Like a dream

Out of nowhere a triple realization struck me with a force and clarity I could not have anticipated:

In one month, I will no longer be in Israel.

In one month, I will be home.

In one month, I will no longer be home.

In the last couple weeks I have met new people and had wonderful experiences that have lifted my spirits and given me yet more reason to love this already astounding adventure.  A few weeks ago a new girl about my age moved to the kibbutz and joined us at the factory and we immediately became friends.  A few days later I met a girl at the pub who is originally from Canada but just finished her Israeli army service and also lives on the kibbutz - yet another new friend.  I met a wonderful guy hitchhiking and thanks to him got my opportunity to see an Israeli wedding - new friend number three (and possibly more).

I intend to pack as much as I can into these remaining four weeks.  Planning on hiking in the desert this weekend, I'll hike at least twice more in the Golan Heights, hopefully at least one more trip to Jerusalem and Tel Aviv each, and I have to get to Safed yet.  And while I'm doing all that I will be cramming in every last bit of Hebrew knowledge I can while I'm still surrounded by people speaking it.  I will also continue to try every new and unique food and dessert that I can because life is too short to say no to good food from another country, gosh darnit!  So what if I'll have to work extra hard to get rid of its not-so-wonderful effects on my tummy?  It'll be worth it.

Even after four months here, I have moments where immense feelings of gratitude rush through my thoughts, my feelings, my veins, and I am filled with the breathtaking realization that I am living a dream.  Two years ago while sitting in a hotel room in Jerusalem toward the end of my Birthright trip to Israel, I wrote in my journal that I would come back to Israel someday.  I also wrote a prayer that this would not end up like the many similar promises I've made to myself throughout my life, but that this would come to fruition and that I would actually follow through.  As I talked about this dream more, voicing it to friends, family, and acquaintances, it became increasingly more concrete and blurred the arbitrarily imposed lines between reverie and reality.  At every step of the pre-journey journey - applying and getting accepted to the program, finalizing details, buying my plane tickets, getting my visa - I got a little more excited and renewed my own faith in my plans.  And at every step, I thought to myself "I can't believe I'm doing this."

A couple weeks before I left I spoke to a friend on the phone and with apprehension, trepidation, and excitement in my voice I asked him, "Who is this girl?  This person who, in two weeks' time, is hopping on a plane alone to fly to another country for five months?  This surely isn't me."

But here I am, flesh and blood, mind and heart, sitting in 28 degree (82 degrees F) weather, looking out at hibiscus bushes and a tree with purple flowers, listening to bird song occasionally accompanied by the soft rustle of leaves in a breeze, enjoying a calm day before we celebrate the holiday of Shavuot, and the thought that permeates my mind is:

"I am so lucky to be living my dream.  I am in Israel, and I love it."

Who knows where my path will lead?

Alas, this dream will come to an end in precisely 28 days and I will be on my way back home to be with the family and friends I miss so much.  But at the same time I am flying towards one home I will be leaving another - a paradox of the most heart-wrenching sort.

People keep asking me if I'm planning on making aliyah so that I can live in Israel and to every one of them I say "I don't know."  I know I will go back to the U.S. in July and graduate with my degree next spring.  But quite frankly, I know nothing after that.  I refuse to let myself make plans because the reality is that in my time here I have fallen in love with this country in new and profound ways that will ensure it always has a role in my future.  The trouble is I don't know exactly how.

One of the many things I have been learning here in addition to Hebrew, Israeli culture, and how to make the perfect Israeli salad is how to trust, how to have faith, which surprisingly is something I severely lacked throughout much of my life.  Despite the fact that this has not been a specifically religious experience (if my difficulties keeping Kosher here are any indication), I feel it has given me the opportunity to grow as a Jew and, more importantly, as a human being.  I feel more calm, more secure, more trusting that while perhaps not all things can be explained, some things do in fact happen for a reason.

So even though I don't know exactly what will happen in the future, I'm okay with that.  And since I don't know, I guess I'll just have to enjoy every last moment of this dream before I step on a plane and wake up.

