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Top 10 Total Israel Moments (Or Pointless Stories from my Year Abroad)

At times during the course of this year, I found myself forgetting that I was in Israel.  There would be days that I would spend entirely in the office of ENP, or where I wouldn’t speak a word of Hebrew to anyone.  The country is so diverse, that even on tiyulim, it was easy to forget I was in Israel when surrounded by a lush, green forest.  The following is my list of top 10 Total Israel Moments—moments during which I was fully aware that I was in Israel, and after which the only appropriate response was “only in Israel.” 

10.  Eating Out at Restaurants

Eating out at restaurants in the states is usually a fairly simple endeavor for Andy and myself.  We both will eat in a non-kosher restaurant, but will only eat hot or cold dairy products, which means that at any given restaurant, about half of the menu is off limits.  We usually find ourselves ordering salad, fish, or pasta (for Andy) at most places that we go, unless we decide to treat ourselves to a kosher meat restaurant, for a special occasion.  We don’t often eat at kosher dairy restaurants because the food is somehow less tasty, but more pricey.  We have our favorite restaurants in New York and depending on what we’re in the mood for, we decide where to eat.

In Israel, and Jerusalem in particular, there are a plethora of kosher restaurant options.  Even some of the restaurants which do not have kosher certification still sell kosher meat—it is the fact that they are open on Shabbat which prevents them from having “kosher” status.  This means that Andy and I have a lot more options when we decide to go out to eat.  Since kosher restaurants serve either meat or dairy cuisine, we must first decide whether we are in the mood for meat or dairy.  And once we arrive at the restaurant, we have many more menu options to choose from, meaning that it takes us longer to order food.  When we are finished our meal, even after a meat meal, we can stop at the ice cream shop on the way home for (parve) dessert.  It’s safe to say that in Jerusalem, our culinary options are much more extensive than they are in the States. 

9. Shopping At The Shuk

Almost all of the produce in Israel is grown in Israel, which means everything is grown locally.  Our favorite fruits and veggies need only travel the short distance from the north or the south to Jerusalem before we can enjoy them, instead of making a long journey across an ocean, as they do in the States.  Andy and I have been enjoying fresh produce for 10 months now, and it will certainly be hard to return to eating the sorry excuse for fruit that is being sold in US supermarkets.

In addition to buying fresh fruits and vegetables, shopping at the shuk is an experience all its own.  People usually shop there two or three times a week, picking up the freshest ingredients for lunch or dinner.  The stalls are small and cramped, the aisles are crowded, and the shop owners’ screams fill the air.  It is not a relaxing experience.  And yet, the colorful and noisy background, the pushing and shoving of your fellow shoppers, the ability to jump from one stall to the next in order to find a peach that costs slightly less all combine to create a quintessentially Israel experience.  There is nothing like it in the States.  Nothing.

8. Feeding The Stray Cats

Throughout the course of this year, I maintained a blog called “Cats of Jerusalem” on which I would post pictures I had taken of stray cats, with misspelled captions asking for different food items.  On more than one occasion, it occurred to me that taking pictures of stray cats in Jerusalem bears a striking resemblance to taking pictures of squirrels in America—there are plenty of cats to take pictures of, and you look crazy while doing it.

The difference, however, lies in the way the locals treat their acquired strays.  In the States, only crazy old ladies feed the squirrels, and they scamper away before you can even really get close to them.  In Israel, however, wherever you go, you will see piles of cat food which people have bought and left on the streets for the stray cats to eat.  People often leave their leftovers outside for the cats (a practice Andy and I quickly adopted), and there is even a man who lives on our street who opens up the trash bags in the dumpsters so the cats in our neighborhood can access its contents.  The Yeshiva boys who lived in our apartment building adopted one of the local stray cats, and named her “Sea Cow”.  She would walk into the building, climb the steps, and wait patiently in the hallway for someone to feed her.

All of this comes, I think, from the idea in Judaism that we should respect all living things, including animals.  We are even supposed to feed our pets before we feed ourselves.  So yes, the street cats are seen as disgusting, as vermin, even as carrying diseases, but people still take care of them because they, too, are G-d’s creatures.

You can view Cats of Jerusalem here: http://catsofjerusalem.tumblr.com/

7. Becoming Friends with Taxi Drivers

One night, a number of months ago, I got into a cab that had been ordered for me by the family for which I was babysitting.  I think the cab driver must have heard me speaking on the phone in English while I was waiting for him, because the first thing he said to me after I told him my address was “Where are you from?  Philadelphia?” 

“Uhh… Yeah, actually.”

So it turns out that the cab driver had lived in Philadelphia for a number of years, and owned a falafel store on South Street.  By the end of the trip, he had given me his business card and told me to call him if I ever needed to go to the airport. 

Interactions like this are not uncommon here in Israel—everyone has friends in common, or knows people who grew up in the same community as you.  The best part is, once you have a meaningful interaction with someone, that person will remember you every time you walk into the store.  There are two stores on Ben Yehuda Street (a very busy pedestrian mall, frequented by a lot of tourists) whose owners recognize Andy and me as soon as we walk in.  The same is true for the ice cream shop around the corner from our apartment, and for a few of the art vendors I’ve purchased from during the weekly craft fair.  The ability to have meaningful interactions with strangers, resulting in their ability to remember you next time they see you, is an experience unique to Israel. 

6. Arriving At A Hotel Where You Have Reservations, Only To Find Out It’s Under Construction

In Israel, very few things are done with unnecessary politeness or professionalism.  Some people consider it rude, others just accept that this is how things are done here.  For example, if I had a dime for the number of times I bought something from a store owner or salesperson who was on the phone during the entire time of my visit to the store, I’d have at least a dollar, but probably more.

I think the experience that best summarizes this sentiment is the time that my mom and sister drove with Andy and me down to Eilat, where we would spend the night before my mom and sister went to Petra, Jordan.  The drive down to Eilat is long and boring, and we were aching to get out of the car and into a comfortable hotel room.  When we finally found the hotel, and its quite hidden and inaccessible parking lot, we noticed a significant lack of cars and people.  It soon became apparent that we would be the only people staying in the hotel—possibly including hotel staff.

