Definitely not Chinese food and movies

Jewish holidays in Israel are always special. There's something about celebrating a holiday that is usually a minority holiday, but to do it surrounded by others who are also celebrating. Chanukah in Jerusalem was no exception. Pardes was on vacation for the week, and I stayed in Jerusalem, taking the opportunity to wander around the city (and eat LOTS of sufganiyot). One night I went with some other friends from school to see the hanukkiyah lighting at the Kotel. Chanukah means rededication in Hebrew, referring to the rededication of the Temple after the Greeks trashed it and used it for idolatry. Despite my conflicted feelings about the Kotel, it was exciting to celebrate Chanukah there, where it actually happened. After, we wandered through the Jewish Quarter of the Old City to see the hanukkiyot, which are often displayed in windows or even outside of homes in the twisting alleys of the Rova, in fulfillment of the mitzvah of publicizing the Chanukah miracle. The atmosphere was something akin to going to the neighborhood with the best Christmas lights and decoration. There were tour guides leading secular Israeli families through the neighborhood, explaining the customs.

The hanukkiyah at the Kotel on the 6th night of Chanukah

lots of hanukkiyot in the Old City

Even so, I was missing Christmas, and there was always the reminder in the back of my head that Chanukah was not the only winter holiday being celebrated here. There were small reminders - plastic Christmas trees on sale at the Tel Aviv Central Bus Station, a story on Israeli radio during evening hour about Jews writing Christmas songs. So on Thursday afternoon, following the theme of celebrating winter holidays where they actually happened, I traveled with (a very large group of Jews) to Bethlehem for Christmas. Sara's roommate Katie was playing clarinet at a mass at the Lutheran Christmas Church. The mass was mostly in English, with a good chunk of Arabic, including a children's choir singing in Arabic. The mass was really beautiful, and felt universal and familiar even though it wasn't my prayers, my music, or even entirely in my language. One part of the service in particular really spoke to me, the "prayers of intercession." The prayers were read in 8 different languages, and were incredibly universal (except for the Jesus references).

(English)

Almighty God, long ago you made this holy night shine with the brightness of your true light. We thank you for gathering us in this holy city of Bethlehem. We pray now for deepened faith. We pray for Peace and Justice for God's people in every place. By your Holy Spirit, lead us beyond the manger to serve as your peacemakers in this land and throughout the world.

(Arabic)

For all those in Palestine and Israel - those who have been here for generations, those who have more recently arrived and those who are visiting as pilgrims. Open hearts and minds to see your grace that brings hope, healing, and opportunity to all people.

(Burmese)

For all those who are imprisoned - by walls, wars, and public policies that humiliate and discourage. We pray for those enduring a long wait for freedom. Especially we remember those you will not forget - political prisoners and refugees.

(English)

For all those who live in abundance - that they might know the joy of simplicity and sharing. Grant us peace that only you can give. Give us what we need - despite what we think we want.

(German)

We pray for the leaders in government, especially those who serve in Palestine and Israel. Inspire them to uphold the truth, lift the yoke of oppression, and work for justice for all your people. Grant dignity to all women and men, boys and girls.

(Finnish)

We pray for those whose voices are stilled - victims of violence, neglect or abuse. Bring hope to those torn from their homes and land. Give voice so all people of the world can hear, care and advocate for those who are suffering.

(Swedish)

For the newborn, the elderly, the sick, and all who depend on the care of others - especially those whose names we lift in the silence...That they may find places of nurture, and be comforted by the birth of the Christ child.

(Japanese)

For all those who look to this holy but troubled land, grant the full revelation of Jesus, our Savior, who brings hope and salvation, and makes us one.

Trusting in your mercy, O Saving God, we commend to you all for whom we pray, through the one born among us, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

the inside of Lutheran Christmas Church

singing Silent Night with candles

After the service, we walked to dinner, detouring through the craziness that was Manger Square. Bethlehem was (not surprisingly) CROWDED. Tons of traffic, tons of people, tons of PA security. At first I was uncomfortable with the amount of armed security (they were very present and visible), but it was really the same amount that there would be for any large public event of that scale in Jerusalem. Even so, this region of the world really likes its guns and military.

Manger Square

Dinner was salatim and pita - definitely not traditional Christmas dinner, for neither the Jews nor the Christians in our group. But it was definitely delicious, and around 10pm, the lights of the restaurant dimmed, and SANTA CAME! It was interesting to see that Santa is the same in Bethlehem, despite the fact that his suit is definitely not meant for the Middle East in December (today's high was 74 degrees...).

It's really easy to get caught up in Jerusalem's challenges as a Jewish city, what that means, how it plays out, how the city can be home to a plurality of Jews. But this city, and this land, is holy and special to those of many different religions.

Everybody loves babies...

Everybody loves babies in Jerusalem. They're everywhere. Two stories from my trip home tonight:

I was in line to pay at the Superpharm (like CVS) at the Central Bus Station in Jerusalem. The woman in front of me got a call that her prescription was ready at the other counter, said something quickly to me in Hebrew and left. I wasn't really paying attention, and figured she was just telling me she was still in line, and had left her cart...until I looked down and saw that it wasn't her shopping cart, it was her baby's stroller. With the baby inside. Anywhere else, this would be a reason to be concerned for the baby's safety. In Jerusalem, I cooed at a strange woman's child for 5 minutes, until she came back and went on with her day.

On the bus back home from the CBS, there was a group of guys, I'd estimate in their late teens. These boys were interested in coming across as tough - hats on backwards, low pants, wearing tank top undershirts with unzipped jackets over them. You know the look. A young mother came on the bus with her baby boy, and these teens started smiling at and making faces at the little baby. No embarrassment to be caught being so unabashedly into babies in front of their friends, the boys kept on smiling at and playing with the baby for the duration of the bus ride.

הגיע זמן לקחת אחריות - The Time Has Arrived to Take Responsibility

I went on two tiyulim (trips) the week before last that revealed two very different slices of life in Israel and the territories, slices of life that are hard to catch glimpses of.

South Tel Aviv

On Thursday, I traveled to Tel Aviv with the social justice track, to learn about the issues surrounding migrant workers, refugees, and the sex trade in Tel Aviv and in Israel. Our guide, John Mark, a Pardes alum and a lawyer who used to work for the UN High Commissioner on Refugees, led us around the neighborhoods immediately surrounding the Central Bus Station, a bus station that I have traveled in and out of several times without being aware of the multitude of populations that live around it, beyond a basic knowledge that it is not a neighborhood to be in alone late at night. We walked through the bus station itself, and noted the businesses run by and catering to various segments of the immigrant community - the Hebrew disappeared, travel agencies to homelands in Asia and Africa proliferated, as did grocery stores selling the junk foods of someone else's home. John Mark told us the complicated history of African refugees in Israel - many of whom have not received refugee status.

