Leaving Jerusalem

I wrote this while flying from Israel to New York a few weeks ago. It will most likely be my last post on this blog, which I started in order to reflect on my own experiences living in Jerusalem for two years, and to share them with all of you. Chag Shavuot Sameach!
 

May 20, 2011

El Al #1, TLV-JFK

Somewhere over Newfoundland… 

For the past year and a half, I have had the blessing of learning gemara with my dear chevruta, Sarah W. We started together as chumash chevrutas during our first semester at Pardes, and then began learning gemara during second semester, and continued studying together once a week this past year. This is dedicated to all of the Torah learning, laughs, and David Berman muffins when they were much needed that we shared together.

This year we have been studying Masechet Shabbat. At our final meeting as chevruta (for now), we studied a sugya, Shabbat 119a, that brought aggadot (stories) about how different rabbis celebrated Shabbat. It continued by bringing many of the well-known midrashim that are often heard and shared about Shabbat in lots of different settings. (For example, the story that two angels, a good angel and a bad angel, accompany a person home from services on Friday night to see if his house is cheerfully ready for Shabbat or not – if it is, the good angel says “May it be this way every week,” and the bad angel has to say “amen,” and vice versa).

The piece that has stuck with me all week – we studied on Sunday, 5 days before I left Israel, immediately after my final Shabbat in Jerusalem – asks how people merit or earn their riches.

רבי מר' ישמעאל ברבי יוסי עשירים שבא"י במה הן זוכין א"ל בשביל שמעשרין שנאמר (דברים יד) עשר תעשר עשר בשביל שתתעשר שבבבל במה הן זוכין א"ל בשביל שמכבדין את התורה ושבשאר ארצות במה הן זוכין א"ל בשביל שמכבדין את השבת

Rabbi asked R. Ishmael son of R. Jose: The wealthy in Eretz Yisrael, how do they merit wealth? --Because they give tithes, he replied, as it is written, "עשר תעשר" - give tithes so that you may become wealthy. 

(an agricultural mitzvah that can only be fulfilled in the Land of Israel)

Those in Babylon, how do they merit riches? --Because they honor the Torah.

 (Babylon was the site of a great deal of Torah learning starting in the 5^th century CE, where most of the material of the Babylonian Talmud was produced).

And those in other countries, how do they merit riches? Because they honor Shabbat.

Sarah and I, while discussing this sugya, talked about why it was these particular mitzvot, in these particular places, that make a person merit riches. In the case of Shabbat, Sarah pointed out, it is a very hard mitzvah to keep fully (whatever fully might mean for you) outside of Israel. In Israel, it IS Shabbat from Friday night-Saturday. It is impossible to forget about it, especially in Jerusalem, and for me, it was very easy to cultivate a Shabbat culture for myself in Jerusalem. I didn’t have to think about whether or not to drive or take public transportation, I just walked everywhere. No plans were made for Shabbat, and no one expected me to want to go out to dinner, go shopping, see a movie, etc. the air of Shabbat permeates everything.

One of the hardest moments for me this past week was when I ran a final errand on Thursday afternoon, and the cashier said, “Shabbat shalom,” as I walked out of the store. That’s how much Shabbat permeates Israeli consciousness, that we start greeting each other with Shabbat Shalom on Thursday or even earlier. But this time, I wouldn’t be in Israel to experience that all-encompassing Shabbat atmosphere of Jerusalem that I’ve grown to love so much these past two years.

I will miss that feeling. It will be hard to cultivate a Shabbat-centered week in the US,  even though I will be spending the summer with my family, where Shabbat dinner is always of the utmost importance, and even though I am continuing my rabbinical studies, and will be immersed in Jewish communities, most likely for the rest of my life. But outside of Israel, no matter one’s intentions, other distractions slip in during those 25 hours. The mail comes; the farmer’s market is only open on Saturdays.

Israel, and Jerusalem in particular, is a place that inspires and challenges me religiously and spiritually. That may be the best way to sum up these past two years – everything I did was part of that: my beit midrash learning at Pardes, my academic studies at HUC, my involvement with Encounter, simply living in the crazy, throbbing, vibrant city of Jerusalem, where everyone seems to be wrestling with God and with their religious community every minute of every day. That in-your-face struggle won’t be there anymore, to inspire me to continue to commit myself to growing spiritually and to striving to be a better Jew and a better person.

