It could happen anywhere...

By now, most people in the States who follow Israel’s news closely have read about the bomb that was found on a bus in Tel-Aviv.  Fortunately, no one was injured or killed.  For those who would like to read the article, here is the link: http://www.haaretz.com/news/national/1.564779.   A passage riding the bus noticed a suspicious looking bag without an owner, and informed the bus driver, who pulled the bus over and called the proper authorities.  When the bomb exploded, the passengers had already evacuated the bus, avoiding what could have been a much worse outcome.  Because of his actions, the bus driver was able to save lives and is being hailed as a hero. 

I’d like to juxtapose this story with a story that I have told multiple times to many people.  Just a week after the Boston Marathon bombings, Andy and I were standing in line at Port Authority, in New York, to take the bus to his internship in Connecticut, as we did often.  Because we had arrived early, I left to buy some snacks while Andy waited with our bags.  When I returned, I noticed a lone black backpack at the end of the line.  Andy had not seen who had put it down, and the few other people in line did not know to whom the bag belonged either.  Andy and I became increasingly nervous, and eventually Andy went to alert one of the Greyhound employees of the unattended black backpack.  They sent Andy back to wait with me in line, and didn’t bother to worry about anyone else in the area.  While we waited for someone to take some action, other people waiting in line looked at me sympathetically, as if they pitied me for being concerned.  When no action had been taken after a couple minutes, Andy found another Greyhound employee, who not only told him to calm down, but got defensive about the suggestion that nothing had been done.  Shortly after, a police officer came to investigate, and as he reached for the bag, a passenger sitting across the room informed him that the bag belonged to him. 

As we boarded the bus, one of the Greyhound employees told the man not to leave his luggage unattended, because he was scaring the other passengers.  While I appreciate the attempt, the reason not to leave your luggage unattended is not because it scares other people—it’s because it is indicative of foul play.  Furthermore, just one week after the Boston Marathon bombing, I should not have had to justify my fear of an unattended black backpack to apathetic passengers in line with me. 

The bus driver in Israel listened to his concerned passengers, and took the appropriate actions.  The outcome could have been much worse.  In New York, Andy and I were not taken seriously, and even told to calm down—the outcome there could have easily been tragic.  We often see signs that encourage us “if you see something, say something”, and “don’t assume it was left by accident” but that only works if the people we say something to take our concerns seriously and respond appropriately.  In New York, everyone believes that we are invincible, and that nothing will happen, but in Israel, they don’t have that luxury.  So instead, they figure out the best way to protect their citizens and ensure their safety.  If I really think about it, I feel safer in Israel than in New York, because they take threats seriously, respond appropriately, and spare no expense to protect their citizens.  

West Bank Story: To the Gush and back!

Last week, I joined Andy and his JTS and Zeigler classmates on a trip to Gush Etziyon, a collection of Jewish settlements in the West Bank.  I expected to see trailers and poverty, and to be afraid of what might happen, but instead I saw a sprawling suburb with beautiful houses and modern accessories, like supermarkets and BurgersBar.  I’d like to reflect on some of my experiences about the day, but just talking about the area can become political, as the language you use to describe it can betray your political leanings.  Is the area in question called the West Bank?  The occupied territories?  Or, like our tour guide, do you prefer to use the Biblical names of Judea and Samara?  Are the neighborhoods there settlements or gated communities?  It is my hope to share a few thoughts about my day, without getting into politics.

The first stop on our tiyul was to Herodyon, a mountain stronghold that King Herod himself made out of the surrounding earth.  One of the things I love most about living in Israel is that, with every step you take, you are walking on history.  I appreciate that our tour guide took the time to point out the paths that our ancestors walked, and where cities we read about in the Tanach would be located today.  (And yes, I know that she did that in order to make a political point, but I just took it at face value and enjoyed the history lesson).  As we explored, a flock of goats began to graze at the base of the mountain.  The herders were two young teenage boys—they could not have been older than most of us standing there.  And while they were herding goats, they would momentarily take out their cell phones to check their messages, or play games, or they would light up a cigarette.  Of course, they wore modern day clothes like sweatshirts and sweatpants.  It is the juxtaposition of the ancient with the modern that is another reason why I love Israel.

Our next stop was to a youth village, called S’de Bar.  It does many things, including acting as a home for youth who have been involved with the criminal justice system.  For many of the boys living there, this is their last chance before going off to jail.  Here, the boys can achieve success in their studies and graduate to join the IDF.  They also help develop one of the village’s many products, logs made out of what is known as gefet—the leftover olive skins and pits after olive oil is made.  Simply throwing out or burying the gefet can be toxic to the water supply, so this youth village has developed logs which can be used for fire, instead of wood.  The gefet logs are more ecologically safe than simply using wood, and it takes no extra energy to create them.  They are helping the world reduce its carbon footprint and creating a Trash-to-Treasure project at the same time!  No wonder why I thought it was really cool.  

As we drove from stop to stop along a main road, we frequently passed large red signs announcing the beginning of “Territory A” villages—villages completely under Palestinian control, where there is no Israeli presence.  It is illegal for Israeli citizens to drive on those roads or enter those territories.  Our tour guide explained that the signs are meant to protect the individual as well as the country from a possibly violent or hostage situation.  I thought that seeing the signs and learning what they are would scare me, but throughout the trip I sort of just accepted them for what they were and felt comfortable knowing that we would not be going into those locations.  At the risk of getting too political, I wondered what the people living behind those signs felt about the existence of them—are they happy to have their space, or does it warn of a danger that is not really existent and instead isolates a part of society?  I’m not sure I, or anyone else, will ever really know, since, like most things, every person probably feels differently about them.