We walked down a street that John Mark described as the social center for the Tel Aviv immigrant community. I had seen it from the other end, the end right next to the bus station, many times, but had never walked down it. We visited a cafe owned by a Sudanese refugee, and heard another refugee from the Sudan, Ismail, tell his story. Ismail owns a small electronics shop in that same commercial area. He fled from the Sudan to Egypt with his family, but Egypt gives no rights to refugees - they cannot work or educate their children. He and his family illegally crossed the border to Israel in the middle of night. Ismail told us that when Israeli soldiers found him and his family, it was the first time he had an encounter with soldiers or police in which he was not kicked or slapped before questioning even started. The soldiers gave his kids water to drink, brought the whole family to the military base, where the kids were fed and received medical check-ups. For me, hearing this story was a confirmation of the image of the Israeli military that I had heard about growing up, an image that is continually challenged today.

Ismail's electronics shop in South Tel Aviv

Two summers ago, the summer of 2007, the Darfur refugee issue received a great deal of attention from the Israeli media. Ismail told about being at a protest at the Rose Garden, by the Knesset (Israeli Parliament), for the Darfur refugees, a protest that I was at also, with my fellow madrichot from NFTY in Israel (Sara G., Jillian S., and Anna K.!). Seeing how our paths crossed, unknowingly, was powerful. There were other challenges along the way, but Ismail and his family now live in Tel Aviv. When we asked how his kids had adjusted to Israeli life and speaking Hebrew, Ismail told us, with a huge smile, that they come home from school singing Chanukah songs.

"The time has come to take responsibility" - Jerusalem rally for Darfur refugees, June 2007

John Mark raised the question of responsibility and community. Who is responsible for the world's refugees, those who would die if they returned home? To what extent is Israel responsible for them, as a country that has long valued bringing Jewish refugees to safety? John Mark said he, as an Israeli and Tel Aviv resident, feels that Ismail and his family are more in John Mark's community, non-Jews who live in Tel Aviv, than us Pardes students, foreigners, although Jewish, who are here for a year.

We studied a Talmud text in class, from Masechet Nedarim 80b-81a:

One ruling of R' Yosi contradicts another of his: With respect to a well belonging to townspeople, when it is a question of their own lives or the lives of others, their own lives take precedence; their cattle or the cattle of others, their cattle take precedence over those of others; their laundry or that of others, their laundry takes precedence over that of others. But if the choice lies between the lives of others and their own laundry, the lives of the others take precedence over their own laundry. R' Yosi ruled: Their laundry takes precedence over the lives of strangers...

This text and the challenges of welcoming in new populations to any community raise hard questions about how we allocate resources. In the world-as-it-is, it isn't as easy as simply saying, "Once everyone has a base level of needs filled, then we will provide for other needs (like our laundry)." But it's never that clear-cut in reality, as proven by the fact that R' Yosi himself cannot even come up with a conclusive position on it.

Hebron

The next day, I traveled to Hebron with Shovrim Shtika-Breaking the Silence, an organization that leads tours, primarily for Israelis, to the occupied territories to see the impact that maintaining a military presence in the West Bank has on the soldiers who serve there, the people who live there, and Israeli society as a whole.

Hebron is a twisted place. Currently, the city is divided in two parts, H1 and H2. H1 is entirely Palestinian, and under the control of the Palestinian Authority. H2 is home to 800 Jewish settlers, about 20,000 Palestinians, and 500 Israeli soldiers. H2, where we toured, is a ghost town. Streets are empty of cars and people, formerly bustling open air markets are boarded up and deserted. In order to maintain total separation between the Jewish and Palestinian populations, reducing friction, many of the streets in H2 are closed to Palestinian pedestrian traffic, and even more are closed to Palestinian cars. There are families that cannot leave their homes, because their front doors open up on to streets that they are not permitted to walk on. Everywhere we traveled, we were accompanied by a heavy police escort...to protect us from settler violence and harassment. Many of Shovrim Shtika's tours end with a visit to Ma'arat HaMachpela, the Cave of the Patriarchs, but the police decided we couldn't go, because they could not guarantee our safety from settler reactions.

an empty, deserted street, formerly a bustling commercial area

our police escort

There is graffiti all over Hebron - racist, hateful graffiti towards Palestinians, and images of Stars of David, Am Yisrael Chai. The latter are images and phrases that I consider mine, and I am not OK with what is being done in my name, using my symbolism.

graffiti on the wall between H1 and H2

I know people who have served in Hebron, are currently serving there, and will serve there in the future. This isn't something distant that effects other people, but has a real impact, not just on Israeli society at the macro level, but on real individuals in my life.

Friday morning, before leaving to meet the rest of the group, I read this editorial in Ha'aretz, "I Have No Brother." Yossi Sarid disowns the settlers as his brothers, writing:

"When I see a Jew running over a wounded Arab terrorist again and again, I am absolutely certain that any connection between us is coincidental, happenstance, and that I'm obligated to sever it completely...What do I have to do with these people? Brothers we are not, but rather strangers in the night."

Michael, our tour guide, offered a different perspective. He said that since, at the moment, Hebron is indeed part of Israel, he, as an Israeli, feels a responsibility for what is happening there. Saying "those Jews/Israelis are different from me" does not remove the responsibility. The part of that editorial that struck me the most was this: I immediately look at myself to make sure that they are not me.

ירושלים גם שלי: Jerusalem is mine too

This is a summary of a story I shared at Pardes' community lunch last week, for a project called "Take 5," where students share stories and reflections. The story was in response to the question, "Share a meaningful Jerusalem moment."

I usually don't like protests and marches. They're fun...but what's the point? What changes? So I was somewhat surprised to find myself eagerly anticipating last Saturday night's march to free Jerusalem. The march was in response to a number of incidents in Jerusalem over the past several months, showing the haredim's (ultra-Orthodox) increasing political power in this city, including the arrest of Nofrat Frenkel, violent Haredi protests against parking lots and factories open on Shabbat, and haredim moving into previously secular neighborhoods.

I am a liberal Jew, a Reform Jew, and for the past few weeks had felt incredibly lonely and disconnected from that in this city. Saturday's night march shifted that for me. When we arrived at Kikar Paris, where the march was due to start from, there was a crowd of about 100 people milling about, including many members of the Pardes community, holding signs that said "Jerusalem is also mine" and "The Kotel for everyone." That crowd of 100 grew to 400 before we started walking towards the center of the city, and by the time we reached Kikar Zion, our destination, the media estimated over 2000 people were marching. Children, teens, students, adults...totally secular, men and women wearing kippot, people who clearly had come straight from their Shabbat plans...Israeli, American, British, and more...

That Saturday night, I no longer felt alone. It's unclear (highly doubtful) that the protest will have any impact whatsoever on the power dynamics in Jerusalem, but it had a huge internal effect on me, reminding me that there are Jews of all varieties who share a vision of a Jerusalem that is truly a city for all Jews, secular, Orthodox, Reform, Conservative, and everything else in between.