About a year ago, I sat in an apartment of another chevruta, Ilan, singing songs at a seudah shlishit as Shabbat departed. One of the songs we sang was the familiar phrase, “לכול מקום שאני הולך, אני הולך, אני הולך לירושלים. לכול מקום שאני כהולך, אני הולך לציון" L’chol makom she’ani holech, ani holech l’Yrushalayim. L’chol makom she’ani holech, ani holech l’Zion.” Everywhere I go, I go towards Jerusalem. Everywhere I go, I go towards Zion. I decided that Shabbat afternoon, that before I left Israel “for good,” that I was going to have my own version of those words engraved on a ring. My version reads "לכול מקום שאני הולכת, אני הולכת לירושלים של מעלה l’chol makom she’ani holechet, ani holechet l’Yrushalayim shel ma’alah.” Everywhere I go, I go towards Y’rushalayim shel ma’alah – the heavenly Jerusalem. There is a teaching that there are two Jerusalems – shel matah (below, or earthly), and shel ma’alah (upper, or heavenly). There is the real, on the ground Jerusalem, the Jerusalem that sometimes smells like pee and has lots of traffic and suddenly gets quiet on Friday afternoon, and the heavenly Jerusalem we all hold in our hearts, the Jerusalem of our religious imagination and our highest aspirations for her. Jerusalem as-it-is and Jerusalem as-it-should-be. 

Wearing these words on my finger reminds me of that constant struggle and growth in Jerusalem, that I take it with me as I sit on this El Al plane, soon to disembark in cloudy and rainy New York, to jump into celebrating my brother’s college graduation (I’m so proud of you kiddo!) I don’t need to leave that behind. I can continue to grow, to continue to try and be the best person, and the best Jew I can be, to continue to work for not only Jerusalem as it should be, but for the world as it should be.

For Zion's Sake I Will Not Be Silent

Please check out the blog post I wrote for Rabbis for Human Rights-North America in response to the recent articles (here, and here) by Daniel Gordis about rabbinical students and Israel.

And in other, related news, today I bought this poster at the Israel Museum. Better watch what pictures of it get posted on Facebook...wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong message!

One of the stories Gordis brings in his first article describes a rabbinical student celebrating his birthday at a bar in Ramallah, with a backdrop of "...posters (which they either did or didn’t understand) extolling violence against the Jewish state on the wall behind the." The poster I bought is an example of how quickly and easily things can be taken out of context - it says in big bold letters, "Come to Palestine!" Yet, it is a poster from before Israel achieved statehood, encouraging travel in the Holy Land. Similar posters have also ironically popped up in a friend's apartment in Bethlehem, aware of its original purpose, yet repurposing it nonetheless. Context, people, context.

Yom Hashoah 5771

 Today, Yom Hashoah - Holocaust Remembrance Day, I sat in a class at HUC on the difficult theologies that the Holocaust raises. What was God's role in the Shoah - a perpetrator or a bystander? Does the Shoah require a theological response?

How do I think about this today, on this particular Yom Hashoah? Last night on TV, I watched the state ceremony at Yad Vashem commemorating the day, remembering the 6 million deaths at the hands of the Nazis. I read an article about whether or not we should draw the Shoah’s lessons out to universal values of eliminating all intolerance. And this morning, I woke up to the news that the U.S. military had killed Osama bin Laden, that Americans were rejoicing in the streets, singing and chanting USA, USA. My first thought: the midrash from Masechet Megillah, that tells us that the angels wanted to sing as the Egyptians drowned in the Sea of Reeds. "In that hour, the ministering angels wished to utter songs of praise before the Holy One, Blessed be God, but God rebuked them, saying: My handiwork, the Egyptians, is drowning in the sea, and you rejoice?!" We are all בני אלוהים bnei Elohim, children of God, we are all בצלם אלוהים btzelem Elohim, in the image of God, both good and evil. Hitler. Bin Laden. How can we rejoice at more death? Yes, maybe it is good, maybe it is necessary. Perhaps just as the destruction of Pharaoh’s army at ים סוף Yam Suf, the Sea of Reeds, was. But celebration and rejoicing? A verse from Proverbs: בנפל אויבך אל תשמח, ובכשלו אל יגל לבך Do not rejoice when your enemy falls, and do not let your heart be glad when he stumbles (Proverbs 24:17). My friend Evelyn  posted on Facebook that she had seen the same images in the days and weeks after 9-11: images of celebration coming out of the Middle East, and America railed in outrage that this was the response of the Arab world.