Kol chatan v'kol kalah

Wow, Israeli weddings are crazy.  Colorful, extravagant, boisterous, full of amazing food, and crazy.  That is, if the one I went to on Thursday night is any indication of the norm.

Quick back story:  I met a guy last Friday who invited me out with him, and when we were trying to set a date I said that I was free on Thursday but he told me his best friend was getting married that evening.  Lucky for me he invited me to come as his date, and I'm very glad I accepted!

The moment I saw the bride and groom in their waiting/green/pre-wedding room (really don't know what it should be called) I knew this would be quite an experience.  The bride's dress was replete with sequins and Swarovski crystals (real or not, don't know) and the groom - also dressed in traditional white - had eye-catching designs and silver embroidery throughout his outfit.

The rabbi was late and the ceremony didn't start until after 9:00 pm, but once we got the word that everything was ready we made our way to the roof of the banquet hall where a giant chuppah (wedding canopy) and stage were set up on the Astroturf-covered ground.  Food was being grilled and heated around the perimeter and people milled about, talking and shmoozing contentedly.  I was incredibly thankful for the gold and black dress (from a friend), black and silver shoes, and gaudy earrings I sported because the guests were dressed to their best.  Women had their hair done, sparkles and shiny things were nearly blinding, and I don't think the word "cotton" could be found as a primary fabric on a single person's outfit.

What happened next is utterly inexplicable to me, which means it will be impossible for me to explain to you.  Jewish wedding ceremonies by their very nature are short - typically 15 minutes at minimum - and additional length is dependent on whether or not there are speeches or other additions to the standard ceremony.  This particular ceremony was on the shorter side, but what it lacked in length it made up for in special effects and pomp: giant shofars, sparklers, synthesized background music, their own talented Mizrahi singer (Middle Eastern vocal genre), the whole nine meters (totally getting into this whole "metric system" thing).

Me with the bride!

Once the small wedding party was situated where they should be under the wedding canopy, guests who were standing alongside the stage jumped onto it and stood right alongside the cameramen whose large lenses were only a couple arm-lengths away from the couple.  We all had our cameras and phones out, taking pictures and video as the ceremony hectically progressed.  Occasionally I looked out at the rest of the guests and noticed that many were not paying attention to what was going on with those two people dressed all in white.  Thus I came to the following conclusion about this particular wedding:  The ceremony, the actual marriage was not the most important part of that evening.

Following the ceremony we departed and regrouped on one of the floors of the banquet hall where we were greeted by the newlyweds and their families, along with music, lights, cameras, and tons of tables laden with an extensive variety of salads and appetizers.  We sat and started digging in, then when we saw the couple dancing some of us joined them on the dance floor.  I ate, I danced, came back and ate some more, went to dance again, and sometimes went back to the table to rest or talk to my date's friends.  Surprisingly, even though I had already eaten salads and fish and chicken kabobs, more food was brought to me every time I sat down!  It just kept coming!  And it was all incredibly delicious.

We danced and enjoyed ourselves until the DJ stopped the music around 1:30, at which point we were all far more exhausted than we let ourselves believe.  I left with my date, the newlyweds, and the bride's sister, dropped them off at the bride's apartment in Ramla, then got a ride back to the Ulpan.  What a night.

I was told that if I ever had the opportunity to go to an Israeli wedding I absolutely had to and I'm very glad I went, but I must admit that this is not the kind of wedding I would ever want for myself.  In telling another friend about it she aptly described it as more of a "production" than a celebration, and she was absolutely correct.  The focus was not on the joyous marriage between two people in love but rather on the experience, the music, the lights, the special effects.  I didn't feel there was anything innately intimate about the wedding and, most significantly to me, I didn't feel the emotion I thought I might.  I always get teary-eyed at weddings, but aside from a moment or two during the ceremony I felt nothing of that sort.  I was a little disappointed in that respect.

Of course, I understand that weddings are different for everybody and Israel is also not the same as the U.S.  I would love to see more weddings in Israel to get a better feeling for the traditions of the general populace and see how they compare to one another.  Some people told me that this wedding is standard in some ways among the Sepharadim in Israel while others said it was more over-the-top than most, and I know that it's impossible for a single wedding to be an example of all the weddings in a particular country.  As such I ask that you do not form an opinion of all Israeli weddings based on my recounting alone.

