In honor of America's Independence Day

Despite the many wonderful adventures I'd like to recount on this, my last night in Israel, I feel it appropriate to share something I wrote privately prior to Israel's Independence Day:

At home the 4th of July takes on a pluralistic atmosphere, insomuch as it appeals to the patriotic, the capitalistic, and those who may only be celebrating a day off work.  On that day and the weeks preceeding it, a zealous patriotic pride grips the country, wraps it up in an American flag and instills in everyone a sudden, urgent desire to consume hot dogs and apple pie.  At night, fireworks light up the sky and sparklers illuminate children's smiling faces while their proud, patriotic parents crack open a beer.

Now, I love the 4th as much as anyone -- I love the fireworks, cotton candy, barbeques and flags.  I love the family, the community, the ease of it all.  But until now I've never stopped to think about what we're actually celebrating.  In the 250-plus years since Thomas Jefferson and his cohorts signed their names, we have forgotten that Great Britain had anything to do with it.  Certainly we hold no grudge against them, as well it should be.  So I doubt most of us have any real throughts of "independence" while we munch on Lay's Potato Chips, and when the word "freedom" indubitably flows through our consciousness, I don't think anyone is considering the question "Freedom from what?"

How lucky we are to live in a country where we need not fear another country's controlling use of force or power over us.  It is far more likely for another country to worry about their freedom from us than vice versa.  But with the privelage of long-held freedom comes the responsibility of not taking it for granted.  After all, what good is freedom if you cannot appreciate it?  What's more, what good is it if you don't even know what it means?

I think we have reached a point in our country's history where we have forgotten what freedom actually means, leading us to throw the word around with careless abandon.  I believe we need to re-examine our freedom and, perhaps, redefine it in this generation so that we might truly have something to celebrate not only for one day in July, but always.

With this in mind, I still hope everyone in the U.S. can celebrate a wonderful Independence Day complete with the three staples of any holiday: family, friends, and food.  Love your freedom, live it up, and enjoy the fireworks!

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.

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.

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 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 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 . . .

Day trip to the North, Part II: Druzi Dancing

NOTE: Check the Photos page!  Link to pictures from Monday's day trip!

After our long and slightly arduous hike, we returned to the bus and drove up a mountainside to the village of Usfiya to learn about the Druzim (plural for Druze), a religious and cultural minority in Israel.  Though their roots are Arabic (having began in Egypt), Israeli Druzim do not consider themselves Arabic, and today an astounding percentage of the Druzi population are active in the Israeli military, protecting and defending their country as zealously as a Jewish Israeli, if not moreso.  In fact, many Druzim serve in the highest ranks of the Israeli military and air force.

We were welcomed at a Druzi man's home where he gave us a glimpse at the life and belief system of the Druzim.  Among the interesting details:

1.  Druzim do not accept converts.
2.  There is a belief in reincarnation (human to human).
3.  There are secular and religious Druzim, and among the religious they lead very strict lifestyles.  There seems to be little to no middle ground between the two lifestyles.
4.  Women are highly respected and honored within the religion/culture.  In fact, according to our host, some men are even jealous of the status of women among them.

After a very brief talk, giant platters of food were brought out and musicians (a lutist and drummer) set up their equipment.  We ate with the sounds of Arabic music in our ears, and once the food was cleared we were encouraged to get up and dance.  With so many Latin Americans among us, we didn't need to be told twice!

Despite the feeling that the experience - the talk, the food, the music, the dancing - was well-rehearsed and oft-used, we greatly enjoyed ourselves and left wishing we had learned more.  But there was no time for that since it was time for the requisite shopping trip!

Off to another Druzi village we went where we were let loose along a short street lined with touristy Druzi shops.  The shopkeepers were kind but aggressive, eager to make a sale to these wide-eyed, unsuspecting foreigners.  A bunch of students with shekels burning in their pockets?  The shopkeepers needn't have feared.

I also learned the secret to haggling:  Don't say anything.  At one point I entered a shop which had a wide selection of Israeli/Arab clothing.  To one side of me were the wrap skirts I love so much, and to the other side was none other than the pants I love!  Of course I was going to buy something, and a girl who worked at the shop stood there staring at me as I picked through the colors and patterns.  I'm sure she was impatiently thinking "Pick something, already!" and occasionally she commented on the price: "One for 40 shekel, three for 100."  A little while later, after I'd commented a little on this skirt or another, she said "I'll give you one for 35.  Take one."  When I expressed interest in the 35 shekel pants, she eventually lowered it to 25 without me even offering another price.  Apparently if you just have more patience than the other person, they'll keep lowering the price just to get you out of the store!

In the end, I bought a skirt and a pair of pants for 55 shekel (down from 75!).  I'm happy :)

Day trip to the North, Part I: Another trip, another mountain

Yesterday the Ulpan had its second tiyul (trip) and this time we ventured north to the Carmel Mountains where we toured a historical immigrant detainment camp, hiked up and around a mountain, briefly peered into a cave, dined and danced in a Druzi village, then had our requisite hour of shopping in the Druzi shook (because your trip is not complete unless you've done some shopping).