A man who claimed to be a contractor, wearing a dirty T-shirt and pants that kept falling down below his butt, informed us that the hotel was under construction.  That seemed unlikely, as my mom’s tour guide had made reservations at the hotel for us to stay there, and this man did not exactly exude informed authority.  Slowly, however, through many calls to the tour guide, the hotel manager, and others, we learned that the hotel was indeed under construction, and that instead of telling anyone, the person who took the reservation had simply made us reservations at a different hotel.  To call this unprofessional would be an understatement—to say I was surprised to be experiencing something like this would be a lie.  As we piled back in to the car to check out the second hotel, I silently added this experience to the mental list of crazy hotel stories I have acquired during the course of the year.

5. Knowing Everyone

After Andy and I returned from our trip to Rome, we took an airport shuttle from Tel Aviv to our apartment in Jerusalem.  We were surprised that somehow we had managed to end up on the same shuttle and two of Andy’s classmates, but we were even more surprised when the family that got on the shuttle after us began to discuss their experiences flying from Philadelphia to Israel.  After sharing names and neighborhoods, the woman who was traveling with her elderly parents exclaimed “Your mom is Elaine and she works at Blue Cross!”

As we would come to find out throughout the course of a fairly typical sheirut ride including a rude driver and many near-death experiences, the woman worked with my mother at Blue Cross and was traveling with her two parents, also from Philadelphia.  We, of course, had many acquaintances in common.  Crazier, still, was another woman who was in our sheirut, who happened to know this Philadelphia family somehow.  In a shuttle that holds 11, 9 people knew each other. 

The phenomenon of knowing people everywhere you go is a uniquely Israel experience, and never loses its excitement, no matter how many familiar faces you see.

4. Waiting In Line For Ulpan

One of the moments during which I was most aware of being an American in Israel was in the very beginning of the year, when I registered for ulpan (intensive Hebrew class).  To begin with, there is no online or over the phone registration—you must register in person.  Registration is first-come, first-served, which means that it’s possible that the spots will fill up before you get a chance to register.  Furthermore, a new student like myself must take a placement test before even getting into the line* (*I use the term “line” loosely) to register—so the choice becomes: do well on the test and take a long time, possibly losing the opportunity to even take ulpan and therefore having just taken a Hebrew test for nothing, OR do okay on the test and then get into line* as quickly as possible.

For better or for worse, I chose the latter option, quickly filling in as many answers as I could without thinking too hard or taking too long, and then I went to join the mass blob of people waiting to register.  The process went something like this: it didn’t matter who got there first or who had been waiting the longest—everyone just pushed their way into the tiny office in order to hand over the registration form to the secretary, who then entered all of the information you had just written down by hand into the computer, manually.  It would have made more sense to the collect the forms and let the people leave, then to spend the rest of the day entering the information into the computer.  Or to let us register online.  Or anything else.

But instead, I joined a swarming mass of people trying to squeeze itself into the tiny office, and was bumped by many elbows.  I, for my part, also bumped my elbow a few times.  Imagine it’s rush hour on the subway in New York City, and there is one seat left in an already crowded car, and it’s right in the middle of the car.  So everyone on the platform tries to get into the train at the same time in order to get that last seat—and in doing so, no one gets into the car and the seat is then taken by the person sitting next to it who uses it as a bag rest.

Waiting in line to register for ulpan was kind of like that. 

3. Waiting In Any Line

If you expected to see lines when you arrived in Israel, you will be severely disappointed to find out that lines do not exist here, and instead you will meet the line’s disorganized, grumpy, and smelly cousin, the blob.  Every attempt to enter a bus, a store, a venue, or just about anywhere where there are more than three people, becomes a fight to the death, a gladiatorial competition to see who will enter first and who will be left out in the cold.  And don’t even think about letting other people in front of you to be nice—that’s a good way to make sure you never go anywhere ever again.

I think the best way to illustrate what I’m talking about is through a story about the time Andy and I went to the misrad hapanim (literally: Face Office) to get our visas for the year.  We were there with two of Andy’s classmates and a coordinator from Andy’s program.  We had arrived at a time when the office itself was only open to people who had previously arranged appointments (which, of course, we had).  Just getting through the mass of people in front of the doors was a challenge—parting the Red Sea was easier.  Imagine a celebrity sighting after a Broadway show.  Once you join the blob, you’re pretty firmly stuck where you are.  Out came the elbows.

When we finally reached the front of the mass of people, the program coordinator explained to the guard that we had an appointment and did some classic Israeli finagling—“no, it’s fine”—and we were allowed in.  Unfortunately, one of Andy’s classmates had fallen behind and was stuck in the crowd.  Another member of the swarming mass of people gladly took his spot and snuck into the building with us, pretending to be the fifth person in our group.  He was clearly out of place, and he didn’t even have an appointment, so they would not have seen him once he got to the office, but he saw a chance and he seized it.  Our program coordinator then had to convince the security guard to let our actual fifth member through.  It was like squeezing a watermelon through a hole the size of a grape…

I pretty much like to spend my days alone and line-free.

2. Buying Food Off The Street

My mom and I once bought ice cream from a Mr. Softee truck in New York, and spent the rest of the day bent over with stomach pain.  To say I was skeptical of buying home baked goods from the woman who sold them on the corner of our street every Friday would be an understatement.  I lived in New York for two years—buying open or home baked food from people on the street is a huge no-no.  One week, however, a brave friend of ours tasted some of her wares, and claimed it was some of the best Shabbas food he had ever tasted.  So the next week, Andy and I picked up two challot, and thus began a long and meaningful friendship between Rifka and myself.

The challah, was, indeed, the best challah in Jerusalem, and her potato kugels are addictive.  She even made a few of her dishes gluten free upon request.  We would serve her food to everyone we invited over for meals, and sure enough, they would begin to buy food from her as well. 

Rifka is a religious woman, so I never worried about the kashrut of what she was selling (although I sometimes joked that she probably only dressed that way to sell food on Fridays and actually put lard and shrimp in what she was making).  There were some people, however, who did question her kashrut because she didn’t have someone watching over her preparations at all times.  Furthermore, there is an instant trust and relationship that develops between two Jews, no matter where you are, that allowed us to get to know Rifka and to trust her. 