Our last stop was a two-parter.  We first stopped at a bakery where were we encouraged to buy cookies or cakes to give to IDF soldiers during our last stop.  We were told that the bakery closes its registers every Friday afternoon, and afterwards needy families are welcome to come and take what they need free of charge.  Furthermore, every couple days, the bakeries leave anonymous deliveries for families who ask for them.  The bakery is not only about making a profit, but is also about doing good for the community.  I can really appreciate this motivation.  After we purchased our cookies and cakes, we visited the pina chama (literally: the hot corner), a small café-type area set up in honor of two members of the Gush who were killed a number of years ago.  The café provides IDF soldiers with a place to chill out and rest, and is staffed by mother-figures called “the aunts.”  Soldiers can come to grab coffee, cake, or other goodies, to hang out with friends or be taken care of by “the aunts.”  Again, a grassroots agency giving back to its community truly speaks to me, no matter where the community is located.

I will admit that our tour guide was outspoken and one-sided, but I do appreciate her honesty about her biases, instead of trying to cover them with a thin veil of objectivity.  In addition, I’m sure our tour was chosen carefully, with a special eye to certain examples of “good things” coming from the West Bank in order to sway us towards one side politically.  Sometimes it is difficult to recognize when there are good things coming from situations we don’t agree with.  Many of the places we visited on Thursday are doing amazing things for their community, the Jewish people, and the world—but are these places only to be considered “good” if we agree with their right to be in their location in the first place (ie: the West Bank)?  I don’t think so.  For me, sometimes it is important to take a step back and say “wow, that’s really special”, leaving the politics out of it.

Even more difficult than recognizing “good” and leaving out politics, I think, is to approach a situation with an open-mind and a willingness to accept and incorporate new information into our way of thinking.  It can be scary to change our minds—it’s a lot easier to cling to what we’ve always believed than to think for ourselves and be willing to consider thoroughly the many “truths” presented before us.  I believe that it is possible to lay down the political colors for a day in order to accept universal good and experience another’s truth, and to consider it in regards to our own way of thinking.

It is difficult to cast off our armor and allow something new and uncomfortable into ourselves, but I believe, if we can successfully disarm ourselves, we will be richer, stronger, and wiser for having done it.  I know I am.

SNOWpocalypse

There are very few moments in one’s life when one can be sure that one has just witnessed history.  The unprecedented snow storm which took place this past week in Jerusalem is one of those moments, and I had the opportunity to be a part of it.  Here is my story:

For weeks I had heard news of snow storms and school cancellations on the East Coast of the United States and in my home town of Lower Merion, Pennsylvania.  I love the snow—I think there is a calm innocence that comes with a snowfall that is hard to achieve through anything else.  And I was jealous of my friends and family who were getting snow, while I was experiencing a 70 degree winter.  I wanted snow, and despite all odds, I was convinced that Jerusalem would see snow this year.

On Thursday, December 12, 2013, I woke up, like I usually do, at 7:30am and got ready for ulpan.  Like a young child hoping for a school cancellation, I looked out the window and saw—it was snowing!  My young-at-heart skipped a beat and I jumped for joy.  I had seen online that the snow would last about two hours, and then it would begin to rain, which would surely wash away all of the snow.  So even though I figured that ulpan would be cancelled, I quickly got dressed and took a walk around my neighborhood to take pictures of the snow (which can be seen on my Facebook page), and headed down to Ben Yehuda Street, both for a photo opportunity and to check on the status of my ulpan.

The doors to the ulpan were locked, so after taking a few pictures, I decided to head home.  I noticed, however, that someone was standing outside of the ulpan building, and I went to tell them that ulpan had been cancelled.  He identified himself as one of the teachers at the ulpan and indicated that he was unaware that ulpan had been cancelled.  He played phone tag with a number of the administrators of the ulpan, until someone finally came to open the door to tell him that ulpan had, indeed, been cancelled.  The director offered for both of us to come inside and get something hot to drink.  I explained that I lived only 10 minutes away, and would be able to get something hot to drink at home.  I told him “I’m American, and this is nothing for me.” Famous. Last. Words.

Despite what I had read online, it continued to snow throughout all of Thursday and Thursday night.  Andy and I were woken up a number of times throughout the course of the night by the loud cracking noise of a tree falling.  The trees in Jerusalem are not used to holding the heavy burden of snow, and many literally crack under the pressure.  When Andy and I finally got out of bed on Friday morning, we snow-suited up and went exploring.  At the entrance and in the middle of our street, giant trees had fallen, blocking any chance for a car to enter or exit our road.  The snow was deep and there were fallen trees everywhere—during our excursion we would be faced with a number of fallen trees blocking the path or the road.  We passed fallen wires and broken eruvs, saw cars stalling in the unplowed streets, and laughed at others slipping and sliding through the slush.  More pictures can be seen on my Facebook page.  A walk that usually takes us less than 10 minutes (from Haran Street to King George Street, for those in the know) took us closer to 20 or 30 minutes because of the need to navigate around fallen branches and piles of snow.  King George Street, which is a main thoroughfare through the center of Jerusalem was unplowed, and empty.  There were no cars driving on the street, but there were people walking in the middle of the lanes. Although I had hoped to venture to the Old City, Andy and I decided to return home. 

As the resident snow bunny/ski bum in our relationship, Andy sent me down the street to the supermarket to purchase food for Shabbat and the next couple days, as it became clear that we would not be keeping our previous Shabbat plans.  The supermarket was crowded—the only other time I’ve experienced a supermarket like this was the day before Hurricane Sandy in New York.  And there were just as many New Yorkers in this supermarket in Jerusalem as there were last year in New York.  The check-out lines were long and boring—it took forever to find what I needed, as everything had already been picked over, and it took forever to pay.  The regular cashiers could not make it in to work due to the weather, so the people working the checkout lanes were sorely unprepared for the day ahead of them.  When I finally returned home, Andy and I hunkered down and prepared for the Shabbat ahead.

