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!

Majestic Views

Most people know that Jerusalem is holy to three major religions—Christianity, Islam, and Judaism—but we often forget to talk about the other religions that consider Israel to be a holy spot.  Andy and I visited one of these holy places a few days ago when we spent some time in Haifa.  I am talking, of course, about the Baha’i Gardens.  The gardens are considered one of the holiest places in the world to the Baha’i religion, and surround the Shrine of the Báb, which is the final resting place for one of the prophets of the Baha’i faith.  The gardens are carved into 19 terraces, which extend all the way up the side of Mount Carmel.  The gravel paths, stone walkways, indigenous trees and plants, and the fountains of flowing water all lend to a view that is serene, relaxing, and extremely moving.  More than once, I was almost moved to tears.

Our visit to the Baha’i Gardens was not the first time that I have had a deeply moving and spiritual experience at a site considered holy to a religion other than my own.  When I visited Israel in May 2011, I was fortunate enough to experience the Church of the Holy Sepulcher through the eyes of one of my Catholic friends.  We toured the church with the group, and then split up, waiting in line with a few others to enter what Christians believe to be Jesus’s tomb.  The art, the architecture, the structure and design of the church lend itself to an imposing and awe-inspiring image, which is enhanced when, at various intervals, monks from different sects enter the church together humming hymns of praise which echo throughout the building.

Both of these experiences help remind me that religion is fluid—a way of relating to a power higher than yourself as a means of explaining the unexplainable, and finding comfort in the unknown.  I think one of the most powerful things a religious person can do is to be moved by the religious experiences and holy sites of other religions.  After all, we are all just lost souls sharing the same journey and the same path, trying to make sense of a very confusing world.  I hope to have more deeply moving and spiritual experiences throughout my year here—not just at Jewish holy sites, but at holy sites to many different religions.  

Motza"Sh

In New York, if I want to get ice cream or dinner after Shabbat or chag (which I usually do), all I need to do is walk out of my apartment after doing Havdalah, walk down the street and find somewhere to eat.  This is because most of the restaurants (even some of the kosher ones) are open all throughout Shabbat and the holidays, and have been operational even while shomer-Shabbat Jews have been doing the Shabbat thing.  Andy and I learned the hard way that in Jerusalem, this is not the case.  A few weeks ago, we ran out shortly after Shabbat ended to pick up a few things that we needed for the apartment.  We actually wound up sitting around waiting for about an hour, because the store hadn’t even opened yet!  If you want ice cream or dinner in Jerusalem after chag, you’re going to have to wait while the shop owners (many of whom are shomer-Shabbat themselves) end Shabbat, get in their cars, and drive to work for the first time in 25 hours.  They will need to set up their businesses for the night before you will be able to get your snack or ice cream. 

In the States, I always just took it for granted that society continued to function as usual on Saturday, and that I might be missing out on something.  Living in Jerusalem and being shomer-Shabbat, however, has actually allowed me to function as part of society on Saturdays, since most stores and restaurants are closed, and all of the people in my neighborhood are doing the same things I’m doing—walking to shul, hosting meals, and spending the day with friends and family.  Sure, you might see some cars on the roads, and some non-Kosher restaurants might be open, but society as a whole in Jerusalem is observing Shabbat.  Even though I have to wait an hour after Shabbat to get ice cream or sushi, I really enjoy being greeted by a store owner saying “shavua tov” (the traditional after-Shabbat greeting wishing everyone a good week), instead of feeling like I’m a joining a race already in progress.

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.