Overall, I'm incredibly happy I went and had that fun, exciting experience.  Add that to the long list of things I've done in Israel that I never expected to do!

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?

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.

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 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

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."  

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 :)

Purim Weekend, Part I: Am yisroel chai!

Last weekend I went to Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, and throughout it all I frequently thought about how I would attempt to describe it in a single blog entry.  My conclusion is that I cannot: it is utterly impossible.  From the moment I left on Friday noon to the moment I returned on Sunday evening, every moment seemed worthy of repetition, description, and prosaic musing.  Every person I met, conversation I had, song that I sang, and bit of joy I experienced seems deserving of notice in my mind, and yet the Blogosphere is already inundated with enough public cogitation, so I will refrain from writing a book about my single, wonderful weekend.

To begin the Reader's Digest version of my fantastic weekend, let me proclaim that I must be one of the only people who can travel to Israel and entirely avoid the holiday of Purim.  I intended to go to Jerusalem to celebrate Purim, thinking that a party in Jerusalem would be just as much fun but slightly less crazy than in Tel Aviv.  However, I found out upon arriving in Jerusalem that because it's a walled city, it celebrates Purim a day later, on Purim Shushan, because during the war in the story of Purim, the capital of Persia, Shushan, was a walled city and thus was the last to be attacked.  As such, walled cities celebrate Purim Shushan, and though I'm sure I was taught that in some Hebrew school lesson years ago, I promptly put it out of my mind as useless information.  (Walled cities in the U.S.?  Yeah..... no.)  So while I had hoped to celebrate Saturday evening, Jerusalem was celebrating Sunday evening, when I had to be back at the kibbutz.  Darnit.  But, I still had a great time.

I stayed in the Women's Heritage House Hostel in the Old City, which together with the men's hostel are owned and operated by Orthodox Jews.  They don't expect their visitors to be religious, but they do offer many opportunities for food and learning for those who are interested.  Free food?  Count me in!  Free home-cooked meals with families and lots of guests?  Even better!  Oh, and they all speak English.  Slightly detracts from the Israeli experience, but wonderful nonetheless.

I knew my weekend would be wonderful when the moment I entered the hostel I was immediately treated not as a guest, but as family.  Among the girls who were already there I felt welcomed and accepted as if I'd already been there for a week.  I had the impression it was normally like that, in one way or another, but it was such a fantastic way to begin my weekend.

Before getting placed with families for dinner on Friday night, we went to the Kotel (Western Wall), and I was utterly taken aback by how many soldiers I saw!  Apparently it's common to see large groups of soldiers going to the Kotel on Friday nights with their units/brigades/sections/whatever-the-classification-is.  It seemed as if I wouldn't even be able to get to the Kotel due to the large mass of soldiers and other people.  Luckily, that evening, touching the Wall became much less important than being in proximity with so many other people.

I began to hear vibrant singing from a large group of girls in front of me (keep in mind, men and women have separate sections, so I was completely surrounded only by women).  Not knowing exactly who was singing, I added my voice to the beautiful mixture just before loud, rhythmic clapping erupted behind me.  The group of female soldiers had formed a circle and started dancing, singing, and clapping to a variety of Hebrew songs.  Before long, the upbeat tempo of the soldiers had affected the girls' slow, moving singing and what ensued was the largest, most joyful impromptu singing and dancing session I have ever experienced.

Nearly the entire women's side was converted into large circles, one inside the other, of women young and old, soldiers and common citizens, religious and secular, all singing and dancing as loud and triumphantly as we could.  When we suddenly forgot the words to one song, someone would shout the opening melody of another one and off we would go, joyfully celebrating in one another's company and ruach (spirit).

I'll admit, there was a point before I started dancing when I was just absorbing the scene and imprinting the souvenir that I nearly cried out of sheer joy at what I was seeing.  Here, at the Western Wall in Jerusalem, were groups of Jewish girls from all different backgrounds and lives, dancing together and sharing in a singularly perfect moment which stemmed from nothing more than happiness and thanksgiving.  This improvised display of Jewish sisterhood was almost more than my emotions could bear.