Andy and I were fortunate enough to have had power for all of Shabbat (we later learned that our neighborhood, including our building, had lost power Friday morning).  We are still unsure as to how we were able to have power when no one else did.  It began snowing again late Friday afternoon and continued to snow until Saturday night.  Andy and I again woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of falling trees.  When Andy and I lost power on Saturday evening, we packed up a few things and trekked to friends’ apartment.  Everything was still unplowed, and because of the warm temperatures during the day, was becoming ice thanks to the melting and refreezing of the top layer of water.  We had seen people using a sponga or dustpans to shovel snow, but tonight the only people outside were taking pictures.  There were trees and branches blocking our path at every turn.

We turned onto Azza Street (where our friends live) and suddenly, the road was plowed, buildings had power, and people were walking around.  Azza is the main road into and out of Jerusalem, and is also the road that the Prime Minister’s personal house is on.  We spent about 24 hours with our friends on Azza Street before our power came back on Sunday night.  I felt resentful that life seemed to be resuming when my neighborhood still very much looked like a war zone.  Our buildings didn’t have power, our streets weren’t plowed, and we couldn’t move around because of all of the trees—but somehow, on Azza Street, it seemed like everything was fine.  Except—the sidewalks were not shoveled, so walking around was much like skating on an ice rink.  It was easy to forget that we were in Israel when looking outside—but we knew we weren’t in the States, because the roads would have been plowed and the trees would have been removed.

On Monday, some buses resumed limited routes, but the buses that were supposed to come to our neighborhood did not, because of the condition of the streets.  Ben Yehuda Street was one giant ice slope, as was much of Jerusalem.  The sidewalks were solid sheets of ice, and though it was safer to walk in the streets, many cars had resumed driving (despite urgings by the police not to travel).  It became clear, that not only was the Israeli government unprepared to handle a storm of this magnitude, but that people also had a hard time understanding just what was going on.  Cars were driving as normal (ie: too fast) on icy roads, downhill, or through slush, and pedestrians were walking around as though nothing had changed.  Andy and I used Monday night to go to the Northface store to buy snow boots, gloves, and winter socks which we had not brought with us—assuming a mild winter meant mild by East Coast standards, not by Siberian standards.

Today (Tuesday) things slowly began to resume as usual.  Buses are running, schools opened at 10:00am, and they even plowed half of our street!  Most of the other cleaning (removing trees, clearing pathways, etc) has been done by mensches and good Samaritans.  I left this morning for ulpan, and while certain parts of the side walk were cleared, most of the sidewalks in my neighborhood are thick sheets of ice—but the plowed roads are too narrow walk in at the same time as a car that is driving.  To leave my neighborhood, I could either take a side walk that was completely iced over, or a side walk completely covered with trees and branches.  I passed a class of boys shoveling the street in front of their school, and saw construction plows clearing the snow on Ben Yehuda Street.  In my class of 15, 6 people had made it to ulpan this morning, and it had taken one student 2 hours to get there.

It may take days, or even weeks, to completely thaw out from this snow storm and to return to normal.  Many people are still without power and conditions are still not entirely safe for cars or pedestrians.  It is clear that Israel was unprepared for this, and many people are disappointed in the response.  But how could Israel have even known what to do—this storm is unprecedented.  Israel does not have a single point of reference for how to respond to an event like a giant snow storm.  I read online that truckloads of salt were bused in from the Dead Sea to melt the roads into the city. Hopefully Israel can learn from its mistakes and be better prepared next time a giant snow storm happens—which may not be for a long, long time.

I, too, have learned from this experience.  I have learned to be careful what I wish for.  

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All Of The Lights, All Of The Lights

By this point in the year, I am usually sick of Christmas commercials and Christmas lights.   The only Christmas lights I ever really appreciated were the tastefully hung yellow lights that were draped through the branches of the tree in the front yard of my old babysitters and neighbors, Mrs. Morris and her daughters.  I suppose I liked these lights for the same reason I liked the yellow lights in Manyunk—because they felt like home.  But by the middle of December, any other Christmas lights were excessive and tacky.  And Christmas songs on the radio (many of which were actually composed by Jews) were inconsiderate and annoying.  The random smattering of Hanukkah dreidels and menorahs were a nice attempt at inclusivity, but it was just not enough. 

It got better once Andy and I moved to New York, because we lived in a neighborhood with a lot of Jews, never listened to the radio, and rarely watched TV.  But I didn’t even realize how much more pleasant it is to live in Israel during the Christmas season until Andy and I heard our first Christmas ad on the radio sometime during the first week of December.  We’re not completely immune to Christmas ads (we do see some during the shows we watch on hulu), but this one was in Hebrew and advertised a Christmas bazaar that is “the most Christmas in the world”.  (The Hebrew is a little funnier but the translation is pretty accurate).  It was at that point that I realized I hadn’t seen Christmas lights or heard Christmas advertisements at all.

There are many cities in Israel that are holy to Christians (Jerusalem, Bethelem, Nazareth) and I wonder if things will change as we get closer to Christmas.  As I tend to do in my blog posts, I’m going to conjure a guess as to why I haven’t noticed so much hype about the Christmas season, and I think there’s more to it than just the minority of the population of Israel being Christian.  I also think that holidays in Israel are less commercialized than they are in the States.  Andy and I didn’t really see any “Hanukkah sale” signs on stores either—most of the sale signs were either there already or were taken down after the High Holiday season in September.  In a place with so much religious history, it’s easy to ignore the commercialization of holidays in the rest of the world and to focus on the religious significance and historical basis of the holiday, and on what really matters—family.  When Jews say “a great miracle happened here” (“here” meaning Israel.  Jewish outside of Israel say “a great miracle happened there”), they aren’t referring to getting the last dvd player on Black Friday, and many aren’t even referring to the Hanukkah story of oil lasting for 8 days when it was only supposed to last for one day—instead, they are talking about the miracle of the Jewish people still existing despite all of the nations we have had to face along the way.

