When bad things happen...

I prefer not to read or watch the news no matter where I’m living, but sometimes something happens that everyone is talking about, and it is hard to avoid finding out about it.  I was most recently affected by a news story which broke last week about an Israeli soldier who had been abducted and killed by a coworker in the WEST BANK.  The coworker was hoping to trade the soldier’s body to the government in exchange for the release of his brother who is currently serving a sentence in an Israeli prison.  The reason I don’t follow the news too closely is because I tend to get very upset by the stories, and I have a hard time putting them out of my mind.  This story was no exception.  Two things about this story really upset me.  The first is that, as I understand it, the Israeli soldier had agreed to do his coworker a favor by accompanying him to his home (I’m unclear as to whether he gave his coworker a ride home in his own car or agreed to take a cab with him).  This Israeli soldier was being a good person by agreeing to do a favor for someone who needed it—and then was met with a terrible consequence for his well-intentioned actions.  As I mentioned in an earlier post, I don’t necessarily believe that people deserve the bad things that happen to them, and I think that this story is a prime example that sometimes people do good things only to be met with pain and suffering.

The second thing that has really affected me from this article, as well as something that I’ve noticed in Israeli society in general, is the constant referral to Israeli soldiers as “Israeli soldiers.”  I believe that it is important to note that this person’s role in society was that of a soldier, but in America we would have said something like “A 20 year old male was abducted and killed after agreeing to accompany his coworker home after work”.  In my mind, the person who died was a 20 year old young man, and his age makes it all the more upsetting for me.  I feel as though referring to Israeli soldiers as “Israeli soldiers” can sometimes make us forget about the ages of the young people we are talking about.  At least it does for me—there’s something so grown up sounding about calling someone a soldier that I often forget that we’re actually talking about teenagers aged 18-22. 

I don’t read the news because I’m scared of what it will say, or what I will find out about the area I’m living in.   I figure if something important happens that I need to know about, I’ll find out about it.  I’m not that much older than the Israeli soldiers I hear about on the news, but I feel worlds away from them.  On the one hand, they are the ones trusted to protect this country, and on the other hand, they are still kids, and I want to protect them!  (Even though I sometimes feel like I’m still a kid, too).

It's Rainin'... Rain.

It rained last week.  I could tell it was going to rain because the sky had been dark and overcast all day, the wind was blowing, and the air was cold.  We were able to get inside before the rain really started, and we found that all of our friends were talking about it.  Not in the “so, about the weather…” kind of way, but in the great excitement kind of way—the kind you might expect from a student on a snow day when school has been cancelled and there’s enough snow to go sledding, or build a fort, or have a snow ball fight.  To my surprise, all of our friends rushed out to the mirpeset (balcony) to check out the rain—as if we had all never seen rain before.  I was informed that some of Andy’s classmates who had been in Israel since June actually hadn’t seen rain since they arrived, so it was kind of like seeing it for the first time for them.

And this was no ordinary rain, either.  This was the first rain of the season—a significant event for the country of Israel, since it is a desert that relies on a strong rainy season to help supply the country with water all year long.  This event even has a special name—יורה/yoreh, meaning the “first rain”.  Andy says that there are many different words for different types of rain in Israel because it is so significant to the country (like how Eskimos have many different words for “snow”)—a warm spring rain is called by a different name than a hot summer rain.  It is said that the first rain always occurs during the eight days of Sukkot (The Festival of Booths which signals the changing of seasons and is one of the three harvest festivals of Ancient Israel).  In addition, the first rain signals the start of the winter season in Israel.  I didn’t think winter could exist in Israel, where the day time temperatures reach well into the 90’s, but sure enough, the days have been chilly and the nights have been cold.  So cold, in fact, that I have been wearing my Northface jacket out at night.

I don’t usually like rain.  It’s cold, and wet, and everything you’re wearing gets cold and wet, and then you’re cold and wet for the rest of the day.  During the summer it interrupts camp’s activities, and during the year, it makes an already miserable commute even more miserable because more people take public transit when it rains, and everyone has dripping umbrellas.  Considering the significance of rain to the country in which I am currently living, however, I think I need to work on changing my perspective when it comes to rain.  Without it, I would not be able to drink cold water after a long walk, take a hot shower, or do my laundry (which I seem to be doing everyday—but that is for a different post).