Machaneh Ma'apilim - Illegal Immigrant Detainment Camp
In 1939, the British decided they could not possibly accept all the Eastern European Jews who wanted to immigrate to the Palestinian Mandate.  As such they granted certificates for legal immigration to very few of the many thousands who sought refuge and new life in Palestine.  That didn't keep people from coming, though, and those who made it there without a British-sanctioned certificate were moved immediately to detainment camps in Cypress and places like Machaneh Ma'apilim in Atlit, a northern town directly on the sea.

Though Machaneh Ma'apilim was built before World War II fully began and certainly before anyone knew anything about death camps, it bears a strikingly terrifying resemblance to Nazi concentration camps.  With barracks, watchtowers, barbed wire fences, and a large "Disinfection" building, there was little to distinguish this place from the terror many of the immigrants had left behind in Europe towards the end of the war.  Quite simply, it was built with efficiency in mind - after all, how do you absorb hundreds of new people, get them and their clothes clean from parasites, and get them into barracks as quickly as possible?

Most of the people who arrived in Palestine did so by way of large ships of all sorts which had been converted to transport immigrants.  An example of such a boat had been brought to the current Machaneh and converted into an entire multimedia presentation for visitors, providing an idea of the cramped and uncomfortable conditions full of terrified runaways hoping for a brighter future in this land of Zion, of Jews.

How horrible, then, that the moment they arrived they were immediately imprisoned?

Most people were detained less than a year and eventually found freedom in the country.  Their struggle is a significant part of Israel's history as about one fifth of Israel's Jewish population in that generation had gone through one of these camps.  It is absolutely astounding, though, to see in the films the sheer determination apparent in these people's faces, the pride they had in making their way to a country with hopes that it would become their own.

Har Carmel - Mount Carmel Hike
"It'll be a nice, easy walk," Ilan told us. "No rush, very nice," he said.

Psh.  Yeah right.  Apparently not all of us climb mountains on a regular basis, but this was not exactly a "nice, easy walk" by our standards.

There are many hiking trails throughout the Carmel mountains, and I should have known when we arrived and I saw the many coach buses lined up at the base of the trail that we were not going to have the area to ourselves.  The hike started out calm enough though I found it difficult to keep up with the group after stopping frequently to take pictures of the flowers and scenery.  We soon happened upon another group hiking together, then another, and another.  As it became a little more crowded, the terrain also became much more challenging to traverse.  Our legs got a workout as we climbed over jagged land and down rocky slopes.

I really should send a Thank You note to the orthopedic surgeon who repaired my knee last year.

Just before reaching the base on the other side, some of us chose to peak into one of the  many caves along that stretch of mountains.  It might have been a little neater had we not been completely surrounded by a huge group of third-graders on a field trip, but seeing as it was my first time spelunking it was still fascinating!  The cave wasn't very deep, but it was tall, moist, and completely black within.  I can't believe I forgot my flashlight on the bus!

In between carefully watching my step and making sure I was still with my group (and hadn't accidentally mingled with any of the other non-English-speaking groups around us), I managed to take in a great deal of the nof, view.  From the mountain you could see the Mediterranean Sea to the West, majestically azure and calm on this fresh, spring day.  Fields and towns lay nestled between the sea and the mountains, quiet and content.  The mountain itself featured a wide variety of flowers, small and unassuming individually but strikingly beautiful as a mass, as if painting the hillside.  Looking at all the flowers, I almost missed the dead, blackened trees around me.

Last December, there was a huge forest fire that raged through the Carmel mountains, the biggest fire in Israel's history.  It destroyed over 10,000 acres of forest and killed over 40 people.  It was devastating and terrifying and prompted responses of aid worldwide.  Yet despite the fact that the cause of the fire was likely human error and disregard, forest fires are part of the natural circle, as evidenced by the way Spring found its way into and among the charred remains.  Flowers and grass are growing well amidst the black bark of undefinable trees as a testament to Nature's strength and perseverance.  As one person in our group put it, "Nature wins."

Yerushalaym Shel Zahav

Yesterday we were taken on a trip to Jerusalem where we went to the Yad Vashem Holocaust Memorial, Independence Park, Ben Yehudah Street, the Time Elevator, the Old City, the Kotel (Western Wall), and the excavated tunnels under the Muslim Quarter where you can see more of the wall, plus cisterns (including one that still holds runoff and rain water) and the stone of the mountain itself.

To describe the whole day would take too long and I'm sure some of you have many other things to do today, so I'll try to make this short.  So let a short (by my standards) description of each location suffice for now.  I'm sure I'll return to them later and will, at that time, write more.

Yad Vashem Holocaust Memorial:  While there is a museum on site, it is important to remember that the Holocaust Museum is not the only notable structure in this sprawling complex.  Yad Vashem is more a collection of memorials and resources including the Garden of the Righteous, the Children's Memorial, and the largest Holocaust Archive in the world, open to the public.  We had very little time there, but even if we had had more than two hours we would not have been able to see everything there.  I've been there once before and even though everything in the museum was the same it was all just as heart-wrenching, poignant, terrifying, and magnificent as before.  It helped that we had a personal guide who turned the entire museum into a narrative, and managed to do it all in little over an hour.  That, in and of itself, was a feat.