During Hanukkah, I had what I thought was great idea; to walk through the Jewish quarter of the Old City of Jerusalem to look at all of the lights from the menorahs.  I had seen that all of the families in my neighborhood light their menorahs outside (traditionally, in the States, we put the menorahs in the window in order to publicize the miracle of Hanukkah) and I figured that the Old City would have plenty of menorahs to look at.  The streets of the Old City were overcrowded with tours, families, and even groups of soldiers who had the same idea I did.  As it turns out, walking around the Old City during Hanukkah is quite the popular activity, and even though Hanukkah ranks on the low end of holiness in the repertoire of Jewish holidays, everyone seemed to agree with Andy and me that it was a good night to visit the Kotel (Western Wall) as well. 

Even though, after a while, all of the menorahs started to look the same, there was something really special about being in a place where people could publicize their religion, and were not in the minority while doing so.  Some of the houses had set-ups that involved upwards of 10 menorahs, each with their lights shining brightly against the dark of night.  I felt comfortable and proud to be part of such a tradition, and even in awe of families who have been observing this tradition for thousands of years (as my family has).  I’ve always talked about how I like the feeling of “being part of something bigger” which is one of the reasons why I love being part of the Jewish people, and I couldn’t help feeling this way on the night Andy and I went to the Old City to look at Hanukkah lights. 

Even the stores we walked by had menorahs—and not the fake paper kind that are put up just to make the Jewish customers happy.  Stores had menorahs which they light each night because the store owners are Jewish and that’s what Jews do on Hanukkah.  Andy and I walked home underneath the glowing menorah decorations lining the streets which we had seen being put up a week earlier.

Tamid Sameach B'Ulpan

I’ve been in ulpan for more than 3 months now, and I think it’s time that I reflect a little bit on my experience in the class.  There are about 15 students in my class, and every person has a different background.  I’m in class with three Nativ participants, American teenagers living in Israel for the year.  There is a man from Australia, a few Americans, as well as women from France, Morocco, China, and Spain.  People in my class speak Arabic, Chinese, Spanish, and French.  Most people speak English in addition to their mother tongue, and are learning Hebrew.  I speak some French, and another American woman in my class speaks Spanish.  In most cases, the common languages of the class are Hebrew or English, but sometimes unfamiliar words or phrases must be translated into more than one language so that everyone will understand.  Everyone in the class chimes in to help translate for everyone else—once we understand it in our native languages, we can then help the rest of the class learn it in their language, for example, by explaining a Hebrew phrase in Spanish or French even though our first language is English.  It’s one of my favorite parts of the class.

Everyone has a unique story, as well.  Some people are here with their spouses and children—one man in my ulpan just had his 7^th child!  Some are new olim and others are people who live within the borders of Jerusalem but are trying to improve their Hebrew in order to get a better job.  Most of the class is here for the foreseeable future, except for me and the Nativ participants.  People in the class are Jewish, Muslim, Christian, and representative of all walks of international life.  One woman from Spain shared a story about how she found out that her relatives were part of the many Jews who converted to Christianity during the Spanish Inquisition, but who knew in their hearts they were Jewish all along.  Another American man made aliyah because he and his wife felt it was important, and now they run a bed and breakfast in East Jerusalem.  Two non-Jewish women are living in Israel with their Jewish and/or Israeli spouses, and one man who was in our class, but is not anymore, is from Panama, and is studying brain surgery at Hadassah hospital.    

My ulpan class is a slice of Israeli life that people often don’t think about.  America has a reputation for being a “melting pot” of many different languages and cultures, but it seems that my ulpan class reflects this idea as well.  I’m not sure if all of the people in my ulpan class are “citizens” by the definition of the word, as I think some of them have not fully made aliyah yet, but they are still an important part of what it means to live in Israel, what it means to be “Israeli”.  I was worried when I came to Israel this year that I would miss the excitement and diversity of New York City, but it seems I had forgotten that there can be just as much diversity here.  Everyone has a unique and inspirational story to tell—it’s just a matter of listening.

My Favorite City

I think Tzfat is probably my favorite city in Israel.  When I’m there, I feel how I imagine most people feel in the Old City of Jerusalem—elevated somehow—like the Schechina has truly chosen Tzfat as His/Her resting place.  I love the rich history that it has to offer, and how so many different sects of Jews live together in such a small space.  I love the artists’ colony, each shop selling a new and different expression of love and hope, different entirely from the souvenirs of Ben Yehuda Street.  And I associate Tzfat with my Bat Mitzvah, which was a very meaningful time in my adolescent life.  It is in Tzfat where I purchased my Bat Mitzvah Tallit (prayer shawl) and where I developed a deep and meaningful connection with my Bat Mitzvah parsha (chapter of the Torah) through a beautiful piece of artwork still hanging in my childhood bedroom.

I love the blue accents on each building, and I love the old synagogues at every turn.  When I enter the synagogues I feel transported.  To me, the synagogues are an honest expression of a man’s love for G-d, his fellow Jews, and his religion.  The colors and designs of these old synagogues express a loyalty and devotion lost on the modern day synagogue.  Each is honest and true, a place that invites sincere personal growth and reflection.  I love the old streets, and discovering something new everywhere I go.  So basically, yeah, I love Tzfat.

Andy and I spent a couple days up North during Hanukkah break, and we spent one of these days in Tzfat.  The weather was cold (I had to buy a sweatshirt from a local store because I was woefully under dressed) and overcast, but I was still thrilled to be in such a beautiful city.  As Andy and I began the ascent from the artists’ colony to where we had parked our car (at least ten flights of stairs higher), we encountered a group of young teenage boys, and one adult.  I witnessed one boy drop a plastic bag on the steps and walk away, without even a second glance, and I reacted as if this boy had personally offended me by dropping trash on my front lawn while I was out there gardening. 

“Did you just see that?” I asked Andy. 

I was appalled.  How could someone carelessly litter such a beautiful city?  Andy asked the boy to pick up the trash in Hebrew, which he did, and then dropped it in the same spot after we passed by.  Andy again asked him to pick up the trash, and this time his friends encouraged him, too.  For some reason, the boy refused to pick up the trash, and as the boys walked away, another boy picked up the bag.  We became aware that the boys were watching us depart, and when we turned around, sure enough, they were.  Things escalated very quickly, and soon the young boys were throwing around catcalls and insulting me.