Rifka had made aliyah five years before, from New Jersey, where she used to write curriculum for a religious day school.  Now she bakes food and sells it on the corner on Fridays (see previous post about how living here is hard).  Although I never knew much more about her than that, Rifka soon began referring to me as her friend, and introducing me that way to some of her other customers.  She said that I reminded her of herself (her exact words: “we’re the same person”) and although she doesn’t have email, she said she would think of me after I left.  On my last Friday morning visit with her, she gave me a parting gift: a havdallah candle.  Actually quite appropriate considering the separation between kodesh (Israel) and chul (America).

I’ve never become friends with a Mr. Softee driver or a soft pretzel vendor, or anyone selling anything on the street for that matter.  It just doesn’t happen.  Mostly because I won’t buy food from people off the street unless it’s sealed, but also because there’s a different culture in Israel—everyone is family. 

1. Crashing a Bat Mitzvah

The most quintessential Israel experience I have had this year occurred on Andy and my fifth day in this very country.  We had spent our third night in the country at Andy’s family’s house in Hod Hasharon, and they tried to convince us to stay an extra night, and to attend a family bat-mitzvah with them the next day, near Jerusalem, after which they would return us home.  Israeli hospitality often looks very similar to being pushy, and refusal on the part of the guest is taken as an insult.  Andy and I were still jetlagged, barely unpacked, and completely unprepared for a bat-mitzvah.  So we returned to the apartment in Jerusalem, with promises that we would see the family at the bat-mitzvah the next day.

The bat-mitzvah was for a cousin of the family we stayed with, whom we had never met.  On the morning of the bat-mitzvah, family members living in Jerusalem picked us up, and we just kind of showed up at the bat-mitzvah.  Although we felt uncomfortable and out of place attending a life event for a person we didn’t know and that we weren’t invited to, everyone else seemed happy to see us and to welcome us.  We attended the morning service as well as the lunch afterwards, and never felt like people didn’t want us there.  Then we returned home and slept.

It is often said of Israelis that they are pushy, chronically late, and show up where they aren’t invited.  I think the stories above illustrate that pretty well.  But I also think they illustrate a sense of connection, of family and friendship, that you could only get in a country full of Jews.  I think this sense of connection and familiarity is what I will miss the most when I return to New York.  For an entire year, I felt as if I were attending a giant family reunion—and now it seems like I’m leaving all my loved ones behind for a life of loneliness and solitude. 

L’hitraot, Israel.  Until we meet again.

Why I volunteer...

The girls I work with after school through ENP’s SPACE program have been reading The Giver for the past couple months.  The book is a dystopian novel about a young boy who becomes disillusioned with his community.  The concepts are difficult to grasp, which often results in more questions than answers, and the language is not easy either.  The girls have been increasingly frustrated with the book each week, even though I remind them each time that The Giver is one of my favorite books.

During my last visit with the girls, they were working on answering some essay questions about the book.  One of the questions asked about the many laws of the society in the book.  The girls had to pick three laws they agreed with, and three they disagreed with, and explain why.  One student noted that she agreed with the law requiring all children to complete a certain amount of volunteer hours before they could be assigned a profession.  She was struggling, however, to articulate why exactly she agreed with it.  We both agreed that required volunteer hours were generally a good thing—but why?

To help her out, I decided to think about my own volunteer experience—sitting in that room, working with the girls to complete their homework, I was doing so in the capacity of a volunteer.  So why do I volunteer?

The truth is, I couldn’t think of an answer.  It’s the right thing to do, it makes us grateful for what we have, it builds character, it helps people learn right from wrong—these are all good reasons for other people to volunteer, but is this why I, personally, volunteer?

The girls had been working hard, and with their gentle urging, I stayed just a little longer, just a little longer, so they could finish their sentence, their paragraph, this question.  When I finally looked at my watch, I had stayed an hour past the time I usually leave.  Each girl had completed two out of their three required questions, and assured me they would be able to complete the third on their own. 

When I left, the girls thanked me profusely, insisting that they could not have completed so much work without me.  They still did not love The Giver, but at least they were beginning to understand the concepts we had discussed.  The girls, probably because they forgot my name, called me “HaMorah” as I exited the room –the direct translation to English is “the teacher,” but it is equivalent to students calling their teacher “Miss.”  It’s a sign of respect for the position you hold based on your experience and age.

 I’m not a teacher, and although I have thought many times about going into education, my degree is actually in social work.  But this one gesture, this one acknowledgement of the role I was there to fill, reminded me why I volunteer.  I volunteer, yes, to teach, but also, and more so, to learn.  I believe that everyone is a teacher, everyone has a lesson to give, a moral to impart on those around them.  I volunteer to learn about the lives and experiences of those around me, in order to gain a better understanding of what it means to be a global citizen.

I believe that through interacting with those different from ourselves, through the sharing and exchange of narratives, we can begin to work towards the betterment of society and the world.  The type of open communication which is fostered by volunteerism is a necessary part of beginning the process to repair the world, which I as a Jew, and as a human, feel the need to participate in.

Although I spent the year teaching 5 Ethiopian-Israeli teens English, they, too, have taught me.  I’ve come away with a deeper sense of what it means to grow up in Israel, and how the many communities that make up Israeli society interact and impact one another (or don’t).  I’ve heard narratives both different from and similar to my own, and I’ve had the opportunity to truly impact the lives of others. Above all else, I have learned that there is always work to be done, something can always be improved, things could always be different.  And there will always be people who need you.  There will always be people to teach, and people to learn from.  We have to open ourselves up to the lessons others are willing to share.

Memorial Day and BBQ's?

It is a feature of any Jewish celebration that we diminish our joy for a moment in order to honor those whom we have lost.  For example, at the Passover seder, when we celebrate freedom, we spill out drops of wine in mourning over the loss of the lives of the Egyptians who enslaved us.  We end every wedding ceremony by stomping on a glass, the shattered pieces reminding us that our joy is never truly complete until the Temple is rebuilt.  So it follows, then, that on the day before we celebrate Yom Ha’atzmaut, Israeli Independence Day, we should spend our time remembering those who have made the ultimate sacrifice to ensure the continued survival of this great nation.

It seems appropriate that Yom HaZikaron, Israel’s Memorial Day which honors fallen soldiers as well as victims of terror attacks, should fall at the end of my year in Israel.  After a year in Israel, I have a connection with the land, the culture, the people—Yom HaZikaron provides a day for us to reflect on what we have and to honor those who have helped to make it possible.  It is also a day to think about what we might lose if it were not for the people we are remembering.  Had Yom HaZikaron been celebrated at the beginning of my time in Israel, I’m not sure it would have the same meaning as it did being celebrated at the end.  I have a year’s worth of thoughts, prayers, reflections, and thanks to offer to the heroes who have fallen in defense of this nation.