The Fesitval of Booths

Comedian JOEL CHASNOFF explains the Jewish calendar by noting that the holidays make no sense in terms of the weather we experience during them.  For example, just as the weather gets colder and the leaves begin to change color, we decide to build make-shift huts with no roofs and no walls and sleep outside for a week.  Chasnoff is, of course, talking about the Jewish holiday of SUKKOT, or the Festival of Booths, when we build temporary huts to commemorate the huts we might have lived in while wandering in the desert after leaving Egypt.  It’s true that the weather in Israel is getting cooler too (if you can believe that), and sure enough, at the beginning of the week, two of the Yeshiva boys living in our apartment building built a sukkah in front of the building and moved two mattresses outside so they could sleep there for the week. 

There are very specific specifications for what makes a sukkah kosher, and unfortunately the space Andy and I have does not qualify us to be able to build a sukkah.  In honor of the holiday, we walked down the street to one of the many local restaurants who had put up a sukkah outside and left its doors open, allowing us sukkah-less folk to make Kiddush and perform the mitzvah of sitting in the sukkah.  If this seems a bit extreme, then let me introduce you to our neighbor, who decided to start building a “sukkah addition” to his mirpeset (balcony) at 7:00am two mornings before Sukkot started.  What exactly is a sukkah addition, you ask?  I’m not sure either, but here’s what I can tell you—the railing to his mirpeset was removed, and a wooden structure looking very much like a tree house was erected as an extension of off his balcony.  The structure is supported by beams reaching two stories down to the ground, and the floor of his structure overlaps with the concrete floor of his balcony.  Let’s just say, I’m glad he did not invite me over to his sukkah, and I’m not excited for the removal process!  Neither is Andy.

Sukkot in Israel reminds me of Christmas in the States for two main reasons.  The first is that, in the weeks leading up to Christmas in many areas in the US, people start hanging up Christmas decorations including lights and giant Santa Claus statues.  Even in my heavily Jewish area, it can seem like every house has Christmas lights.  In my heavily Jewish area in Israel, people started building sukkot in the weeks before the holiday, and it seems as if every house and restaurant has a sukkah.  It is a nice change that the decorations in public places reflect my religious holiday!  We were even able to eat in a sukkah at a sushi restaurant last night, while being entertained by singing coming from one of the neighboring houses (Christmas carols, anyone?). 

The second reason I am reminded of Christmas is because Sukkot requires the use of very specific agricultural species that farmers grow all year round just to sell for this specific holiday.  On Sukkot, we take 4 species from the land of Israel (a branch from the willow and myrtle trees,  a palm frond not unlike those used on Palm Sunday, and a citron-type fruit which we call the etrog) and shake them in all directions to signify the everywhere-ness of G-d.  The parallel here is, of course, the Christmas tree.  Jewish farmers spend all year cultivating these four species, so that Jews all over Israel can buy each branch individually, after hours of inspecting every little leaf.  Seriously, some guys had magnifying glasses with them!  Andy and I went to a giant tent that was set up at the end of the shuk, and Andy was able to put his excellent bargaining skills to work to buy us a beautiful lulav and etrog!  This morning, when Andy and I returned to the shuk, the tent was gone—much like Christmas tree farms that pop up around Christmas time and are gone by New Years. 

It is also fun to note that while my friends in the states are celebrating two days of “chag”, or days of traditional observance of Sukkot, with many of the same prohibitions of Shabbat, in Israel, we only celebrate one day, which allows us to bring this blog post to you before entering the holy hours of Shabbat!

Yom Kippur

There are no cars in Jerusalem on YOM KIPPUR.  The entire city is closed, including the airport.  For 25 hours, I was able to walk around in the middle of the street, right down the dotted lines.  The busiest intersection in the center of the city was completely still, except for crowds of Jews wearing white, rushing to synagogue.  There are a number of explanations for why we wear white on Yom Kippur, but the one I like most is that on Yom Kippur, we are like angels as we fast, afflict ourselves in other ways (like not wearing makeup or jewelry), and speak directly with G-d.  The white can also symbolize the purity of staring over, a clean slate.  Even the most secular Jew living in Israel was in shul (synagogue) on Yom Kippur.