Andy said something very powerful to the boys, which was completely lost on them, and on the adult who was with them who had refused to get involved.  He told them that they were living the lives of religious Jews, and that the way they behaved did not reflect the values they were supposed to be espousing.  We learn from various sources in the Jewish tradition that it is not enough just to study Torah, but that you must go out and live it.  What good are rules about fair business practice if you don’t have a business? Why should we learn to love our neighbor as ourselves and treat each other with kindness if we never have an opportunity to interact with anyone else? 

There’s also a teaching that says that one should not pray in a dirty place.  It may be that the boys we encountered took their home for granted, but I had been praying all day, even if I wasn’t reciting T’filot, and I did not want my place of prayer to become overrun with dirt and trash.  Nor did I want it to house the ugliness of a negative interaction between one person trying to do a mitzvah and another who refused to do t’shuvah.  I have to believe that this is why I took the dropped plastic bag so personally even though it was simply a careless act.

But I won’t let this negative interaction affect the way I feel about Tzfat—it just goes to show that teenage boys are teenage boys, no matter where they live or what religion they are.

Where are YOU from?

It’s pretty embarrassing, but everywhere we go, people can tell that Andy and I are American.  Maybe it’s the way we carry ourselves, or that we’re New York-rude instead of Israeli-rude, or maybe it’s my heinous Israeli accent and the fact that only one out of every five words I speak is actually pronounced correctly (don’t worry, I’ve already started ulpan).  But it seems that where ever we go, we always get asked “where are you from” and “Are you from America?”  Well, of course we answer yes.  Sometimes we simply say we’re from Philadelphia, or sometimes we say we live in New York.  Sometimes we give the tremendously complicated answer of explaining that we grew up in Philadelphia but “currently” live in New York.  It’s a good thing Andy and I are from the same places because I can’t even imagine what that conversation would look like. 

That’s when the stories start coming—“oh, you’re from New York?  I’ve been too New York once!”  Or, “Oh, my cousin’s daughter’s best friend’s husband has family who lives in Brooklyn.  Is that near you?”  Or even “Philadelphia, is that near Los Angeles?”  Andy once had an argument with a cab driver about what state Washington D.C. is located in.  The driver refused to take “no” for an answer (as in, there is NO state in which Washington D.C. is located).  He told us, “Jerusalem is a city in the state of Israel, Haifa is a city in the State of Israel, Philadelphia is a city in the state of Pennsylvania (actually, he had just learned that during the cab ride as well), so what state is Washington D.C. in?”  We tried to explain to him the touchy situation that would have occurred had one state been blessed with the Capitol over another… To no avail. 

The other day, I got into a cab and the driver asked “where are you from, Philadelphia?”   Lucky guess.  Well, it turns out that the cab driver lived in Philadelphia for a number of years and owned a falafel store on South Street.

Andy and I are realizing that everywhere we go, everyone has a story to tell.  Everyone wants to find some way to relate to you, to get you to stay in the store just a little bit longer.  Even if we don’t really care about your cousin’s daughter’s best friend’s husband who has family who lives in Brooklyn, for some reason we still say “cool!” every time.   Living in Israel, and especially in Jerusalem, is like one giant year-long family reunion.  We don’t know how we’re related to you, we don’t even remember your name, but we’re hoping if we talk to you a little bit longer, we might figure something out.  And then there are the relatives who just talk too much, and the conversation never ends…

Nashot HaKotel

Michelle's Reflections on this past Monday--- 

Monday marked the 25^th anniversary of Women of the Wall, a women’s rights advocacy group protesting for the recognition of a woman’s right to wear tallit and t’fillin, conduct a collective, out loud minyan, and to read Torah at the Western Wall/Kotel.  Every Rosh Hodesh the dedicated women of this group gather at the Kotel and conduct services, singing out loud with a fierce ruach that is unrivaled.  And every month, throngs of seminary girls and ultra Orthodox women are bused in from around the city and charged with the task of preventing these women from completing their prayers.  What upsets me the most is that these young girls, who have no ideological basis for even understanding the irony of what they are doing, are actively preventing other Jewish women from fulfilling the mitzvot which they have chosen to accept.  It’s nothing short of a shanda.

I don’t wear tallit or t’fillin, although when I was younger I did wear a tallit.  I enjoy participating in services by counting in a minyan, leading t’fillot, reading Torah, or having an aliyah, although I don’t go to morning minyan everyday.  And I support a woman’s right to be able to choose to take on the mitzvot if she wants to.  Here’s how I see it: Women are not obligated to take on the mitzvot.  Some people say it’s because women are already on a higher spiritual plane than men are, and so to take on the mitzvot is unnecessary and redundant.  I think this reason came about in recent decades in order to placate confused religious women.  A more historically accurate reason that women are not obligated to wear tallit and t’fillin, to read Torah, or count in a minyan, is because in a traditional, heteronormative, patriarchal society, the women were home taking care of the children, cleaning the house, and cooking the meals.  Thus, women are not bound by what we refer to as time-bound mitzvot, because when would they find the time?? 

This, however, is not the case anymore.  So, if a woman, who is not obligated to (read: “not obligated to” not “forbidden from”) wear tallit and t’fillin, count in a minyan, or read Torah chooses to take on these mitzvot, despite being on some higher spiritual plane, then the woman should be celebrated for making that choice.  Men fulfill these mitzvot because they are required to.  How much more amazing is it that a woman who is not required to chooses to.  And that’s why, even if I don’t choose to take on all of the mitzvot, I support women who do, and support their right to be able to express these mitzvot in all of the same contexts as men.