Yom HaZikaron is commemorated quite differently in Israel than Memorial Day is celebrated in the United States.  At 8:00pm, a siren sounds for a minute, signifying the beginning of the day.  People make their ways to memorial ceremonies across the country to honor those who have fallen, and no stores or restaurants are open.  Israel is such a new and small country that everyone has lost someone—everyone has someone to remember.  At8:00pm we watched as the cars on King George Street and the people on Ben Yehuda Street paused to remember, and at 8:30, we arrived at a memorial.  We watched a few videos created in honor of soldiers who fell in battle, and although we did not know them personally, I feel like I now know their stories.  The ceremony featured an array of Israeli artists singing songs—most of which I did not understand—but which the crowd knew and joined in with.

When the tekes (ceremony) was over, I stood, with thousands of Israelis, in the plaza just outside City Hall singing Hatikva, the Israeli national anthem, as I watched the flag blowing in the wind.  It was quite the powerful experience—but it could never compare to the next morning, when, at11:00am, as the second siren of Yom HaZikaron sounded for two minutes, I stood shoulder to shoulder with thousands of soldiers, Israelis, Americans, students, parents, and siblings at Har Herzl in two minutes of complete silence, reflecting, remembering, and praying.  I stood by the grave of Michael Levin, z”l, a lone soldier from Philadelphia who I knew through camp and USY, who had made aliyah and fallen during the Second Lebanon War in 2006.  The entire cemetery was packed—there was no room to move, and hardly room to breathe—and the area around Michael was no exception.  His grave was layered high with flowers brought to him by friends, family, lone soldiers, and others who did not know him but were inspired by his story.

After the siren had finished, a girl standing next to me asked if I had known Michael, and I explained that we were both from the Philadelphia area, and involved in the same Jewish activities.  She asked me to share any stories I knew of him—she did not know him personally, but had been so touched by his story that she had come to pay her respects on Israel’s Memorial Day.  It is hard for most Americans, or Jews from any other country, to imagine what Israeli friends and family experience each day as they send their children off to the army, or to war.  Michael’s story has touched so many people in such a powerful way, as to give a glimpse of what Yom HaZikaron is for the rest of Israeli society.  It is to these soldiers, who before they joined the army were just your average teenage boys and girls, that we owe a huge debt of gratitude for defending and protecting Israel so that all Jews throughout the world will have at least one place where they can truly feel safe.

The transition between Yom HaZikaron and Yom Ha’atzmaut is sudden and abrupt—sadness and sorrow turn into all night celebrations of joy and happiness.  As a mental health professional, I’m not sure how healthy it is to experience a day like Yom HaZikaron, which touches everyone’s lives personally, and not to spend time reflecting and processing when it is over, but to instead begin to party and brush the feelings of loss aside.  But I feel that celebrating Israel’s Independence is an important piece of remembering Israel’s fallen—of reminding us that their loss was not in vain.  We should always remember and appreciate what we have, in addition to remembering and honoring the people who helped make it that way.

Throughout the city, there are ceremonies transitioning from the day of remembrance to the day of celebration, and the night echoes with the sounds of fireworks and parties.  Andy and I live near a park, and we noticed families camping out in tents, claiming their barbeque spots for the next morning.  On Yom Ha’atzmaut, we woke up to the smell of lighter fluid and burning charcoals, and began to prepare for our own “American style” Israeli barbeque—one that would take place indoors where we had access to a fridge and all of the comforts of home, instead of outside in the grass.  We hung our Israeli flag with pride and donned our blue and white.

During the day, the IDF (Israeli Defense Forces) put on an air show, showcasing military planes and helicopters completing tricks and choreographed moves.  The planes flew low over our neighborhood, and we watched in amazement from the roof. 

At the end of the day, I was not only physically, but also emotionally exhausted.  My emotions had yo-yoed back and forth and it was time for me to even out.  If this year has confirmed anything for me, it is that I am a Zionist.  Although I may not agree with all of Israel’s policies, I recognize the need for a Jewish State to exist, hopefully in a form that allows for peaceful existence with our neighbors.  I am so proud of and grateful to all of my friends who have served in or are currently serving in the IDF—thank you. 

I hope this will not be my last Yom HaZikaron/Yom Ha’atzmaut in Israel.

Next Year in Manhattan

Each year we end the Passover seder by expressing our hope that we will be celebrating Passover “next year in Jerusalem.”  Last year, I had the unique opportunity to recite these four familiar words and actually mean them—I knew with complete certainty that I would be celebrating my next Passover in Jerusalem. 

The end of the seder this year was bittersweet for me.  I recited those words with a twinge of melancholy, knowing that next year’s seder will be in Manhattan.  In fact, I have no idea when I’ll be back in Israel.

In many ways, these four words symbolized the end of the year for me, shaking me out of the slump that had been plaguing my mind about how to fill my time.  Suddenly, I did not still have four weeks left, but rather, I only had four weeks left.  Between volunteering, babysitting, visiting family and friends, and accompanying Andy on his tiyuls, how would I possibly have time to do the things I wanted to do?  The things that wide-eyed, optimistic Michelle who landed at Ben Gurion had hoped to accomplish, but which cynical, exhausted Michelle who has obligations and commitments had forgotten about.

In ulpan many months ago, we read a short story about a cobbler who works well into the evening, after the end of the work day, after everyone has gone home.  The Mayor of the town, making his rounds to the townspeople, stumbled upon this man working well into the night, by the diminishing light of a candle he had lit.  When the Mayor asked him why he was still working, the cobbler replied “All the while the candle is burning, there is time to work”.  (It’s cooler in Hebrew).  Essentially, it’s never too late.

I may only have a few weeks left of my time in Jerusalem, but as long as I’m here, there is time to do, see, learn, explore, experience.  I must take advantage of every opportunity, because next year, I will not be in Jerusalem.