During the season of repentance, which starts even before Rosh Hashanah, we’re supposed to think about G-d as a judge, literally weighing whether we should live or die based on all of the sins we have committed in the past year.  Yom Kippur is our last-ditch effort to appeal to G-d, to truly apologize and promise to do better, in order reverse this evil decree placed upon us (as the Yom Kippur liturgy says).  To be completely honest, I have a problem with the idea of G-d as a punishing judge, and with the idea that bad things happen to people who deserve them.  We all know good people who have had bad things happen to them—and we all wonder why.  I prefer instead to believe that G-d wants us to be our best and most successful selves, not because we fear G-d and G-d’s punishments, but because we want to, because we want to be good people and do the right thing.  I see G-d’s relationship to the Jewish people as more like a parent (and onYom Kippur, a disappointed parent), expecting the best from us and not afraid to tell us that we messed up and could do better.  In his commentary in the KOREN Yom Kippur Machzor, Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks says that G-d does not ask us “are you perfect?”, but instead “can you grow?”

As many people know, Andy does not like the KOTEL (Western Wall).  It’s crowded, it’s noisy, people are pushy and smelly, and when you finally push your way to the front, you see—a giant wall.  A giant wall which thousands of people before you have kissed or filled with notes and touched all over with their germy hands.  So when Andy told me that he wanted to daven (pray) Ne’ilah (the concluding service of Yom Kippur) at the Kotel, I knew that we were going to experience something special.  And despite my best efforts, I got excited to spend the holiest hours of the holiest day of the year in the holiest place in the holiest city in the world.  This was gonna be good.

After taking time to individually pray, think, and reflect, we joined together near sun down to listen as the SHOFAR sounded, indicating the end of Yom Kippur (and the fast!).  Above the din of thousands of Jews fulfilling the tradition of their ancestors and begging, pleading, with G-d for forgiveness, we suddenly heard church bells chiming.  And shortly after, as the sun began to set, we heard the Muslim call to prayer being broadcast throughout the city.  The noise of the church bells, the call to prayer, and the wails of the repenting blended together in a stunning statement of oneness, reminding us that we are all one people, united together in the holiest city to our three religions.  We are linked together infinitely into the past and forever into the future as worshippers of religions based right here in Jerusalem.  And as the final blasts of the shofar sounded, doves (a symbol of peace and love) circled over the Kotel, as if to fly our very last prayers and pleas directly to Hashem (G-d), in whatever form you believe G-d takes.  

How RUDE!

Yesterday, while window shopping on Ben Yehuda Street, Andy and I bought a magnet that says “I <3 New York, but Jerusalem is home”.  We thought it was perfect, considering we have been reluctantly falling in love with New York for the past year.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s a love/hate relationship—but absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?

Both New Yorkers and Israelis are often considered to be rude.  But, there’s something different in the manifestations of the rudeness that I can’t quite put my finger on.  Sure, Israelis will shove their way onto a full bus, making it impossible for you to board.  And just like NYC subway riders, Israelis on a full bus won’t move all the way to the back so others can get on.  But Israelis will also stop their cars in the middle of the street so you can cross it (which New Yorkers never do) and will invite you over for holiday meals after meeting you only once (and will be very upset if you say no).

As best as I can articulate the difference, it seems to me that New Yorkers are rude because they are fiercely independent and only concerned for themselves—they’ve got places to go and people to see, always.  I think Israelis are rude because they just don’t care about the small stuff—but they do care about each other.  Here’s an example:

Yesterday, as I tried to get from one babysitting gig to the next one, I realized that I was lost.  I had printed out directions from one house to the other, but the first child (a 9 year old boy) took me to a park so we could kick around a soccer ball.  I knew the park was close to the house but I had no idea how we got there since I spent the whole time chasing the kid on his scooter instead of reading street signs.  I was able to get myself back to the roundabout, but was confused when one of the streets changed names.  I just wasn’t sure which direction to turn, and wound up crossing the roundabout looking confused a couple times. 