Yesterday, I davened with Women of the Wall in honor of their 25^th anniversary.  Although I support their fight, I was mostly just curious to see what WOW was about, and to see if the horror stories I had heard were true.  I came away from the experience with two very conflicting views.  I arrived at the women’s section of the Western Wall, and headed toward the little corner in the back carved out for WOW.  The corner was surrounded by on-duty soldiers, who were there to protect the women davening from women protesting.  Both groups of women were Jewish women—it was upsetting to think that one group actually needed to be protected from the other group.  I watched as a seminary girl (dressed in the typical uniform of a long black pleated skirt, a blue button-down collared shirt, and a black sweater, with black tights and black shoes) tried to gain entrance into the WOW section.  Two soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, refusing to let her in.  Who knows why she was trying to get in—was she going to cause trouble or did she really want to daven—but I imagine the soldiers challenged her in some way, maybe by asking where her tallit was, and unable to answer the question, she left.

Everyone agreed that yesterday was a pretty calm day as far as davening in the women’s section goes.  Sure there were a few pissed-off looking religious women, but I think most of them just came to see what WOW was all about, as opposed to protesting.  There were a few whistles (women can’t shout because men aren’t supposed to hear their voices, lest they be aroused), and one woman even barked like a dog.  Before the davening started, one woman stood just past the line of soldiers shouting things in Hebrew, but I didn’t understand what she was saying.  I decided yesterday that the older women protesting make me even sadder than the younger girls.  The younger girls may be too scared of authority to ask questions, or may be too young to even recognize what oppression looks like, but older women ought to know better.  Like it or not, we are all sisters, and we are fighting their fight with them.

Davening with WOW at the Kotel was an amazing experience, and I was almost moved to tears.  I have never, ever, experienced a Hallel service quite like the one led by our talented shlichei tzibor.  When I looked at the Kotel, my voice raised in song with other Jewish women, I knew that I was part of history.  While it is not uncommon for many, many minyanim to be occurring at the same time on the men’s side, for many reasons including restrictions on women’s singing and the fact that women don’t count in a minyan in the religious community, all davening on the women’s side takes place individually.  I always say that my favorite part of being Jewish is the community—which makes it pretty hard to have a meaningful t’fillah experience when I am praying quietly by myself.  To have been a part of a women’s minyan, praying out loud, at the Kotel, is something I will never forget. 

Andy, for his part, stood in a special section in the Kotel Plaza, behind the women’s section of the Kotel, where the men supporting WOW were able to stand.  He said he now understands what it must be like for me when we go to services at more religious communities and I must sit behind a mehitza, a special section designated for women so they don’t distract men from their prayers.  He had no idea what was going on.  Andy did describe an interaction with a religious man which greatly upset me, even though I wasn’t there.  The man looked distraught and kept preventing other men from praying by yelling that they were crazy and were not Jews.  Last time I checked, my religion is one of love and acceptance, whose guiding principle is “love your neighbor as yourself”.  So maybe, the Jews spouting hate are the ones who need to reconsider whether they are following their religion.

About halfway through the service, I began to experience some conflicting opinions.  I agree that women need a place where they can daven out loud and together, and that the Western Wall should be one of these places.  This of course, assumes that women are able to be counted in a minyan, which is an ideal I was brought up with, but with which some Jews do not agree.  I was concerned, however, that the out loud praying of WOW might have been disturbing other women who were at the Kotel to pray on their own, and did not want to be counted in our minyan.  A person does not need to count themselves in our minyan, and should not be penalized for choosing to pray on their own.  If I were a woman who had gone to the Kotel to daven on my own, not wanting to be counted in an all-woman minyan, but not wanting to actively protest it, either, I would be very distracted and have a hard time focusing on my prayers if WOW was there at the same time I was.  Sure, WOW was in the back, and the other women could daven closer to the front.  Or maybe they could have come at a different time—I just don’t think that other women should have to suffer because of our decision to pray together.

Davening is always better and more meaningful with ruach—I truly believe that.  But I wondered if the group I was part of yesterday morning was filled with ruach to make a point, instead of letting the ruach come from their souls.  There came a point where I wondered whether we were showboating to make a point instead of davening with our hearts.  For example, even before davening started, the women who were gathering began to sing loudly, so as to overpower the loudspeaker from the men’s side leading t’fillot for the men.  Maybe the loudspeaker was activated intentionally to overpower the women, but that didn’t mean that the women needed to sing loudly in order to overpower and offend the men.  In addition, at many points during the davening, women who were stationed at different locations within the group to help everyone follow along signaled to the group to sing louder, to give more energy and more ruach.  To me, davening is authentic—if we were at a sports game it would make sense to make a scene and encourage us to be louder, but davening comes from the heart, not from a desire to upstage someone else.  I suppose that this is what a protest is all about—making a scene to make a point.  But I don’t think that scene needs to involve the holy text of the morning prayer service, and I don’t think it needs to take place in the holiest place on Earth, especially when other people are there for their own, personal reasons. 

I think there were people from both sides (in support of and against WOW) who were at the Kotel yesterday morning just to make a scene, whose hearts were not truly invested in the service but, rather, in what the service represents.  And I think that there were people there who just wanted to egg on the other side, to see how far they could push it.  And these are the people that I don’t want to associate myself with.  I was overwhelmed at the ability to daven out loud, as part of a women’s minyan, at the Western Wall.  It’s not something I’ve ever been able to do before.  But I was there to daven, not to make a scene.  It’s a fine line, but it’s an important distinction.

Super-Jews!!!

Michelle's Drasha-- from this past shobbos at the Reshet Ramah Shabbat Dinner--

In 1933, two Jewish guys from Cleveland, Ohio, introduced the United States of America to something astounding.  It wasn’t a bird, it wasn’t a plane—it was Superman.   Also known as the Man of Steel, Superman has superhuman strength and can leap tall buildings in a single bound.  He arrived on Planet Earth as an infant, after being sent away from his home planet by his parents in order to save him from the death and destruction of his people.  He was discovered and adopted by an American farmer, and was raised among a foreign nation.  As his powers developed, Superman was encouraged to keep his identity a secret so he would not be discovered and persecuted because of it, so he took on the alter ego Clark Kent—a nerdy journalist who is weak and doesn’t have X-ray vision.   Superman becomes a liberator and champion of the oppressed, using his superpowers to defend and rescue the people of Earth.  Despite his amazing feats and the acclaim he receives from the public, Superman maintains his disguise as Clark Kent in order to avoid harm coming to him or the people he cares about. 