The evening didn't end with the conclusion of the rally. Several of us wandered up Ben Yehuda, observing the usual mishmash found there motzei Shabbat (after Shabbat, Saturday night). We came upon a group of Moshiach dancers, ultra Orthodox men dancing and singing to music from a speaker system. In our high spirits after the march, we decided to join in their dancing, with a mixed dancing circle - separate from the ultra Orthodox men, but next to them. They almost immediately shut off the music to prevent us from dancing more, but rather than leaving, we stayed as they did the ritual of Kiddush Levana - several of our group, including 2 liberal rabbis, male and female, joined with these ultra-Orthodox men as they said the set of prayers. A moment that could have been incredibly tense was instead a moment of hope and optimism for the type of Jerusalem we had envisioned earlier, one in which we all respect each other's ways of practicing Judaism, even if we don't agree with it. The tension was definitely still there, but was tempered by the beauty and holiness of the moment.

My friend Noam Sienna's story of the evening

Ha'aretz article about the protest

Jerusalem Post article about the protest

Here is a wall at which to weep, Part II: Bethlehem

graffiti on the security wall next to Bethlehem
Bethlehem is less than 5 miles from my apartment. When I went there this weekend, I was not there on an organized trip, but for some tourism and to visit my friend Sara, who is living and volunteering in Bethlehem this year.

I traveled with my friends Naomi and Amy, starting with taking an Arab bus from Derech Hevron, a few blocks from my apartment (where I usually take buses headed in the other directions, towards the center of Jerusalem). Our first stop in Bethlehem was the Church of the Nativity. While I was there, taking in the art, the quiet, and watching the other tourists around me, it struck me how places that are holy, no matter which religion they are holy to, have a shared aura about them. It was incredibly easy to be peaceful and reflective there, even though it is by no means my holy site. The Christian tourists had a respect and an awe for being present at Jesus' birthplace, and were able to fulfill their own religious needs without pushing or shoving other people. Unlike some other holy spaces I know... In this week's Torah portion, Vayetzei, Jacob wakes up from a dream and says, "אכן יש יי במקום הזה ואנוכי לא ידעתי - Surely God is present in this place, and I did not know!" (Genesis 28:16) This occurs in the middle of nowhere, in a pile of rocks that Jacob is misfortunate enough to have to sleep on. If Jacob can find God there, surely it's possible to experience the Divine Presence in any place that people have treated as holy for generations.

On Saturday morning, we walked along the separation wall by Bethlehem. The wall is covered with graffiti, some of which deeply resonated with me, and some of which deeply angered me. It encapsulates the diversity of viewpoints found there - on either side of the wall, there is not one, single, unified opinion, but a full spectrum of opinions and beliefs regarding this incredibly complex situation.

I was struck by the ease of crossing between two very different worlds, and the deep contrasts between them. When I got off the bus on Saturday in Jerusalem, all of a sudden I was back in Shabbat world, watching Jews head to Shabbat lunch, when 10 short minutes before I had been surrounded by Christians and Muslims going about an ordinary day. Because I hold an American passport, I have the privilege and ability to go places that Israelis cannot (into the Palestinian territories), and places that aren't accessible to Palestinians. Bethlehem mentally feels very far, especially from Pardes. As the week started and friends at school asked me what I did for Shabbat, there was a double-take when I said I spent part of it in Bethlehem. Bethlehem seems so FAR! Even though it is actually very close, the putting up of a wall and establishing check points (both actual and metaphoric), distances the place and its people from my daily reality.

Here is a wall at which to weep, Part I: The Kotel

8th grade: On my first trip to Israel, with my grandparents' synagogue, we visited the Kotel on Shabbat. I started to write a note to stick in between the stones, and a security guard came over and told me to stop writing.

11th grade: When I was in Israel for a semester in high school on EIE (Eisendrath International Exchange), we went to the Kotel for our first Shabbat in Israel. I wore a kippah, even though my classmates and teacher told me it wasn't a good idea. I looked through the bookshelves in the women's section for a prayerbook that was "mine," and another woman handed me an Artscroll siddur.

On subsequent trips to the Kotel - the Western Wall, the remains of the 2nd Temple closest to its holiest spot, the Holy of Holies - I felt bored, squished, frustrated, and unspiritual (for an example, read my post after being at the Kotel in September.) For years I had heard of the prayer group Women of the Wall, a women's group that prays on the women's side of the Kotel every Rosh Hodesh (the beginning of the Hebrew month). They have a long and contentious history, with Supreme Court battles, discrimination, and harassment, but I was excited to finally have the opportunity to join them in prayer and pray at the Kotel in a way that felt authentic to who am I as a Jew.

This past Wednesday, Rosh Hodesh Kislev, I woke up early and shared cabs with some other students from Pardes to the Kotel, where we joined with Women of the Wall and a group of women from Congregation B'nai Jeshurun in NYC. My friends and fellow students Lauren and Evelyn led services. For the first time ever, I wore a tallit at the Kotel. I was scared; I had heard many stories about rocks, heckling from men and women who were offended by what they saw as a desecration of their holy site, even physical assaults, but I felt safe surrounded by this community of women. Singing Hallel, songs of praise, out loud at the Kotel was incredibly powerful. One line in particular resonated with me: לא המתים יהללו יה, ולא כל ירדי דומה, ואנחנו נברך יה מעתה ועד עולם. הללויה The dead will not praise Yah, nor can those who go down into silence. But WE shall praise Yah, now and forever. Halleluyah! (Psalm 115: 17-18) I felt like I was really, genuinely praying at the Kotel, for the first time in a very long time.

At this point in the service, the group (according to the veteran members) is usually receiving taunts, yells, thrown rocks, and anger from those at the Kotel who believe that this type of prayer - women praying together, out loud, with tallitot and kippot - is a desecration to Judaism and the holiness of the Kotel. But except for one woman who motioned "shh!" as she left the women's section, there had been no reaction from the others around us. The group decided to read Torah at the Kotel, instead of relocating elsewhere like they usually do.

We rolled the Torah to the reading for Rosh Hodesh, and then rolled it back up and started the Torah service, led by a young Israeli medical student, Nofrat Frenkel. At this point, the commotion started. Men came over and asked Nofrat why she was wearing a tallit, and demanded that she put the Torah away and that we leave. To which Nofrat responded, "Because it's a mitzvah, where is yours?" The police came over and started to lead Nofrat away, still holding the sefer Torah and wearing her tallit. The image of a uniformed police officer pulling away a person wearing a tallit and holding a Torah was awful, and reminded me of stories of the Former Soviet Union, of Jews arrested for practicing their religion publicly. Anat Hoffman, the chair of Women of the Wall and the executive director of the Israel Religious Action Center, called for all of us women, about 40, to follow the Torah wherever it went.