Between my reading street signs, holding directions, and pacing back and forth a number of times, an older man who ran the corner snack shack noticed I was lost.  He actually left his post (where a customer was in the process of buying water) to come help me.  In my broken Hebrew, I explained that I didn’t know where I was going.  And he responded to me in Hebrew (it’s a big deal because he could have just decided it would be easier to talk to me in English) asking where I was trying to get to.  The transliterations of my street names were terrible, but instead of getting frustrated and giving up, he worked with me through each step of the directions until he recognized one of the streets, and gave me very detailed directions for how to get to where I needed to be (ie: count two bus stops, and after the second bus stop turn left).  He was patient with me and concerned, and tolerated my attempts to use Hebrew.  Only after he was convinced that I knew where I was going, did he return to the man waiting to pay for his water (who, by the way, was still there).

If this had happened in New York, one of two outcomes would have resulted.  Either, no one would have stopped to help me and I’d be wandering around lost, crying on the phone to either Andy or my mom.  Or I would have gotten up enough courage to ask someone for help and they would have given me the wrong directions (and then I’d be wandering around lost, crying on the phone).  The second one is an exaggeration, but I’ve never seen a New Yorker be as patient when giving directions as this man was.

Andy says that difference stems back to the 2^ND ALIYAH movement, when the immigrants made every attempt to create a new, honest world, and shed old world mores/expectations.  Israelis are genuine and honest, while in the West, we still have a certain routine we’re supposed to dance around in order to seem “polite”.  (New Yorkers appear rude to outsiders because they are violating these “principles of politeness”.)  Israelis, on the other hand, don’t care if they are polite—they are just genuinely themselves, always.  Israelis are unapologetically authentic, and other Israelis don’t see that as rude.  So someone shoved you on the street or got in front of you to pay—you’ll still get to where you need to go and everything will be ok.  It shocks us Americans to encounter a group of people that don’t stand on principle and instead do what they want.  So we might see Israelis as rude, but they are actually just being true to themselves.

Visting a legend

When Andy and I were discussing our move to Israel for the year, we had two goals for our first week in Jerusalem.  We wanted our first meal to be schwarma (check), and we wanted to pay tribute to a hero of ours, Michael Levin (z”l), who fell in battle in 2006 during the second war with Lebanon.  He is buried on Har Herzl, a military cemetery named for Theodore Herzl, who is considered to be the founder of modern Zionism.  Michael Levin has become a household name in the Jewish Philadelphia community, but for those unfamiliar with his story, I’ll share a brief synopsis now.

Michael grew up outside of Philadelphia and was active in USY as well as at Camp Ramah in the Poconos (the same USY region and camp that Andy and I were involved in when we were growing up!).  I remember him coming to a chapter board meeting and telling us that soldiers really needed shoes, and that if we were looking for a community service project, collecting shoes might be a good idea.  Michael made aliyah in 2002, and joined the paratroopers unit (after climbing in the window of the recruitment center!).  He was on leave from the army in the states in 2006 when the 2^nd Lebanon war broke out, and he quickly returned to Israel to join his unit.  While in Lebanon, his unit came under heavy fire, and he fell during that battle.

Michael was what is called a “lone soldier”—a soldier who emigrates from another country to serve in the IDF (Israeli Defense Forces) without their families.  The Lone Soldier Center in Israel was created in his memory.  It serves lone soldiers from many countries by providing them with support and a community.  Michael has come to symbolize not just what it means to be a lone soldier, but also what it means to be truly devoted to something you believe in—to me, he is the epitome of passion, loyalty, and pride.

Although it can be confusing to navigate through Har Herzl, Michael’s grave is easy to spot.  It is completely covered by Philadelphia, USY, and Camp Ramah paraphernalia, as well as mementos from all of the visitors who have stopped by throughout the years.  When Andy and I arrived, a unit from the IDF was already there, learning about lone soldiers through Michael’s story.  After they left, Andy and I only had a few quiet moments to reflect before the next unit showed up.  We explained that we knew Michael from home and from camp, and the commander asked if we would be willing to talk about him for a little.  We declined, but waited quietly in the back to hear what the commander had to say.  As we were leaving, a third unit was walking up the steps to learn Michael’s story.  Michael has become much more than a hero to Jewish Philadelphians, much more than inspiration to American Jewish teens—he is also an important part of what it means to be an Israeli soldier, as every unit in the IDF visits Har Herzl during their training, and since 2006, visits Michael Levin.  Andy and I marveled at the impact that one person can have—and will continue to have. 