             If this story sounds familiar, that’s because it is.  The idea of traveling from our homeland to a foreign place for safety and protection is prevalent in the history of the Jewish people, as is the idea of concealing our identities.  In fact, the Jews of the 1930’s, when Superman burst onto the scene, were doing just that—many Jews were leaving their family’s homelands in search of a safer place to live, and immigrants in new countries were concealing their Jewish identities in order to avoid prejudice and persecution.

            The very history of the Jewish people begins with a story of travel and hidden identity.  God tells Abraham to leave the land of his father and to go to a place that God will show him.  Later, Abraham finds himself in a situation where he must lie about his wife, Sarah, for their protection. 

Abraham is not the only patriarch to lie about his relationship with his wife--in this week’s parsha, Toldot, when Isaac and Rebecca travel to Gerar, Isaac informs the men of the land that Rebecca is his sister, not his wife.   הַמָּקוֹם אַנְשֵׁי יַהַרְגֻנִי פֶּן אִשְׁתִּי לֵאמֹר יָרֵא כִּי הִוא אֲחֹתִי וַיֹּאמֶר (vayomer achoti he key yareh laymore ishti pen yahargoonee anshey hamakom) Isaac is scared that if he tells the truth about Rebecca, the men will kill him so they can be with her.  In this story, just as in the story of Superman and in the narrative of the Jewish people, we see an example of hiding who we really are for protection against persecution and harm.

            Of course, this parsha also introduces us to what is probably the most famous biblical example of mistaken identities—As Isaac lays sick in bed, Rebecca helps Jacob dress up like Esau in order to steal his father’s birthright.  Jacob puts on the clothes of his brother and covers his arms with animal fur so that he will feel hairy like Esau—and the trick works.  Isaac, though skeptical, exclaims ועֵשָׂ יְדֵי וְהַיָּדַיִם בקֹעֲיַ קוֹל הַקֹּל (hakol kol ya’akov v’hayadayim yadei eysav). “The voice is the voice of Jacob, but the hands are the hands of Esau”, and bestows his blessing upon his younger son.  Although it is possible to argue that in this story Jacob lies for personal gain, he also hides himself in order to ensure the continuation of the Jewish people—and that isn’t so different from what Abraham, Isaac, Moses, Esther, or the Jews of Europe or Spain have done.

         Twice in this parsha we see instances of our patriarchs, the founders of our religion, concealing their true identities. We see even more examples of hiding our Jewish selves to avoid persecution or harm throughout the rest of the Torah and throughout Jewish history.  Many of us in this room have probably had to hide our true selves at one point or another.  Maybe we had to hide the Jewish aspect of ourselves, or maybe it was a different aspect—maybe our involvement with Greek Life, or Science Olympiad, or our secret desire to be the winner of Iron Chef—or maybe, some of us in this room have, at times, been pressured to hide the “Ramah” aspect of ourselves.  We are all here tonight because of the role that Ramah plays in our lives and because of the importance we place on it, But how many times have we been sharing camp stories with non-camp friends, only to be met with disinterest, displeasure, or even the words “shut up” because our non-camp friends don’t get it and don’t want to hear it.          

            If we’re hiding parts of our identity, pretending to be something we’re not, or pretending not to be something we are, then that makes having meaningful Jewish experiences difficult.  Every summer, Ramah camps provide staff and campers with a safe space in which to be their true Jewish selves, a space in which it is not necessary to conceal our identities, but rather where it is encouraged to explore all of the nuanced aspects of ourselves in order to grow and develop into complex, proud, Ramah Jews.

            Many, if not all of us, in this room, spend 10 months of the year yearning for the safety of Ramah, because we aren’t our true selves anywhere else.  During the year some of us have to hide the Ramah aspects of ourselves, or even the Jewish aspects of ourselves, but when we get to camp in June, we don’t have to hide any more.  Many of us have long journeys to get to the safe haven that is our Ramah camp, but we make it each year because of the amazing community we have once we get there.  This group can be that safe space for us to continue to explore, grow, and develop our true selves while we are waiting to once again make the long journey back home.  In this space, we are safe to have conversations, and seek support—to explore all the aspects of our identities. 

Hiding our identities has been a common and important part of the Jewish narrative, from Abraham to present day.  My hope, my blessing, for this group of young professional Ramah alumni is that in this space together, we do not feel that we need to hide.  I hope that we are able to create together an intentional community where we can feel safe to be our true selves.  I hope that from this Shabbas onwards, Reshet Ramah will be a group of Supermen, and not a group of Clark Kents.  Shabbat Shalom. 

Keturah

Two weeks ago, Andy and I spent a meaningful Shabbat in the Negev desert at Kibbutz Ketura, a Kibbutz not far from Eilat.  The Kibbutz was founded in the 1970s by alumni of the Young Judea Year Course program, and is best known for its guest houses at which many Israel programs spend time, as well as for the tours it offers of the nearby region.  Andy was able to participate in programming during the day on Thursday, including a visit to a youth village and some solitary reflection time in the desert.  Because of my previous commitment to ulpan, I took a bus to the Kibbutz separately and met the group later in the day.

This trip marks the first time I have traveled by myself anywhere outside of Jerusalem, and although I was nervous, I surprised myself with my command of the Hebrew language and general knowledge of how public transportation works (thank you, New York).  The most unfortunate part of the trip (other than the person sitting next to me falling asleep on me), was that I had no one to share my thoughts and reflections with, so I will share them now.

As I was sitting in the Tachana Mercazit (Central Bus Station) working on some ulpan homework, a strange thought crossed my mind that both scared and intrigued me.  I briefly considered, for a very very brief moment, that it might be very rewarding to join the IDF (Israel Defense Forces).  As much as I love and support Israel, and will defend it with my words, I have never before thought about joining the army, so as I sat waiting for my bus, I explored my feelings a little bit, as all good social workers are trained to do. 