Nofrat and Anat standing up to the men who insisted we leave the Kotel

And so we followed Nofrat and the Torah, to a police station next to the Kotel. We stood outside where she was detained and sang. Dozens of women, young and old, Israeli, American, British, Reform, Conservative, Orthodox...We sang eitz hayyim hi la'machazikim bah (it is a tree of life to those who hold fast to it), pitchu li sha'arei tzedek avovam ode yah, zeh hasha'ar l'Adonai tzadikot yavo'u bo (open for me the gates of righteousness and I will enter to praise God, this is the gate of God, the righteous will enter in it). We learned later that Nofrat could hear our singing.

Anat asked us to decide if we would stay and follow the Torah wherever it went that day. I had no question in my mind about whether or not I would miss class to stay. I was there, and not leaving. At some point that morning, I had become a part of this community, rather than just a visitor. We learned that Nofrat was no longer simply detained, but had been arrested, for wearing a tallit - the first time in Israel's history this had happened. The police moved Nofrat to the police compound by Jaffa Gate, and we followed. It was incredible to watch Anat throughout all of this, keeping the group together while simultaneously mobilizing a media response and finding a criminal lawyer.

The group of Pardes students, both while we were waiting and singing, and in the hours that followed, talked about whether we were using prayer as a means to achieve a political end. Yes, I was absolutely there to pray, to pray with a community of women in a place that Judaism has attached a great deal of value to. But I was also there because I believe that the Kotel is holy to all Jews, not only the ultra-Orthodox who control it, and because I believe that all Jews should be able to pray there in a way that is authentic to them, and Women of the Wall is striving to bring that about. Saul Alinsky writes in Rules for Radicals that the real question is not "Does the End justify the Means?" but "Does this particular end justify this particular means?" Prayer is the tool, prayer is also the goal.

And then Nofrat came out...still wearing her tallit, still holding the sefer Torah. We sang more, joyfully now, and surrounded her. She is still facing criminal charges, and there are concerns that a criminal record will harm her future career prospects as a doctor.

Throughout the course of the morning and the hours that followed, I was scared, angry, nauseus, sad, proud, and pretty much every other emotion possible. But it was an incredibly powerful experience, with an amazing group of women. It felt so RIGHT to be there.

To read some of the news coverage about it:

http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1129200.html

http://www.jpost.com/servlet/Satellite?cid=1258489193200&pagename=JPArticle/ShowFull

http://blogs.forward.com/sisterhood-blog/119148/

Beyond Pita and Falafel: Sustainable Eating in Israel

(Originally posted at RACblog)

A few months before I left to spend this year studying in Jerusalem at the Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies, I brainstormed a list of all the things I was looking forward to enjoying once I arrived in Israel…most of which was food. Falafel, shwarma, shoko b’sakit (chocolate milk in a bag), chocolate bars filled with pop rocks, the fruits and vegetables of Machane Yehuda, Jerusalem’s open-air market. So much of what I love about Israel is connected to its foods.

In the almost three months since I’ve been living in Jerusalem, the ways I connect to Eretz Yisrael through eating its food have moved beyond junk food and street food, to incorporating my Jewish social justice values in the way I cook and eat in Israel, through a CSA share (community-supported agriculture) and the Tav Chevrati.

When my roommate Sarah first suggested signing up for a CSA, I thought it sounded like a great idea for my health and lifestyle, but did not immediately connect it to my social justice practice. A CSA in Israel works similarly to one in North America, with one crucial difference: in Israel, the growing season never ends! We receive a delivery of organic vegetables every week, year round. My roommates and I signed up with Chubeza, an organic farm located outside of Modi’in, and come home every Wednesday night to a large box of vegetables on our doorstep. Every week my box includes tomatoes and cucumbers (necessary for Israeli salad!), and a variety of other vegetables: eggplant, corn, scallions, winter squash, radishes, beets, sweet potatoes, herbs…

My CSA is a weekly, tangible example of the bounty of Israel, described in Deuteronomy: “For Adonai your God is bringing you into a good land…a land of wheat and barley, of vines, figs, and pomegranates, a land of olive trees and honey; a land where you may eat bread without scarceness, where you will lack nothing…” (Deut. 8:7-9)

Being a part of a CSA in Israel is important to me because it means that I eat locally and sustainably. I can walk into any supermarket here and find many of the same brands that I purchase in the United States, but I know where my vegetables are coming from – they aren’t coming from thousands of miles away, and they are grown on a farm within Israel’s borders. Every day, when I pack lunch and cook dinner, I automatically act out my values regarding the food I put into my body and the ways I spend my money when I am living in Israel.

Of course, even on a student budget, I don’t eat every meal at home. When I go out to dinner, for coffee, or for ice cream, I look for the Tav Chevrati, the social seal, an initiative of the Jerusalem-based non-profit organization Bema’aglei Tzedek, Circles of Justice. The Tav Chevrati, the “Tav” for short, indicates that the food establishment respects the legally-mandated rights of its employees and is accessible to people with disabilities. Workers must receive minimum wage, be paid on time and overtime, and be treated within the minimum of Israeli labor law. The business must grant access and service to people with disabilities. I personally struggle with the idea of rewarding businesses for doing what is required of them legally, yet if the government is not stepping into to enforce the minimum legal requirement, the only reason business owners will uphold these laws is if they have an economic interest in doing so – if they know they will gain customers (including Israeli citizens and short-term and long-term foreign visitors) by having the Tav. It is not about kashrut. The list of businesses with the Tav includes both kosher and non-kosher restaurants. The Tav is about the just treatment of human beings and reaching towards a vision of an ideal Israeli society. The reason I support businesses with the Tav is because I believe in the dignity of each and every person, whether they work in a restaurant as a waiter or a dishwasher, or want to be able to eat in the same restaurants I have access to as an able-bodied person.

Furthermore, this is about power; power that is made up of organized people and organized money. In order for the Tav Chevrati to be successful in creating a more just Israeli society, one that I am proud to participate in and support, many, many people need to intentionally support the establishments that do have the Tav Chevrati, and tell those businesses that they are there because of their commitment to social justice. Eating justly does not need to be contained to my kitchen; it is a practice I can continue when I am out exploring Israel and Jerusalem. It is not something we need to leave in the United States either. If you are coming to Israel, on your own or with a synagogue trip, seek out restaurants with the Tav Chevrati (see the English list here) and encourage your traveling companions to do the same.

Both my CSA and my support of the Tav Chevrati are ways that I live my life in Israel justly. My time here in Jerusalem is not only about my own learning, but is an opportunity for me to have a daily, tangible impact on Israeli society.

"Maybe God created the desert so that man could appreciate the date trees."*

I just got back from 3 glorious days spent hiking in the Negev with Pardes. It was incredible to be out of Jerusalem, and spending 6+ hours a day outside and hiking in the desert. It's both physically and spiritually refreshing. Our guide, Dan, encouraged us to take moments of silence throughout our hiking, rather than continuing the same conversations we have in Jerusalem. It led to lots of deep breaths and personal spiritual reflection, at the same time as I was pushing my body physically in ways that it's not used to. Unlike up north, where we saw many other hikers and their garbage, over the course of the 3 days, we only saw two other hikers, and very little signs of others. I'm always struck by the diversity of the desert - once you are in it, it seems like it goes on, unchanging, forever, but every day we hiked through vastly different terrain.