The ULTIMATE staring-contest

Living in Jerusalem this year is a painful reminder of how I interact with people who are different from myself.  In fact, pretty much everywhere I have gone this year—to the zoo, out to eat, to the supermarket—I am reminded that I need to be more kind and considerate towards others.  Wherever I go, I don’t just feel that people are staring at me, I see them staring at me.  It’s not only children who do the staring, but also adults.  Sometimes they will stop what they are doing and stand, open-mouthed, watching me pass by.  And no, it’s not some weird back-handed compliment.  I’m being stared at because I’m dressed differently than the people staring at me.  The truth is, I’m not the only woman in Jerusalem who wears pants, short sleeves, shorts, or even a cute sundress from time to time.  For some reason, though, it seems like many children and adults are seeing these fashions for the first time when they see me.

Twice a week, I dress more modestly (not that what I usually wear isn’t modest), in order to volunteer at two religious institutions.  When I’m wearing long skirts, long sleeves, and have my hair covered (the mark of a married woman), no one stares.  No one bothers me.  And random men on Ben Yehuda Street certainly do not approach me and ask if they can take me for drinks in the middle of the afternoon (yes—this really did happen).

In the midst of my frustration at being made to feel like a social pariah, and despite the fun I sometimes have experimenting with how to respond (everything from staring back, to saying “hi” or “can I help you,” to simply ignoring them, depending on my mood), I am often reminded of times when I have been guilty of the same interactions towards others.  I am not a perfect person, and I don’t pretend to be—there have been times when I have judged someone based on what they are wearing, or stared at someone who looked or was dressed differently.  After having been on the receiving end of it, I am more aware of my actions and will make a conscious effort to stop.

The ironic thing is I’m not so different from the people who are staring at me.  I, too, am an observant Jew.  I am shomer Shabbat and shomer kashrut.  I try to live my life ashalachly (abiding by Jewish laws) as possible, and I try to incorporate middot (Jewish values) into everything I do.  Although we may have different interpretations of what it means to be a halachic Jew, or what it means to live a life full of Jewish values, we’re still trying to do the same thing.  There are those who would take one look at me and determine that I am not Jewish, regardless of what I say, do, or what laws I observe, and I would be happy to have a conversation with anyone who is curious about why I call myself an observant Jew and still dress the way I do.  But, people fear things they do not understand, things that are different from themselves, so the only people I have spoken to about my wardrobe choices are Andy (quite reluctantly) and some friends.  Dialogue is important for understanding—staring is counter intuitive and accomplishes nothing. 

Despite my sometimes being curious about others around me, I have been fortunate enough to have interacted with a number of people whose experiences vary wildly from my own.  I know I need to experience more, to interact with even more people.  Growing up in what I call the “Jewish bubble” made it difficult for me to obtain these experiences, so I sought them out on my own once I was mature enough to realize their value.   Motivated by the desire to continue the Jewish tradition, we often seek out people similar to ourselves, settling in Jewish neighborhoods where parents send their children to Jewish day school, Jewish camp, and Jewish youth groups—some Jews grow up never knowing that Jews are, in fact, a persecuted minority.  Some Jews grow up never interacting with people different from themselves, never knowing that other people even exist.  As far as I can tell, there are people of all cultures who grow up isolated and insulated, but I’m choosing to focus on Jews because Jews are the ones staring at me, and the Jewish experience is one I know something about.

Despite the proven success of these organizations at creating Jewish marriages, and developing committed Jewish children, isolating ourselves has consequences.  Without exposure to other people, we fail to learn how to treat others who are different from ourselves.  We learn to fear, or hate, or resent them—and the only societies in which we can safely and comfortably function are those sheltered “Jewish bubbles”.  That’s not the way of the world anymore—no two people are the same, have the same narrative and experiences, the same wants and desires.  We need to learn to interact with all types of people, to treat all people with respect.  That’s part of what it means to be a human, part of the responsibility we inherited when we were born.

There are some, I would imagine, who cling to the idea of the Jews as the “chosen people” to justify their living as a separate nation.  I would offer this: what if the Jews were “chosen” to be an example of how to treat others, of what it means to give each other dignity and respect, of how to make the world your community?  Perhaps we’re not supposed to be separate at all, but rather, examples of the love and compassion that one person can have for another.  

But whose counting anyway...

I haven’t woken up before eight o’clock in the morning this entire year, but one day a few weeks ago, I dragged myself out of bed at the insane hour of 6:15 am.  After brushing my teeth and getting dressed, I left the apartment and headed out to morning minyan (weekday prayer service)—my first of the year.  As I walked down the middle of the empty streets, rocking out to my iPod, I noticed two Haredi men (ultra-Orthodox) walking behind me.  I figured they were probably awake so early for the same reason I was awake so early—to help make a minyan.  We would, of course, not be going to the same place, but our ultimate goals were the same.  I had a friend who needed to recite the Mourner’s Kaddish (an affirmation of belief in G-d after experiencing a loss) for a loved one, and I wanted to ensure that there would be a minyan (a minimum of 10 people required for a Jewish service) so that she would be able to do so. 

When services started, there were 11 women present, and only 9 men.  Had we been davening at a shul which does not count women as part of a minyan, my friend would not have been able to say Kaddish until at least one more man showed up to services, despite there being well over the needed 10 people present.  More traditional synagogues require 10 men in order to conduct services, not 10 people.  But then again, at a congregation that only considers men as worthy of counting in a minyan, my female friend would not have been able to fulfill her obligation of reciting Kaddish and honoring the memory of her loved one, because only men have that obligation. 

By the end of services, there were at least 30 people present; well over the needed number for a minyan.  And even though I wasn’t necessarily needed in order to ensure that my friend could engage in the traditional act of remembering a loved one each year on the anniversary of that person’s death, I felt good about being able to be there for her.  I knew that if everyone had the attitude of “oh, someone else will show up”, then no one would show up.  Requiring 10 people to be present during the recitation of the Kaddish is one of the ways that Jewish tradition reminds us of the importance of community.  During difficult times, like the anniversary of a loved one’s passing, Jews have not only the privilege, but also the obligation, to create a supportive community for each other.

But the issue of language is troubling, as more traditional Jews choose to understand the term “man,” as it is written in the Torah, as exactly a man, while more liberal strains of Judaism understand “man” as a gendered form of “person”, a word for which a gender-neutral option does not exist in Biblical Hebrew (or modern Hebrew for that matter).  The way a person chooses to understand this term has far-reaching implications for the treatment of all members of the Jewish community. 