And the same thing was happening on the men's side.  I'd like to think we had more fun, though ;)

That evening as I sat with strangers-turned-friends at a large Shabbos dinner table, I described this scene in all its glorious perfection.  We had been talking about how some Jews don't like Israel or even its existence as a Jewish state, and after experiencing what I did at the Kotel, I said "I feel that Jews who are against Israel simply haven't experienced it, because where else would you see so many Jews of so many different backgrounds and affiliations dancing and singing together unannounced?  This is Israel.  This is what it's all about."

Sabbath-induced Zen

In an effort to find a better Internet connection, this post is coming to you from outdoors in the middle of the kibbutz after dark, where I have found a previously undiscovered FOUR BARS OF INTERNET CONNECTION!  Now you know where I will be for all future Skype dates.
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Growing up, Shabbos was always about going to shul (synagogue) on Saturday morning, hoping to make the minyan (quorum required for certain parts of the service), then relaxing the rest of the day while my parents took their requisite Shabbos Afternoon Naps.  When I was at camp, it was about dressing up on Friday evening, taking pictures and giving every single person on the machaneh (camp) a Shabbat Sha'hug.  It was also about singing extra loud, enjoying the extra long Shabbat menuchah (rest time), and writing a few extra letters to friends and family.

In the last few years I have gradually ratified my personal meaning of Shabbos.  I began to refuse to do school work or check my e-mail in order to better sanctify this one day of rest.  I have also started to avoid handling money or riding in cars so that I know - and everyone around me knows - that this day is important to me.

 In Israel, Shabbat has added significance: for many people, Friday afternoon through Saturday is the entirety of their weekend, which means that for some, Saturday is their only opportunity to travel, go somewhere fun, or just get away.  This explains why even though public transportation does not run on Shabbat (per Jewish Rabbinic law), there are still plenty of cars on the streets.

Last night I went to services and had dinner again at my adopted family's house.  After the other guests had left, I stayed up with my Israeli mom and found out that she actually came from a very religious family.  In fact, she's the only one of the four daughters who is not still religious.  I shouldn't say she's not religious, though.  She's just not Dati, orthodox.  She does keep Kosher, and she still has a very strong connection to G-d and her religion.  She just firmly believes that there is more than one way to be a Jew.  And I love her all the more for that.

Today I went to the morning services on the Kibbutz for the first time.  I'm sorry to say, but I don't know if I'll be going back.  I felt more like a spectator at a men's private function, allowed to sit in the back row only if I promised to be quiet (which wasn't too much of a problem since despite the fact that I know the service very well, I was lost half the time).  For the first time in my post-Bat Mitzvah life, I actually kind of wanted to leave the service early because I truly felt I wasn't getting anything out of it.

After services ended around 10:00 am, I went back to my room, grabbed a book, my crochet project, and a towel, and laid out in the sun for a few hours.  Then I made myself a quick lunch, tuned a guitar, and found the perfect place to spend the rest of my afternoon: underneath a young olive tree, surrounded by waist-high grass (or thigh-high for you tall people) and clover with yellow flowers.  With no one around, I could focus intently on the sounds of the veritable menagerie of birds hidden nearby while basking in the mottled sun peaking through the olive branches.  I read some more, serenaded myself, and possibly napped.  Or meditated, I'm not sure which.

We are told that Shabbat is a day of rest where we should not do any work.  By rabbinic standards some of my activities were, in fact, work, but quite honestly, I don't remember the last time I was this relaxed.  It was a beautiful day.

Days like this make me wonder about what all those rabbinic laws really mean, and what G-d actually intended.  There are days when I can't help but notice all the things I do that would be considered a breach of the Sabbath in a more religious home.  Then there are days like today when I am fully immersed in nature and Creation and I am, for a moment, convinced that this is what is meant when we are told to "keep the Sabbath holy."

I suspect that with each week, month, and year that passes, my interpretation of Shabbat will change to fit ever-changing circumstances.  I hope that I am open to that change and am always able to come away from my Sabbaths feeling energized and refreshed for the week to come.