On the first day, we hiked through Nahal Mishmar - a nahal is a riverbed, in this case, a dried up one. The picture above is looking back through the nahal, and the picture below was when we were standing on the ridge above the nahal. The Dead Sea is in the background.

On the second day, we saw a machtesh, a geological formation, looking something like a crater, that occurs only 5 times in the world - three are in the Negev, and two are in the Sinai desert. The picture below is of Machtesh Katan (little machtesh) - not so little!

A desert is defined by receiving less than 200mm of rain a year, on average. We were hiking in the EXTREME desert, which receives less than 70mm of rain/year, on average. Dan told us that humans have yet to find an environment on earth so extreme that no life can survive there. Even in this most extreme of environments, we saw snails, animal poop, plants, trees, bushes...there are snails that can survive for over 800 days on 1 drop of water!

A tree in the desert!

On the morning of our last day in the desert, we woke up at 5:30 to watch the sunrise over the Edom Mountains in Jordan. My friend Sheryl and I almost didn't make it due to a malfunctioning alarm clock, but we woke up in time, and it was well worth it!

When I was in the desert, everything seems incredibly simple. There is nothing manmade to be seen, literally just land and sky. I felt very far removed from the complications of life in Israel - the politics, the opinions, the debates. It feels as if nothing else matters - power is irrelevant, because there is just land and sky and creation. Yet even in the desert, one is never too far from these challenges. Dan started many of his talks with, "Not to talk about politics, but..." There are debates about water, borders, archaeology, ecology, resource allocation, nuclear power.

Roommates in the desert

*From Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist, my favorite desert book. When we got back to where we were staying each night, our hosts had delicious sweet, juicy dates awaiting us. So good!

a little bit of Torah

I learned this this past week in my Rambam class with Rabbi Levi Cooper:

In Rambam's (Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon) Mishneh Torah, he talks about the idea of kiddush hashem, the sanctification of God's name. The first few chapters on this topic focus on what kiddush hashem was at Rambam's time (12th century), martyrdom for being Jewish, and lays out rules and guidelines for what the circumstances are for an act to be kiddush hashem. Basically, when someone gives a person a choice "do this or I will kill you," there are guidelines for when you should do the "this" or be killed (kiddush hashem). One of these conditions (if several other conditions have already been established) is:

ואם אנסו להעבירו בעשרה מישראל - יהרג ואל יעבר -הלכת יסודי התורה, פ"ה, ה"ב

If he is forcing one to transgress in front of 10 people from Israel - he should be killed and not transgress (Hilchot Yesodei HaTorah 5:2)

The relevant part, in mine (and my teacher's) mind, is the fact that kiddush hashem is a public act. And not just a public act in front of whomever happens to be around, but in front of one's own community, in front of other Jews. Rambam specifically says "10 from Israel," not saying a minyan (in Rambam's mind, a quorom of 10 Jewish adult men) - an understanding of what is legally required for prayer. This isn't legal, it is not halacha (Jewish law). By making this a public act, in front of a person's community, Rambam is saying that what matters isn't God's presence or the individual's relationship with God, but rather the individual's relationship with their community. What is relevant is not what you do in your heart, but how you represent yourself to your community.

From an organizing perspective, this makes a lot of sense to me - we get public commitments from our targets, we strive to bring politics back to the public realm where they belong, rather than in the back room. We value transparency. An elected official can easily not follow through on something that he says privately to his friend, but this is much more difficult when that commitment is made in front of 2000 people and the media.

Another element is that this kiddush hashem is done specifically in front of your own community. When we do work to bring the world-as-it-should-be, but completely separate it from our communities, or are not public about it, it makes it a lot harder for others to join in that work.

To open this up for comments (which are ALWAYS welcome) - what are your thoughts on this? For what actions is this relevant for you? Does it only matter when we do things in public, or even more specifically, in front of our communities?

to the North, back to Jerusalem, and north again...and then back home to Jerusalem

It's been awhile since the last time I wrote. There's a phrase in Israel, "acharei chagim". Everything happens after the holidays. Now that the holidays are over - since last I wrote, we celebrated Yom Kippur, Sukkot, and Simchat Torah - and I've gotten back into the routine of being in school from 8:30-5, things are a little less crazy. It very much still feels like summer here (will be in the 90s over the weekend!), but there have been a few rain showers - the weather is definitely messing with my internal clock; it hasn't really clicked that it's halfway through October already.

Pomegranates and Mangos and Wineries, oh my!

I had a whole week and a half off from school - the longest time I've had off (or taken off) since just after graduation. For the first part, before Sukkot started, I traveled up north to the Galil with Naomi, Laura, Lauren, and Evelyn. We rented a car, stayed on a beautiful moshav near the Sea of Galilee, ate delicious food, sang songs by candlelight on our porch at night, and went hiking in a river. The moshav had an incredible view of the Galil, and there were some of the best, juiciest, locally-grown mangos I've ever had. The son of the hostel owner, Dan, had shown us the hiking trail, and said we could call if we had any problems. After hiking through the river for 4 hours (a hike we had been told would take 2 hours), we're pretty much done with the wading/swimming. We give Dan a call, and instead of giving us directions back to our car, comes and picks us up in his dusty pick-up truck (complete with 2 Thai workers in the back), and brings us freshly picked pomegranates. As we bump through his pomegranate, mango, and lichee fields, Dan shares with us his view of Israeli society - "the problem with Israel isn't the Arabs, it's the Israelis." This conversation was sparked by the overflowing dumpsters and polluted campsites that we saw, remnants of the 2 previous holiday weekends. It's so easy to here to get completely bogged down with trying to comprehend/solve/deal with/challenge status quo around Israeli-Palestinian issues and to forget that this country, like any other, has a plethora of other socio-economic challenges. After our pick-up truck ride with Dan, we piled back into our acceleration-challenged (great for the mountains up north, really) rental car and went to the Golan Winery, for a classy wine tasting in our damp and dirty hiking clothes.

the view of the Kinneret from Moshav Almagor

It was incredibly refreshing to be out of Jerusalem for 3 days. As we were sitting in traffic in the city on the first day, trying to get out, we all just wanted to be out of the city already. It's a great city, and I am loving living here, but I never really understood when friends who had lived in Jerusalem told me that it is an intense city, and it is hard to live in. It's not always tangible, and I didn't notice it on previous trips when I was visiting...but it was great to be up north, out of the Anglo-bubble of South Jerusalem (where I live and go to school), and breathe some fresh air and speak some Hebrew. And it was also great to come back, and to come home to Jerusalem, and to come home to my apartment after being away for the first time since I moved in.