Independence Park:  It was a park, and as far as I could tell there was nothing uniquely special about it.  We had lunch there and I took some pictures, all of which will be up later when the Internet connection is a little more reliable.

Ben Yehudah Street:  You're familiar with State Street in Madison?  Well, imagine that, but in Israel.  It's not hard to navigate since nearly all the signs are in English, and you don't have to worry about those pesky cars driving through your walkway (a.k.a. the street).  You do, however, have to be on the lookout for speeding bicyclists.  If you missed the Kippa shop back there where you really really wanted to buy that awesome New York Giants kippa, fret not, because look, there's another one up there.  And another.  And another.  Right next to the Judaica shop which we've already seen four times.  It's like State Street in more ways than one.  Anywho, we spent some time there, I bought a scarf, and my friend and I searched every jewelry store for a particular bracelet she wanted.  No luck.

The Time Elevator:  This is a kitschy amusement aimed at school children and tourists, but with a historical and educated bent.  It's an attempt to present the entirety of Jerusalem's 3,000 year old history in 24 minutes. I can't necessarily say I learned a whole lot there, but it was a fun experience.  The only things missing were the 3D glasses and Smell-O-Vision.  I enjoyed it more for the technical and visual creativity than for the poorly-presented history, but like I said, it was an experience.

Old City: Up until 1860, the entirety of Jerusalem remained within the two-thousand-year-old walls of ancient Jerusalem.  Finally, people were paid to start living in neighborhoods outside the safety of the walls, and thus began Jerusalem as we know it today.  Inside the walls, there is a fascinating juxtaposition between the new and the old.  The streets are made of cobble stones and bricks, all the buildings are made of the unique, white Jerusalem stone (a form of limestone found on those mountains), and there are neon signs above the doors advertising Bonkers Bagels and Rova Pizza.  Still, there is no mistaking its age, nor its significance in the Jewish world.  Why else would I have heard so many languages other than Hebrew spoken by religious Jews throughout the narrow streets?

HaKotel (The Western Wall):  Before I go into an inevitably long emotional narrative, let me first explain what this thing is to which Jews worldwide flock.  To my non-Jewish friends, yes, it is a wall.  A big, giant, thick wall at the Temple Mount.  But this is not the only part of the Wall remaining.  There are great expanses that are just as easy to access, to touch, to pray at, if you are so motivated.  But it is this point along the Wall that has gained so much significance because it was the closest portion to where the Jewish Temple stood.  "But wait, isn't the Wall part of the temple?"  No!  I thought it was, too, until my first trip to the Kotel in 2009 when I learned that this holy place is simply the remains of the wall of the platform on which the temple stood, and even at that there were a few walls in between.  So quite frankly, 2000 years ago this expanse of white brick was the edge of a grand stage, not the main event itself.  But, like any Summerfest concert, you'll try to get as close to the lead guitarist as possible without being carried off by the guards.  Usually, the edge of the stage is about as far as you'll make it.

I am not going to say the Wall itself has any mystical powers.  I'm not even going to say that touching the stones somehow made me closer to G-d.  It is, after all, a wall.  But surrounding me at that wall were complete strangers who, oddly enough, are family.  Each person, praying individually, laughing or crying as their emotions dictated, was part of my extended family.  All the people who had touched those stones before, turning them darker and smoother with the passage of time, were also part of my family.  And all the millions of hands that will touch those hallowed stones after me will also be from the same mishpacha.  It's not that my own experience was so significant but that it was part of a larger collective experience: that of the Jewish people.  Being there was like being woven into a large blanket with different strands of color all around me.  The warmth of the blanket enveloped me as I became part of it (conflicting metaphors, I know - but isn't Judaism and religion in general a paradox?).  Being at the Wall is, for the Jewish people, the single most important statement in any culture, society, ethnicity, or family:  I am not alone.

The Tunnels:  Alright, now for the not-so-emotional stuff.  Like I said, the Wall is merely a small portion of a much larger expanse of wall remaining from the Western side of the platform on the Temple Mount.  Just as the Pyramids in Egypt are mind-boggling, so too is this wall.  Allow me to say HOLY HUGE BRICKS, BATMAN!  A project like this would be an outstanding endeavor today with all our machinery and technology.  I can't even imagine how it would be realistic 2,000 years ago.  And I'm not the only one: there is one particular OUTRAGEOUSLY LARGE stone in the wall, seen from underground, that is estimated to weigh 12 tons.  Even archeologists have yet to figure out exactly how that one got there.

We walked through the underground tunnels where I was exceedingly thankful for my [lack of] height, and we saw artifacts from the time of King Harod, and even a working cistern.  Pretty cool, eh?  No, not cool.  Outstanding.
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So that was yesterday.  Awesome, powerful, emotional, fun, and exhausting.  I'll admit, I was thankful for the relative calm today.

P.S.  I really should have taken that Translation course in the French Department at school - speed-interpreting is fatiguant, especially when you don't know all the words.