A Religion Divided

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Traveling in the North, Part IV: A perfect end

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Kosher Dilemma

I interrupt the Northern Travels Saga for the following commentary.

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

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

Just kidding.

(I think.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

חג שמח לכולם

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

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

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

Jezzar Pasha Mosque, Old City, Akko

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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