V'samachta b'chagecha - and you will rejoice in your holiday!

Sukkot in Jerusalem was pretty special. Before we left to go up north, Evelyn, Lauren and I ventured to the shuk arba'ah minim, the 4 species market, to buy our lulavs and our etrogs for the holiday. We built a sukkah on our porch - very cozy, Esti and I had a super cute movie night in it one night over vacation. There were sukkot ALL OVER the city - every restaurant, many homes and apartments - for more about Sukkot in Israel that feels very similar to my experience, read this post from 10 Minutes of Torah. My class had a bagel brunch in the sukkah on Pardes' roof during vacation, and Evelyn gave a d'var Torah that really resonated. A lot of the time we talk about going into the sukkah, this temporary, unstable structure outside of our homes, as a time that reminds us of our vulnerability. In times like these, surrounded by the impact of the economic crisis hurting ourselves, our families, and our communities, we already feel pretty vulnerable. There's another interpretation (and I apologize for not knowing where Evelyn found it), that the sukkah, with its 2-3 walls is like a hug. Hugs are comforting, and remind us that there is hope and support in the world, but they do not make everything better, just the confidence that one day, they will be better.

the sukkah at 2/10 Shneur Peleg!

Haifa, Haifa, Ir im Tachtit, Haifa, Haifa, ir amiti...

Haifa Haifa, a city with a subway, Haifa Haifa, a real city! (~David Broza)

Towards the end of vacation I spent a few days in Haifa with Orly. There are street festivals everywhere in Israel during Sukkot, and we went to a pretty loud one (with some delicious fried street food), and then wandered up towards the Haifa International Film Festival, where there was yet another street fair. We did lots of very touristy things, including the clandestine immigration museum (MUCH more fun than anticipated, especially when reading the particularly awful English exhibit explanations) and took a cable car up the mountain, just for the fun of it. I also got to see Joan and Joyce from Shir Tikva, who were in Haifa for the film festival!

Orly and I at the clandestine immigration and naval museum

the view of the Mediterranean from the cable car

V'samachta b'chagecha II

Friday night was yet another holiday, Simchat Torah. I went to Kol Haneshama, or as I like to call it, everybody's favorite Progressive Anglo synagogue in South Jerusalem. It was awesome. Lots of energy and spirit and dancing, ran into lots of people I know who I hadn't yet had the chance to see here. For the last hakafah, they did this beautiful custom I had never seen before - we all formed one circle, outside in the courtyard (rather than the small circles and dancing that had been happening up until then), and the Torah scrolls made the hakafah, went around the circle, instead of us. It was really nice to end on a quiet and reflective note, instead of dancing like crazy right up until the end. The next morning I went to another set of hakafot at Kedem, an egalitarian minyan with lots of Anglo students, and the last hakafah was for all those in the room working for peace. Most of the room hesitated, very few people immediately identified themselves as being peaceworkers. It's hard, especially since it is a primarily student community - I study fulltime now, I'm not directly working for the world-as-it-should-be, and it is a struggle I wrestle with every day, along with many of my friends and classmates.

Garbage garbage garbage!

On Sunday the Pardes social justice track traveled to Har Hiriya, a giant landfill outside of Tel Aviv, in the (slow) process of being converted to a giant park and environmental education center. It's literally a mountain (har=mountain) of trash that was built up from the 1950s until about 10 years ago. It's still used as a transfer station for trash - a lot of trash. We went the day after Sukkot ended, and the amount of debris (especially plant material) from the holiday was ridiculous, as was the amount of recyclable materials. The whole scene was very Wall-E-esque (a great movie, one that I first watched all the way through with Hilary A. Spear) - trash being compacted into bricks, trucks pushing through and sorting it. It was fascinating to be at this garbage dump, to see a side of Israel that I've definitely seen, that tourists don't see, and probably many residents don't see it either (definitely not a side of the US that I've seen).

garbage trucks from Tel Aviv and its surroundings dumping the day's trash

Bashanah ha'ba'ah neishev al hamirpeset...

Next year we will sit on the balcony...

There's been lots of good times on the mirpesot (balconies) of Jerusalem this weekend. On Thursday night, and continued on Shabbat afternoon, a group of us shared stories and wine on my friend Evelyn's lovely mirpeset. It was beautiful, and exactly the kind of evenings I was looking forward to having this year. It was really powerful to here the stories of what brought all of us here, to Pardes and to Jerusalem, this year, and what we're looking for out of our time here. Last night we watched the sun set and the stars come out from Evelyn's mirpeset, and it was awesome to see all of Jerusalem laid out before us at night. We did havdalah outside after, and listened to the sounds of families starting to build their sukkot around us.

On Friday night, the egalitarian minyan had Shabbat services and a potluck dinner at my friend Sheryl's, also on her mirpeset. The view was incredible, and it was really awesome to be praying and singing and celebrating Shabbat while seeing the whole city and being outside under the sky. As we were waiting for everyone to gather for dinner, we started singing to the melody of Bashanah Haba'ah. Od tireh, od tireh, kamah tov yih'yeh bashanah bashanah haba'ah. You will still see, you will still see, how good it will be, next year. It felt very right for right before Yom Kippur, on a weekend when we spent so much time sitting on balconies expressing our personal hopes for the coming year.

Israel turned its clocks back last night, ending Daylight Savings Time - just in time for fasting on Yom Kippur. Of course, it doesn't make the fast any shorter, it just means that it will end earlier in the day on Monday, around 6pm. The West Bank changed their clocks about a month ago - just in time for Ramadan. Love it that we all equally manipulate time and nature to serve our religious needs. There's an interesting article on Ha'aretz about how it came about that Daylight Savings Time ends so early, about a month before the US and Europe.

G'mar chatimah tovah and an easy and meaningful fast to all those who are fasting!

Which side are you on?

Shana tova! Rosh Hashanah in Jerusalem was wonderful - lots of food (to all of you who said everyone gains weight in Israel, you were right), services at no less than 4 different communities, and a little bit of rain (early in the year for Jerusalem).

My friend Sara, with whom I was a madricha (counselor) 2 summers ago for NFTY in Israel and is now living in Bethlehem and volunteering with an organization that does recreational activities for Palestinian youth, was with us for the holiday. She can walk to the checkpoint from her apartment in Bethlehem, and once through the checkpoint, it is a less than 10 minute bus ride to our neighborhood. Sara was telling me about how Bethlehem residents used to just walk over a hill and be in Jerusalem. On Friday night, Sara and I went to my cousins' for dinner. One of my cousins, on hearing where Sara was living, said, "We used to just walk over to Bethlehem to do our shopping. Just over the hill." It's poetic/tragic that both sides can have the same shared narrative and collective memory without even realizing it, yet each view it as uniquely theirs.