Before leaving, Andy left his Ramah cell phone case, and I found two small rocks.  They are small gestures compared to the one Michael made for this country, but they show that we were there, and are thinking about him.  We will definitely be back.

Andy and I have been in Israel just over a week now, and one thing that continually shocks me is how young the soldiers look!  If you’ve ever been in Israel, you know that you see soldiers everywhere—on the bus, in stores, walking down the street—and that there is just something attractive about an Israeli guy or girl in an IDF uniform.  For the first time in the four times I’ve been here, I have realized that I am much older than the Israeli soldiers I see on the street.  In Israel, every citizen is drafted into the defense forces when they are 18, with a few exceptions.  Girls serve for two years and boys serve for three years.  Army service is usually followed by a year of traveling before Israeli young adults begin their studies.  Which means that most Israelis my age are done their army service, and any Israelis in army uniforms are too young for me!  

This age difference was magnified at Har Herzl today when I realized that most of the soldiers buried there are my age (24) or younger.  I can’t begin to imagine the mix of emotions that goes into burying a fallen soldier who is barely 20 years old.  I hope that a time will come soon when this is no longer a worry that parents must face.  For now, I am awed and inspired by teenagers much younger than me who risk their lives every day so that my family, friends, and I can be safe.

For more information about Michael Levin, his story, or support for lone soldiers, click here.

Movin' On Up...

Every year we end the PASSOVER SEDER by saying “l’shanah haba’ah b’yirushaliyim”, “next year in Jerusalem.”  This phrase, though often taken to literally mean that we hope to have a Passover seder in Jerusalem, expresses the Jewish people’s desire for the return of the mashiach, or messiah.  It is believed that once every Passover seder takes place in Jerusalem (ie: all Jews have returned to the Holy land), then the messiah will come and bring with him world peace, and depending on your belief, resurrection of the dead.

Last year, when Andy and I ended our Passover seder by saying “next year in Jerusalem”, we meant it!  We are so lucky that we will be spending 10 months living and studying in Jerusalem while Andy fulfills a requirement of his Rabbinic degree.  Andy has been to Israel twice before this—once as a participant on ALEXANDER MUSS HIGH SCHOOL IN ISRAEL and once as a participant on NATIV.  Both times he lived in Israel, experienced the culture, and established a routine and rhythm based on the Jewish calendar year.  I have been to Israel three times before—once with family, and twice with organized trips, but I’ve never “lived” in the country.  I’ve never been here longer than 5 weeks and I’ve never been anything other than a tourist.

Our apartment is nestled on a tiny street in RECHAVIA, a neighborhood in Jerusalem.  We are a 15 minute walk from the center of town, where most of the shopping and night life is, and just a little further is the Old City, where the WESTERN WALL is located.  We are a 10 minute walk from the shuk, MACHANE YEHUDA.  Our neighbors are mostly religious Jews and the other tenets in our apartment are boys studying at one of the local YESHIVAs.  The apartment is also near a supermarket, the Wolfson Towers, and an overlook that looks out onto GAN SACKER and THE K’NESSET.  We have two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a spacious living room and kitchen area.  It’s perfect for two people, in a great location, and very reasonably priced (ie: less than what we were paying in New York). 

I can’t help but think that it is fitting that Andy and I arrived in Israel at the end of the Hebrew month of Elul, just before the Jewish holiday season.  This is the time of the Jewish calendar year when we reflect on the past year and look forward to the year to come.  We eat round foods to symbolize the cycle of the year and think about new beginnings.  Andy and I are faced with the ultimate new beginning—less than one week after landing in Israel we celebrated the Jewish holiday of ROSH HASHANNAH, the Jewish New Year.  This Jewish new year is not the only new beginning for us this year—we have a year’s worth of new experiences, exploration, and self-discovery facing us.  We are looking forward to spending this year in Jerusalem!