A man, by virtue of his being a man, counts in a minyan in whatever setting he is praying, regardless of his intentionality, faith, or behavior in that situation.  A woman, on the other hand, could have all the devotion and intentionality in the world, but must seek out specific congregations in order to be considered part of the minyan.  For example, a man, by virtue of his being a man, could walk into any congregation and count in the minyan, even if he refused to wear a tallit (the traditional religious prayer shawl) and spent all of services reading a magazine.  Although he was not really participating in the davening, he was still considered part of it.  A woman, by virtue of her being a woman, may find davening to be spiritually rewarding and may feel that it helps her connect to G-d, but would not be counted in a minyan, regardless of her desire to participate.  Although she intends to participate in the davening, she is not considered an actual part of the community.  Furthermore, if she has chosen to take on the obligation of wearing the tallit each day, she must seek out specific communities in which she is welcome to do so—communities whose validity is often questioned by other, more religious sects of Judaism.

I have already explored, in a previous post, why the language of gender and obligation bothers me, and why I feel it is important for both men and women to have an equal opportunity to participate in mitzvot, so I won’t mention it again.  I will say, however, that it is counter intuitive to the entire idea of prayer (see previous post on self-reflection) when a man with the ability to be spiritually and emotionally present at a minyan chooses to exclude himself by his actions, but is still included as part of the community, while a woman who very much wants to be part of the community, and demonstrates this by attending services, and wearing tallit and teffillin, is excluded by others regardless of her more appropriate state of spiritual and emotional availability.  In my mind, services require the presence of a minyan, not just the existence of one. 

On another note, I also believe that denying the validity of a woman reciting the Kaddish has serious and far-reaching implications for her mental and emotional health, but that is for another post…

Yom HaShoah

Israelis never stop for anything.  They are constantly moving, yelling, pushing you out of the way so they can get to where they are going.  At 10:00am on Yom HaShoah(Holocaust Remembrance Day), a siren wails for one minute, and Israelis stop what they are doing, standing still for the entire time, in remembrance of the victims and in honor of the survivors of the Holocaust. 

At 9:55am on Yom Hashoah, I positioned myself on a balcony that overlooks a busy intersection of Jerusalem in order to witness the memorial for myself.  Many others had the same idea—from parents with little children, to teenage girls at seminary, to older adults for whom the ceremony might have a more personal meaning than it does for me. 

At 9:58am, cars were still honking at each other as they drove through the intersection.

At 9:59am, drivers began opening their car doors, standing beside their cars, in the middle of the road, in anticipation of the siren. 

At 10:00am, the siren sounded.  Traffic stopped.  Any remaining driver or passenger opened his/her door and stood solemnly next to his/her car, in a minute of quite reflection, thought, and prayer.  No one moved.  It was beautiful. 

I cried.

At 10:01am, the siren stopped, and the drivers got back into their cars and continued on their way.  When I finally gathered myself together and began to walk home, I noticed that my fellow observers had already left.  I crossed the street into my neighborhood, and life had resumed as usual, as if nothing had ever happened.  I was a bawling, snotty mess as I walked home, but no one stopped me to see if I was okay.  On any other day, I would not have expected anyone to, but I thought, maybe today… People just looked at me as I walked by, maybe in pity, maybe in empathy, or maybe just because I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt in what is quickly becoming a religious neighborhood.

I have never cried at a Holocaust memorial service before.  Growing up, I read a lot of books written about the Holocaust—memoirs as well as fiction.  When I was 15, I traveled with USY Pilgrimage to Poland, for a grueling and emotional 10 day tour of the ghettos, camps, and mass graves that litter the horizon.  After that, Holocaust museums and services never really affected me in the same way—how could they even compare to what I had seen?  (Which can barely represent the entirety of what actually happened). 

I had entered (and exited) the gas chambers, I had walked along the train tracks, feeling stuck as I tried to leave the Birkenau concentration camp, I had seen the pile of ashes of people who should have been, and I mourned their losses everywhere I went.  Worse than Majdanek, a camp which, it is well known, could be fully functional within 24 hours, were the camps of which nothing more remained than a large field with some bicycle tracks running through them.  For these camps, there is no marker of what once stood there, no proof besides memories and recollection of the atrocities that took place.  Camps like these fuel the fire of Holocaust deniers.  What will the future generations know of what took place here?  How can they possibly begin to understand, when no survivors are left to tell their stories, and all we have are fields of grass?

And how could I, after having seen all of these things at 15, possibly be moved by a museum or a memorial service?   But today I was.  There is something so powerful in the entire sensory experience of what took place today—hearing the siren, seeing life stop for a minute, feeling the way we do when we allow ourselves to really think about what happened.  It’s powerful and overwhelming.

Until today, the Yom Hashoah memorial services I had attended in the United States had always taken place in Hebrew school.  We lit candles, said the Kaddish (the one with the names of the camps inserted in between each word), and sometimes we wore gold stars in solidarity or watched the movie Paperclips.  I had never experienced a memorial on a national level, and if one even exists other than the museums and monuments littered throughout the country, I am unaware of it.  But today I witnessed an entire nation stop for one minute to remember—a memory that lives in the collective conscience of Jews and other persecuted groups not just in Israel, but throughout the world.

This is what it means to be a Jewish State.

This, the act of remembering—as an entire unit, an entire nation—the narrative which tugs at the heart strings of everyone who lives here, the events which directly or indirectly resulted in the formation of this very nation; this is what it means to be a Jewish State.

At 10:36am I finished writing this blog post. 

Each Day is a Gift

There’s a synagogue near our apartment that is well known for its spirited Kabbalat Shabbat service.  The Kabbalat Shabbat service is a collection of psalms sung at sundown Friday evening to welcome in the Sabbath, often represented by the image of a bride.  One of the most popular melodies for the Kabbalat Shabbat service was composed by Shlomo Carlbach.  These tunes are energetic and upbeat, and lend themselves to dancing in the aisles. 