I had arrived for my bus an hour and a half early and had the opportunity to people watch.  As previously mentioned, a lot of the people in Israel are soldiers.  I thought I noticed that the soldiers walked around with a different air from the rest of the people in the bus station—it seemed to me that they held their heads a little higher than most others and exhibited a sense of pride greater than that of the average person.  My very fleeting desire to join the IDF stemmed from a curiosity about what it must be like to feel the pride that one can only feel when they know that they are doing something not just meaningful and beneficial for their country, but absolutely essential.  I thought it would be great, just for a moment, to have a taste of the pride that I imagined Israeli soldiers feel everyday while wearing their uniform.  Maybe I was projecting, or assuming, or imagining it, but it’s a feeling I hope to one day be able to experience through the line of work I have chosen to enter.

A few short hours into our very long bus ride, I found myself staring out the window at sand.  Lots and lots of sand.  Every once in a while, a bus stop would appear, out of nowhere, at the side of the road, and then it would disappear in the distance to give way for more sand.  And I found myself wondering, who uses those bus stops?  They definitely are not the closest bus stops to anyone’s home—there are no homes for miles.  How do people get there?  What is the point of a bus stop in the middle of nowhere?  I’m sure I could come up with some deeply profound symbolism for these middle of nowhere bus stops, but instead I think I’ll just wonder about them more…

I was fortunate enough to arrive at Kibbutz Ketura just as the sun was beginning to set, and the view was breathtaking!  From the Kibbutz, it is very easy to see the Jordanian border.  The Kibbutz’s date fields are located across from the Kibbutz itself, and just beyond them are the Jordanian mountains, behind which the sun was setting.  I have only seen a sky with pinks, blues, and purples like the one of the sunset I was witnessing in two other places—at Camp Ramah during the summer, and at the Grand Canyon.  I started thinking about the Grand Canyon, and it’s middle-of-nowhere-ness. It’s quite easy, while there, to commune with nature, but also to feel a little lonely.  Despite the throngs of tourists, there’s something deeply unsettling about how large the Grand Canyon is and how small we are in comparison.

Looking from within the Kibbutz out towards the Negev desert, I began to feel the same way.  The Kibbutz is surrounded on all sides by desert and mountains, and it seems as if it’s a little oasis of civilization in a giant crater of nothingness.  And while that’s deeply powerful and mesmerizing for a while, it’s also quite awe-inspiring in a way that makes you feel extremely lonely.  I began to wonder what else was out there—what is just past those mountains, or even in those mountains?  Are we really alone out here or are there animals, or even people, we don’t know about?  What is the meaning of life?

Spending a weekend on a Kibbutz in the desert reminded me how I feel when driving around camp—what is the draw for living in a neighborhood or community such as this, that is so far away from everything and so reliant on each other.  And I think Andy hit it right on the nose—it’s community.  Why do humans do anything, ever?  To be accepted by others and join up with a group.  Humans are social creatures and we need each other whether we like it or not.  The Kibbutz, like camp, is an intentional community of family and friends who are guaranteed to be there for moral and emotional support.  I guess living in the desert might not be so lonely after all.

I still don’t know what those bus stops are there for…

Up, Up, and Away?

Andy and I go through a process every time we visit a new city.  If we’re really enjoying it there, we seriously contemplate the possibility of moving there.  It happened in L.A. when we were there together for a Ramah training program, it happened in Toronto on our maple-syrup-moon, and you can bet that we have had more than one conversation about making aliyah in the past couple months.  (And to be honest, with the way the government in the US is looking,  aliyah might be the best option… but don’t worry, we haven’t made any decisions yet).  Andy and I had just returned to Jerusalem from Haifa and were trying to figure out what it was about Jerusalem that made us feel so much more comfortable than we had felt in Haifa.  I think that the following (pointless) story can best illustrate the difference:

While we were in Haifa, eating was an effort.  Andy and I had to keep an eye out for Kosher restaurants, even though we had gotten used to assuming that Kosher restaurants are the norm (as they are in Jerusalem).  We keenly observed every kashrut certificate hanging outside a restaurant, and noted the word “kosher” on restaurant signs.  There were only three kosher restaurants walking distance from our hotel.  The food court at the mall had only two kosher restaurants.  We suddenly felt like we were back in the states (and not in New York, where there are plenty of kosher restaurants, but in Philadelphia, where the kosher restaurants are fewer and further between).  We found it quite difficult to eat while in Haifa.

We returned to Jerusalem just before Shabbas, and I ran out to a little corner store (makolet) quickly to pick up some hummus to bring to a friend’s house for dinner.  As I was walking home, I thought “I better check to make sure this hummus is kosher”, and then I realized that in Jerusalem, it is safe to assume that in most neighborhoods, most, if not all, of the packaged food you are going to buy is kosher.  So here’s the difference: in the states, as in Haifa, one has to be more diligent about kashrut while shopping or eating out, but in Jerusalem, one can assume a certain level of comfort with the kashrut of the food you are eating or buying.  It’s a privilege that Andy and I have in Jerusalem that we don’t have in the states—the privilege of being able to eat where ever we want without compromising on our kashrut observance.  To say it a different way—being Jewish in the states takes work, and effort, while being Jewish in Jerusalem is easy and comfortable.  (Although, maybe the point of “Judaism” is in the effort it takes to be separate and observe the mitzvot even while those around you are not).

It was precisely the acknowledgement of this privilege that led Andy to his most recent “let’s make aliyah” comment while walking home from a bakery.  The lady walking past us on the street also had an opinion—she looked at me and said “say yes, say yes!”  I will admit that I have never been more comfortable being an observant Jew than I have this year (and also strangely uncomfortable being a modern Jew) and that I enjoy being able to get a hamburger at most restaurants whenever I want.  But is that enough to cause me to make aliyah… we will have to see!