, lasting less than a half hour, but the evening was far from over.  While some kibbutznikim said their goodbyes and began walking home, many others turned toward the gallery next to the dining hall where there was an exhibit of banners with photographs and information of all of Naan's fallen soldiers.  But the true reason people came was to sing.

The room was set with rows of plastic chairs, and once people got their coffee, tea, and a little nosh (snack), quiet descended as the chairs were filled.  Someone approached one of the microphones at the front, gave a little speech (none of which I understood), then handed the microphone to another kibbutznik to lead the first song.  We each had booklets with the lyrics to the songs, but most people didn't need them.  These were old songs, memorized from little on, possibly even carried with them from birth.  The words lay not only in their minds but in their hearts, and each Israeli in that room undoubtedly felt the words with their being.

For each song a member of the kibbutz was prepared to lead it from the microphone with a piano accompaniment.  We let the soloist sing the first line or two before joining, often quietly and timidly as if each person were saying their own solemn prayer.  For an hour we serenaded one another with songs of loss and longing, of hope and heartache.  Sometimes people sang, sometimes they listened, and sometimes we all let ourselves fall silent while the voice of an angel beautified our pain and sorrow, lifting it to a place of peace we surely could not reach alone.

As I glanced around the room I felt the complete and total significance of this experience.  This was a communal therapy session, a moment for shared grief and memory, catharsis through song.  And during one particular melody I was reminded of that scene in Les Miserables and I realized I finally understood it.

I thought about how drastically different this Memorial Day is in comparison to the United States.  In Israel, I see none of the hubris, the brazen pride, the celebration.  Instead of praising the soldiers who made it home the focus is on those who can not be there to sing with us, on those who made it possible to sing even sad songs.  When all the songs had been sung I spoke with a friend on the kibbutz and he admitted that Israel is probably the only country in the world whose memorial day is so melancholy.  Really, how can it be otherwise when every single person in the country has been touched by war?  When every person in the country knows someone who has died.

Tomorrow morning there will be another siren, another ceremony, again all throughout the country.  Like on Yom Hazikaron leShoah, the radio stations and television channels will be somber.  It will be a day devoted to mourning brave citizens and bemoaning the wars that made this day a necessity.  While we work or study the first half of the day (for life must go on), we will remember - zocher - and pray for a day when the memory of the past is not accompanied by an equally fearsome present, a day when we can stop adding names to the lists of soldiers killed.  We will remember and we will pray for peace.

UPDATE

This weekend I went hiking on another part of the Shvil Israeli, the Israel Trail, and took plenty of pictures while I was at it.  Check out the link on the Photos page and enjoy!

Always remember, never forget

At precisely 10:00 am, Israel stood still.  For a full minute, a siren droned on a single, melancholy pitch, piercing the minds and hearts of the citizens who stood at attention throughout the land.  Work stopped, traffic ceased, and for two minutes complete stoicism descended upon the country.

Today is Yom Hazikaron leShoah v'leG'vura, Holocaust and Heroism Remembrance Day, commonly known as Yom HaShoah among American Jews.  It is precisely what its name suggests - a day dedicated to the memory of Holocaust victims, the lives of Holocaust survivors, and the heroes that make such a day possible.

Last night there were Holocaust Memorial ceremonies held in every kibbutz, moshav, town, and city throughout Israel.  At our own in Kibbutz Naan, the dining hall was set up with rows upon rows of chairs facing a stage and a screen.  Upon entering, you first heard a recording of names being read, slowly and methodically - family members of kibbutznikim who were killed in the Holocaust.  The program began with a young girl playing an accompanied piece on clarinet.  It was not introduced, was given no title, and when the girl finished nobody applauded.  This was not a performance, this was a ceremony.  She sought no recognition for her talent for she was merely using it fill the room with an atmosphere befitting memory and respect.

A Yizkor, remembrance, passage was read.  Other kibbutznikim read stories, excerpts, and anything else that could best honor the dead and surviving.  Sad songs in minor keys were sung, and we watched a short documentary.  At the end, we sang Shir Hapartizanim Hayihudim, Song of the Jewish Partisans, and the ceremony came to a close.  The audience was entirely silent throughout the presentations - no clapping, no commenting, no whispering.  Even children recognized the solemnity of this memorial.

Today work resumed as usual but even there the atmosphere was somewhat lugubrious, heavy.  The Galgalatz radio station played but without any of the American pop music that makes the station so beloved.  Instead we heard Israeli songs, Jewish songs, songs of heritage and hope, of memory and faith and pride.

And at 10:00, the music stopped and the sirens began, all of us together standing guard over our collective memory.

(At right: Video footage of the Tel Aviv Highway during the sirens on Yom HaShoah, 2008.)

But today is not just Yom HaShoah, for today we added yet another thought in our contemplation: the death of Osama Bin Laden.

When I arrived at work this morning one of the men came to me and said "Did you hear the news?  Bin Laden was killed."

I thought certainly this was some incomprehensible joke.

My doubt was dismissed when I saw the BBC article on his computer - indeed, Bin Laden is dead.  I didn't know how to feel.  For 10 years we have been chasing this man.  Ten years.  From the time I was in 7th grade when I sat in Orchestra rehearsal and heard something about a tower collapsing and was unable to grasp the severity or gravity of the situation, this man's name has lurked somewhere in our minds.  After so long, he almost seemed like some evil character in a comic book, about as real as a two-dimensional costumed villain with a maniacal grin and a thought bubble.  But there is nothing fake about a BBC article on a computer screen boldly portraying the title "Osama Bin Laden is Dead."

With his death, the wound of 9/11 is re-examined and as I listened to President Obama's speech I cried at the memory of the single most catastrophic event ever caused by a human being in the United States.  Memories I didn't know I had surfaced, and just as I wept for Holocaust victims I never knew, so, too, did I weep for the more modern victims of baseless hatred.  How fitting, then, that the two events should coincide.

In Judaism, we are told to "Never forget."  This is not just an admonition to remember the Holocaust; no, it is much more than that.  Never forget the Holocuast; never forget the pogroms; never forget the expulsions; never forget the Inquisition; never forget the destruction; never forget the hate.  Because if we are ever to forget, it will happen again.

Now, 56 years following the end of World War II, we can proudly proclaim that the world has been rid of yet another evil human being, but let us not be so naive as to believe that someone's death marks the end of hateful rhetoric.  Hitler's defeat did not mark the end of anti-Semitism, and Bin Laden's death does not mean Islamic extremists will suddenly abandon their guns and bombs.  So as Jews vow to never forget the wrongs that were done to us, I feel that all of us as global citizens should vow to never forget the atrocities of terrorism in the past decade.  But more challenging than the task of never forgetting is the task of forgiving.  Never forgetting does not mean harboring hatred, for if those memories cause us to viciously hate those who are innocent we become no better than our enemies.  Instead, we must keep the memory in our minds while we open our hearts to compassion for those who suffer the same injustices we have suffered.

Never again.  Never forget.  Always remember.  Always live.