As Sara and I were walking to services this morning, we passed countless synagogues and minyanim on our way to our destination. There are so many prayer communities in this city, in this neighborhood particularly. I could hear it as I was walking on the street over the holiday, different prayers and singing rising through the windows of every community center and synagogue. People pray much louder here than they do in America. Not just the Jews...I wonder what it was like in the Old City today, with both Rosh Hashanah and Eid happening simultaneously. I could hear shofar all over the city today, even as I was getting ready this morning with my bedroom window open. In America, we pray behind thick walls and surround them with classrooms and social halls and offices and parking lots. It's much harder to get close to other people's prayers, to hear them. Even when a synagogue and a mosque are right across the street from each other.

Our apartment may be on the other side of the Green Line. For more on how we figured this out, see Naomi's excellent blog post about it. It's frustrating and angering that I moved into an apartment in some ambiguous no man's land between Jerusalem proper and the Green Line (see Naomi's for the detailed historical/geographical explanation of our neighborhood) without knowing. Shouldn't there be a sign or something? There is definitely no green line painted down the middle of Rehov Beitar. B'kitzur (in short), Jerusalem is a complicated place with lots of ambiguities.

הכול הפוך פה - Everything is Upside Down Here: the view from an Israeli street fair

On Monday night, Naomi and I wandered down to the "Shanaba'ah" street festival on Emek Refaim to meet up with some other friends from Pardes (really, the entire Pardes student body). It was a huge street festival, celebrating Rosh Hashanah this coming weekend. A picture's worth a thousand words (shout-out to Mat, who asked for pictures! Now stop reading my blog and go do your 1L reading), especially when it comes to the absurdity of Israeli street fairs...

As we wandered down Emek Refaim, we heard some music coming out of the courtyard next to the building where the minyan Shira Chadasha meets. Katie, Matan, and I peeked into check it out, saw a couple people playing guitar on stage with a sound system, and almost turned back out to the street...and then realized that it was Shira B'tzibur (singing in community), which Sarah K. had told me I absolutely had to check out while I was in Israel. The words to Israeli folk songs (by artists like David Broza, Shalom Hanoch, Haholonot Ha'gvohim, Arik Einstein, Yonatan Gefen) were projected on a powerpoint for everyone to follow along.

The entire event was made slightly more absurd because it seems that the staging area for the whole street festival and all of the street performers was somewhere behind the stage where Shira B'tzibur was happening. As we were singing, street performers of all varieties wandered in and out, down the aisle through the audience and back to the street, including a marching band (who knew there were marching bands in Israel?) that came in and out several times. Each time, the Sousaphone and trumpet players stopped to accompany the guitar and bass players on stage. Bizarre, but great.

Shana tova u'metukah l'kulam - a good and sweet New Year to all!

How do you say AGITATION b'Ivrit?

One of the classes I'm taking is a social justice track, which in addition to class 2 days a week includes guest speakers, tiyulum (trips), and coordinating the volunteering for Pardes students. Today we had a guest speaker, Rabbi Levi Lauer. It was INCREDIBLY agitational, a real shofar blast and wake up call, apropos to this week leading up to Rosh Hashanah. Levi is the director of Atzum (http://atzum.org), an Israeli non-profit organization working with the families of terror victims, Righteous Gentiles, and against human sex trafficking in Israel, and he was also the dean of Pardes for several years.

Major points of what he said that really resonated with me, that I’m still mulling over:

• The search for meaning is more of a Jewish value than comfort – this is incredibly counter-cultural in Western culture
• We exist only as we exist in relationship with the Other (Levinas)
• Never look into the eyes of another human being unless you’re prepared to take full responsibility for them (Peter Singer)
• B’tzelem elohim nivra adam – not “human was created in the image of God,” but “for the sake of God’s image you were created”
• It is theologically obscene to think that God cares if you turn on the lights on Shabbat but not if you care about Rwanda (for example)
• You need to have courage to fail – justice is brought into the world when we take on things, b’chol l’vav’cha, b’chol naf’sh’cha, b’chol m’odecha (with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your m'od - loosely translated as all of your all), that are TOO BIG and fail – but in the failing, we put justice into the hands of those who didn’t have it before
• God is relational: if God addresses you, it is an invitation to DEBATE, not to assent
• Hineni = here I am, ready for existential debate
• one of the best parts of Jewish culture is debate, one of the worst is the notion that words will suffice
• the real (dangerous) power of words is that they are so powerful that they dull you to the pain and the bodies in the street
• Tanach (from Genesis to Deuteronomy to Chronicles) is the story of God’s withdrawal from the world in order to make room for human agency
• There is no personal salvation in Judaism – why it’s so hard to be a Jew – it’s all collective – my salvation is bound up with my next door neighbor…there is either interdependence or stagnation
• Chevruta can be an internalization of the idea that we are created to be in relationship
• move Torah and learning to the street – live it, study Torah in order to make the world a better place
• before praying the Amidah, Rabbi Lauer asks himself, “did I do anything in the past 24 hours that merits asking God for ANYTHING?”
• that you’ll never do well enough is not an excuse to not do better – all or nothing will always lead to nothing

All of these points were incredibly agitational and he was a very charismatic speaker. But what happens tomorrow? My class was very shook up and agitated for the rest of the afternoon…but what is different now that we’ve heard this? I've heard Ruth Messinger speak on several occasions, and she always agitates me - but my behavior never changes the next day. One classmate asked if I still wanted to be a rabbi after hearing that, and my answer was emphatically yes. I deeply feel that by being a rabbi in a congregation, helping that community be in relationship with the Other and act on their values, through which we search for meaning in our collective Jewish life, then more justice is brought into the world.

The question I’m wrestling with now, in this week prior to the High Holidays, is how my study of Torah this year, Torah study that is purely for the sake of learning, can make the world a better place. How do I live my life (because this isn’t a year off from my life), no matter what I am primarily engaged in (learning, grad school, working, etc.) in a way that brings justice to the world?

Ultimately, much of what Rabbi Lauer said today is that it is more important to walk the walk than only talk the talk. 6-7 years from now, I don’t want to stand on a bimah on Rosh Hashanah and talk the talk. How will I walk the walk in this coming year? How will I be in relationship with the Other? How will I bring my Torah learning, that I am loving so much, to the street and live it?

(Shout-out to Christopher, who asked about classes and if I'd be writing about them in the blog! Best chevru-team ever!)

You saw her bathing on the roof, her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you...

This is the story of my new Israeli best friend, Batsheva.

Banking (really, anything bureaucratic in Israel) is known to be a horrendous experience, particularly for Americans who are used to polite customer service and an orderly, patient line. Today was the day to venture into this particular part of Israeli society, to open a checking account, and I was dreading it. I was all ready to have an incredibly stressful experience, fighting through opening my account in Hebrew, with a grumpy Israeli bank teller.