The shul near our apartment is little and unassuming—if you weren’t looking for it, you would walk right by it.  In fact, I had walked by it many times before finally deciding to give services there a try one Friday night.  Although I had arrived early, before services had started, I watched as the women’s section of the synagogue filled up—by the end of services, women were standing in the aisle, from the back of the building all the way to the door in the front.  The little shul came alive that Friday night with a ruach(spirit) I have never seen matched.  The closest thing I can compare it to is perhaps opening ceremonies for International Convention for USY, or a particularly joyous wedding.  Each psalm rang out, loud and spirited, and continued for five to ten minutes as the entire building hummed the melody even after all of the words had been said.  A peek through the mechitzah (divider) revealed the men dancing in circles, arms around each other, banging loudly on a table to keep the beat.

“Why aren’t the women dancing?” my mom asked me.  “Why can’t we have fun too?”

I was actually really enjoying myself, dancing or not, but I could see her point.  Although the women were singing with an unrivaled ruach, their dancing remained on a personal level, each woman bobbing alone at her seat.  And then, one woman, a large smile on her face, grabbed the women sitting near her and began to form a circle, singing, clapping, and dancing to the beat.  Andy would call this woman a Nachshon.  Nachshon was the name of the first man who walked into the Red Sea after the Exodus from Egypt—even before the Sea had parted.  Midrash tells us that it is because of Nachshon’s faith and leadership that the Sea eventually did part.

My mom and I did not dance with the other women that night, but we sang with them and joined in their spirit.

A few months later, I returned to the synagogue with a few friends.  We arrived early—after watching how quickly the little shul filled up last time, I did not want to risk not having a seat.  I was enjoying the upbeat melodies and spirit of the service when one of my friends turned to me and asked “When does the party start?”  (I had promised her a party for Shabbat services).  I was surprised that she had not considered the singing we had done so far a party.

Almost as if on cue, the Nachshon-ette from the last time, who happened to be sitting behind us that week, tapped us on the shoulder and encouraged us to join her and her friends in a circle.  We quickly cleared our chairs for room for a horah.  Slowly but surely, our circle was joined by some of the women around us—we even had the honor of dancing with a woman who would be getting married on Sunday.

“Where else in the world would you sing and dance around chairs on a Friday night?” asked Nachshon-ette.  Her smile radiated throughout the little room and her spirit was infectious.  She truly embodied the joy with which we are encouraged the greet Shabbat, the Sabbath bride.  The evening was beautiful, invigorating, and re-energizing.  After a stressful week of work and obligations, 10 women who I had never met before reminded me to celebrate life, and the joy that each day brings.  To celebrate the good that we are given.

“I couldn’t do this every week,” one of my friends said. “But this week, it was perfect.”

But what if—what if we did do that every week?  That little shul does, and I’m willing to bet Nachshon-ette is there each week, with the same energy and spark.  Better yet, what if we greeted each day the way we greet Shabbat?  Not with a mumbled Modeh Ani, thanking G-d for returning our breaths and souls to our bodies, but with sheer joy and elation.  With a true of feeling of celebration, greeting each new morning as the gift that it is.  What if we literally sang our praise out loud, and danced around the room, putting to use the ruach that was granted to us that morning?  Would Shabbat be any less special?  I don’t think so—each morning we can celebrate on our own, garnering spirit from ourselves and our gratefulness—and each Shabbat we can join together to sing and dance around chairs in a true display of joy and happiness.  What if we greeted each day the way we greet Shabbat?

I’m willing to bet that our days would be more positive and that we would be better people for it.

I don’t know if I’ll see Nachshon-ette again—I suppose I may attend services at that little shul at least once more before I leave Israel—but she’s got the right idea, and I think it’s an idea worth spreading.

Self-Reflection

After many years involved in the Jewish world, I’ve been to my fair share of services.  Some are long, some are short, some are engaging, and some are… well, not.  As the regional vice president for religion and education programming in my high school youth group, I even timed the daily evening service to prove to my region we could do it in less than 10 minutes.  We got it down to eight.

Jews are supposed to pray 3 times a day, but not everyone does (I certainly don’t).  This year, many of the services I choose to attend, or find myself attending, have been completed quickly, almost rote, without much meaning or time to reflect built in.  It’s like we’re saying, “we know we have to do it, so we’ll do the bare minimum and just get it done.”  But services devoid of meaning don’t work for me—I might as well not be praying at all, if I don’t have time to make the service meaningful for myself.

The Hebrew word for praying is a reflexive verb—it’s something we do to ourselves.  I’m beginning to wonder whether we should be praying just to get it over with, or if we should truly be embracing the reflective nature of prayer.  Maybe it’s not that we’re supposed to pray three times a day by reciting the same old formula day in and day out, but maybe we’re supposed to truly check in with ourselves three times a day. 

We should ask ourselves, how am I feeling right now?  What do I need?  What do I want?  What am I thinking about?  I’m beginning to wonder if, instead of reciting prayers three times a day, the idea is to truly check in with ourselves and take time for person reflection three times a day.

We often hear of the benefits of mindfulness—of being in touch with our beliefs and thoughts—and it seems to me that G-d might have been aware of them too.  Many of the Jewish rituals have both physical and spiritual benefits—for example, washing our hands before we eat, and taking a full 25 hours each week to rest.  G-d seems to know what’s good for us.  I’m going to choose to understand praying three times a day not as praising G-d three times a day using words whose meanings have been so worn out by repetition, but instead as the self-reflective verb that it is.  By truly checking in with myself three times a day, I believe I can add meaning and spirituality to every day of my life, even if I’m not attending minyan.

The city we live in...

Recently, a lot of web pages have been surfacing about what to do if you are beginning to fall out of love with the city you live in.  And the truth is, they couldn’t have come at a more perfect time.  I remember seeing a graphic describing culture shock many years ago when I studied abroad in Martinique.  There’s the initial spike of absolute love and fascination with the country and its culture, then a sharp drop where your mind overcorrects and you begin to resent the new place where you are living—eventually the love plateaus and the magic of the new place wears off, becoming the simple ups and downs of everyday life in any culture.

I remember thinking, “that’s ridiculous, it won’t happen to me.”  And I also remember after about two weeks, beginning to resent many of the cultural differences between the United States and Martinique.  Although I recall my time there fondly, and would love to return one day, I remember that when it was time for me to go home, I was ready to go home.

Throughout the year, this blog has been a place for me to share my honest impressions and reflections of my time here.  In keeping this blog, I’ve discovered that I have opinions, thoughts, and things to say about issues that I had previously kept quiet.  And I’ve shared them here, to an extremely supportive and positive readership.  So if I’m going to be honest and share my opinion, the truth is—I’m ready to go home.

Ever since I got here, I’ve heard people repeat the same mantra: “Living in this country is hard.”  But in the beginning of the year, I wasn’t living here—I was exploring, learning, playing, experiencing.  After the High Holidays and a few wrong turns in my search for some paying work, I have fallen into a routine.  Granted, it’s a flexible routine that can easily be changed, manipulated, or overturn, but it’s a routine none the less.  And somewhere between waking up at the same time each day, and doing the same thing each day, I found myself with about two months left of this experience, exhausted, frustrated, and ready to go home.

There are days when I don’t feel like getting out of bed, or when I spend the whole day in my apartment, feeling sick.  I’m frustrated with many aspects of living here—the expenses, the healthcare, the culture of the people around me, the fact that I don’t speak this language.  I’m sick of the clothes I’ve brought with me, and I’m ready to get back home to the clothes I left in the States.  I’ve hit a slump, and Jerusalem, for me, has lost its magic.

Does it mean that I’m wasting my time here, if I’m not doing something new and exciting every day?  I don’t think so.  Andy and I did a lot of exploring in the beginning of the year—and now we, and our wallets, are worn out.  Jerusalem is no longer our playground; it’s our home.  We’re here, yes, to grow, to learn, and to explore, but mostly, we’re here to live.  And that’s what we’re doing.  We’re comfortable in our surroundings and our experiences—instead of being new and exciting, much of Jerusalem is just like any other city I’ve lived in.  A city I live in.  And living here is hard. 

The City of David

Last week I was fortunate enough to accompany Andy and his classmates on another tiyul (trip).  This time, we went to Ir David (City of David), a large archeological park that researchers believe to be the location of King David’s palace, and the ancient Jerusalem referred to in the Bible.  This site is also the location of Hezikayah’s Tunnel—the attraction that allows tourists to walk through a tiny ancient underground tunnel in complete darkness, in water up to their waists.  It shouldn’t come as a surprise to any of you that when I was offered the opportunity to participate in this insanity during my Pilgrimage trip when I was 16, I faked sick and opted out.  Luckily, on the tiyul with Andy’s class, we took the dry route out of the tunnel.

We spent a lot of time exploring the ruins, and learning about what ancient life might have been like.  Our tour guide had brought with him passages from the Tanach (Hebrew Bible) which mention the very location where we were standing.  I’m sure for the people who understood the passages and knew what they were looking at, it was pretty cool.  But I’m not a rabbinical student, and although I thought the old stuff was pretty cool, ever since I went to Rome, I’m just slightly less impressed.  I was more interested in the politics around the location, and the juxtaposition of the old and the new.  Me, interested in politics?  I know, weird.

Since people believe that this is where ancient Jerusalem stood, many Jews try to settle in the area.  It really is a tourist site right underneath a residential area.  One of the hardships with that, however, is the fact that the site is located in a bustling East Jerusalem town that is home to Arab families.  Our tour guide explained that the two religions live in peace, and in tension.  I think that pretty much makes sense for any city in Israel.  The site itself is privately run by an organization known for shady practices aimed at buying the Arabs out, and putting the Jews back in.

While at Ir David, we walked through many underground tunnels, and squeezed through narrow pathways.  When we finally resurfaced, I had forgotten what daylight looked like.  We had gathered in an area, waiting for the rest of our group to catch up, and giving everyone a chance to catch their breaths, when we heard (and saw) a few gun shots fired from the nearby town.  We all looked around at each other, wondering what was going on, and I’m sure my face betrayed my fear.  After all, we were a group of Jews walking around a political hotbed in East Jerusalem.  A number of students, more culturally versed than I am, explained that it is a tradition in some Arab families to fire rifles into the air in celebration of a wedding.  Suddenly, the gun shots weren’t scary so much as they were joyous.  It’s sort of amazing the way we assign meaning to different actions.  Throughout this discussion, however, our tour guide remained silent, even though I felt that he might have been able to elaborate a little more.

A few meters up the hill (yes, I measure things in meters now), we stopped to discuss an inscription taken out of the tunnel and displayed on a wall outside.  About halfway into the tour guide’s explanation, the village just behind us began to echo with the Muslim call to prayer.  There must have been at least 5 different calls sounding, each with their own unique tune and voice.  The results were astounding—each of the calls to prayer echoing each other and filling the valley with a very public display of faith and religiosity.  It was the type of thing that a bunch of rabbinical students could surely find interesting.  It’s the type of thing I would love to have listened to for the duration of the 5 or 10 minutes that it lasted.  At the very least, a moment of silence would have been appropriate out of respect for another’s faith.

But our tour guide kept talking—right through the call to prayer—and kept talking even after it was finished.  He never addressed it, but instead acted like nothing had happened.  Maybe it was a political statement (I’m coming to realize that everything is a political statement in this country whether you intend it to be or not).  But the truth is, no one benefited from his ignoring of a beautiful ritual of another religion.  I, for one, am not ashamed to admit that I completely tuned out the tour guide and instead focused on the sounds filling the air of the village next to us.  They were overwhelming and awe-inspiring.  And I know that I am not the only one who stopped listening to the tour guide.  As for the students who continued to listen to the tour guide, it must have been difficult for them to hear and pay attention.  No one benefitted from the tour guide’s actions—the students who wanted to listen to the call to prayer and maybe do some thinking on their own could not focus because of the tour guide’s talking, and the students who wanted to hear what the tour guide had to say could not focus because of the call to prayer.  It resulted in wasted breath on the tour guide’s behalf and loss of information on the students’ behalf.

And I am disappointed.  I would have thought that a tour guide, who is intimately familiar with the land and its significance, would have at least acknowledged the amazing religious ritual we had all unintentionally become a part of.  We were standing in the alleged ancient city of Jerusalem, and witnessing an ancient religious practice that had continued through to today—linking the old and the new with the rope of religion.  I always talk about the oneness of human kind—how we are all connected, searching for the same things.  I was upset that our tour guide could not have been bothered to take a few minutes to catch his breath and acknowledge the intimate way we are all linked, while standing on such holy land.  I think it’s important for acceptance and education not to waste opportunities like that.

Oh—our tour guide did say one thing about the call to prayer: “I guess it’s time for Mincha (the Jewish afternoon prayer service)”.  We never did daven Mincha.