Enter my new best friend Batsheva. Batsheva made sure that Naomi and I understood that there was a 13 NIS monthly fee for the account, and that was a lot for the little bit of money we'd be depositing each month. We assured her that we had done our research and wanted this bank (הבינלאומי, the First International Bank of Israel) - the real reason being that this particular bank has less involvement/investments/profit from the territories than other major Israeli banks. But Batsheva wasn't my new best friend at that point in the conversation, so we didn't share that reason.

Batsheva also invited us for Rosh Hashanah, and told us all about her daughter who spent the past year in Los Angeles with the Jewish Agency, and was taken in by families for every Shabbat and chag. And after patiently going over every form, and explaining everything, Batsheva gave us her direct line phone number, saying, "Call for me anything, not just banking - anything!"

When Batsheva handed Naomi a thick Hebrew packet with all the details of the bank account, we snickered at the thought that we'd be able to read it or understand. Batsheva, seeing our snickering, said, "It's ok, I don't understand anything in it either, and I've been doing it for 10 years. I've even signed the forms myself!" Reassuring, Batsheva, really...

No one is a stranger in Israel. An often transactional interaction with a bank teller has the potential to become a dinner invitation, another mother looking for more young people away from their families to take care of. Israeli society doesn't seem to have the gray area of polite acquaintances - you're either being screamed at, or you're family. Or sometimes both.

Y lloro, y lloro v'boche el hakirot...

Much to update about! In this blog post: visit to the Kotel and the Old City, 1st Shabbat in Jerusalem, classes, and exploring Jerusalem.

Boche el hakirot

The title of the blog post is a lyric from a David Broza song: "And crying, and crying, and crying to the walls." (in Spanish and Hebrew) We went to the Old City, specifically to the Kotel, on Thursday night for a mini-tiyul (trip). It was my first time in the Old City and the center of the city since I got here, and it's good to start getting my Jerusalem geography back. The Kotel is a weird place. On the one hand, especially at night, it is beautiful and I love people-watching there, seeing the diversity of the Jewish community walking by. On Thursday night, it being the middle of Ramadan, the prayers from "next door" were loud and clear, and I thought, beautiful. To my ears the Ramadan prayers sounded like crying, as one of our teachers was reminding us that the Kotel is sometimes called the Wailing Wall.

We looked at some verses from the Tanach about Jerusalem, including: "You will bring them and plant them in Your own mountain, the place You made to dwell in, O God, The sanctuary, O God, which Your hands established." (Exodus 15:17) I read the verses as a meeting place for all different cultures, a sanctuary built by God's own hands. That sounds like Jerusalem-as-it-should-be to me, a Jerusalem that I got a tiny glimpse of, as we stood in the Kotel plaza and listened to the Muslim community's Ramadan prayers.

The beggars at the Kotel, at least on the women's side, really really drive me crazy. I wish they didn't. They are humans - do I need to acknowledge them as human, if they don't acknowledge me as more than a walking American ATM? Melanie Kaye/Kantrowitz writes about her resistance to giving to a particular homeless person outside her New York apartment, because the recipient's actual need is so much greater than her ability to give. Maybe I'm disturbed by the beggars because I feel like they are reducing my experience at the Kotel down to a contractual relationship - you give to me - when I'm trying to be in a place of covenantal relationship with Makom (a word for both place and God)? Which brings me to - is there a way in which the giving of tzedakah can be more than contractual? I have lots of tzedakah that people back in the States sent me to Israel with, I don't want to give it to women at the Kotel so that they will leave me alone.

There is a new pedestrian mall (since the last time I was in Israel in 2007) between the center of the city and the Old City, the Mamila Mall. It is disgustingly opulent, full of American stores - North Face, the Croc Store, The Gap, H. Stern, it goes on and on. The opulence of Mamila really stood in contrast with the poverty of the Old City, and really didn't feel to me like it fit in with Jerusalem at all. Jerusalem's not that chic!

Shabbat Shalom...

This past Shabbat was absolutely beautiful. It's very uncomplicated here to be immersed and observe Shabbat. But not perfect...I went to Kehilat Kol Haneshama (a Progressive synagogue) for kabbalat Shabbat (where I felt absolutely 100% comfortable wearing my kippah), but walking home alone, I didn't feel comfortable leaving it on (although I know other women who do). We hosted dinner in our apartment - lovely company, delicious food - and then on Shabbat morning I walked to services with Naomi, walking down Derech Beit Lechem, which may be my new favorite street. It's beautiful - lots of little alleyways, and old houses with flowers. I'm starting to get my bearings here, and it feels more like home. One of my goals for Jerusalem has always been to know it well enough to feel at home here, to know my way around, to have places that are "my" places. It's also really nice to be in Machane Yehuda on Friday morning, or walk into services and know people. Which happens often in Jerusalem, but still, it makes it feel more homey.

There was a Pardes picnic in the park for lunch, followed by a fantastic 2-hour long nap, and seudah shlishit with my roommates and some guests. I loved the singing we did in the park and at seudah shlishit, but I miss singing with JOI at retreats for hours out of Rise Up Singing, or camp-style song sessions. As lovely as the singing was, it didn't wholly feel like mine. But of course, at JOI, I missed singing more Hebrew songs. I want (and need) to figure out how to create a Shabbat that feels uniquely mine, not just the default of the people around me at any given time.

Back to school, back to school

Classes are challenging, and intense, and hard, and wonderful. So far I'm taking chumash (Torah, focusing on the book of Exodus), Talmud (right now focusing on sections having to do with Yom Kippur), women and mitzvot, social justice (as part of a social justice track), and intro to Rambam. It's an intense schedule, and there's still one more class period we haven't even had yet (but I will probably be taking siddur), but I love the learning I'm doing. Women and mitzvot and social justice in particular today were almost antagonistic, but in a great, debate-filled, exciting way.

Exploring Jerusalem

I've been reading Amos Oz's memoir about his childhood in Jerusalem, A Tale of Love and Darkness, a book that's been on my reading list for awhile, but I was saving for a trip to Israel. Neal Gold suggested waiting even longer, until after I'd been living in Jerusalem, and knew the city well enough to recognize streets and places. The part I read on Friday night describes the walk Amos takes with his parents on Shabbat afternoon to visit his uncle in Talpiyot: "Shortly before four we would finally turn left off Derech Hevron and enter the suburb of Talpiyot...we turned right into Kore Hadorot Street as far as the pine wood, then left, and there we were outside Uncle's house." Derech Hevron is a few blocks from my apartment, and I cross it to get basically anywhere I go, so I was wondering where Kore Hadorot was. And then, as we were walking home from the picnic on Shabbat afternoon (just around the same time as in the book!), I saw a sign for Kore Hadorot Street, just a couple blocks down the hill from my apartment, I walk past it at least twice a day.

All in all, my first week in Jerusalem has been fun, exciting, and challenging. I've realized it could be very easy (too easy) to walk to school in the morning and go home at night, without exploring Jerusalem and Israel further, or even hearing and using my Hebrew. A challenge to continue to explore...