Yet we also pray, I pray, every day in the Amidah for the eradication of evil in the world:

וכל אויבי עמך מהרה יכרתו והזדים מהרה תעקר ותשבר ותמגר ותכניע במהרה בימינו. ברוך אתה יי שובר אויבים ומכניע זדים. 

"...May all Your people's enemies swiftly be cut down. May You swiftly uproot, crush, cast down and humble the arrogant swiftly in our days. Blessed are You, Lord, who destroys enemies and humbles the arrogant. (translation from the Koren Siddur)

Progressive liturgies have adapted the traditional text of this blessing of the Amidah, to reflect the desire to eliminate evilness and badness, rather than evil people.

ולרשעה אל תהי תקווה והתועים אליך ישובו, ומלכות זדון מהרה תשבר. ברוך אתה יי, שובר רשע מן הארץ

"And for wickedness, let there be no hope, and may all the errant return to You, and may the realm of wickedness be shattered. Blessed are You, Adonai, whose will it is that the wicked vanish from the earth." (text and translation from Mishkan T'filah)

Either way – we should rejoice and be grateful when our prayers are fulfilled, no?

As I rapidly clicked through the pictures on the front page of the New York Times this morning, pictures of the crowds in New York and Washington, pictures of President Obama giving his speech, older pictures of bin Laden, and then, unexpectedly…a photo from 10 years ago, of the smoke pouring out of the Twin Towers. And I remembered the fear, and the sadness of that day, and the atmosphere of that Rosh Hashanah.

Today the HUC community stood in silence with the rest of Israel at 10:00am, and remembered the 6 million. Yet there are still questions of how we observe, how we remember – do we focus on the 6 million killed? Do we seek revenge and vengeance against the perpetrators? Do we find רמזים remezim, hints, of those oppressors from 70 years ago in the world around us, as Prime Minister Netanyahu and President Shimon Peres did last night in their speeches at Yad Vashem? Several years ago, in a Hebrew class at Brandeis, we watched a music video in the days leading up to Yom Hashoah. Miri ben Ari and Subliminal angrily sing the words, at the end of the song:

אם יש חיים אחרי המוות, אנחנו נחכה להם שמה

“Im yesh hayyim acharei ha’mavet, n’chakeh lahem shamah.” If there is life after death, we will be waiting for them there.

So how do we respond in the face of tragedy, the tragedies that are inflicted by humanity on ourselves? Do we call for vengeance? How do we find justice amidst this? How do we react when there is justice, yet not peace? President Obama’s speech last night, with its focus on those who were lost on 9-11, and those who have served in the ten long years since then, instead of focusing on triumphalism, reminds me of what today, in the cycle of Jewish time, is truly about. זכרונם לברכה Zichronam livracha – may the memories of all those who have died because of the evil present in our still-broken world be for a blessing.

Overheard at מסרד הפנים - the Ministry of the Interior

(standing in line in a tiny corridor not wide enough for 2 people)
young Haredi man: Is this where you come to make a visa appointment?
older Haredi man: Yes.
young Haredi man: If it's just appointments, why is it taking so long?
older Haredi man: You come here, you come to Africa.

(The Ministry of the Interior is notorious for being the worst of the worst of Israeli bureaucracy and chaos.)

Acharei haChagim

There is a popular expression in Israel - אחרי החגים, acharei hachagim - after the holidays. Nothing productive happens during the fall chagim, no plans are made, everything is on pause. "Would love to get coffee with you - acharei hachagim." "I'll definitely write a blog post - acharei hachagim." The title of this blog post is not just a rather lame excuse for not having written since August, but it is a collection of reflections on my 2nd round of fall holidays in Israel.

Yom Kippur
Part of this was written for our "HaEmek D'var" processing groups at school. Over the course of Yom Kippur, actually all contained within the night of Kol Nidre, I had two starkly contrasting Jerusalem experiences. After Kol Nidre services at HUC, I was standing on the balcony of Beit Shmuel with two classmates, looking out over the night view of the Old City. Jerusalem is completely closed on Yom Kippur - no businesses are open, and the only motor traffic are police vehicles. From our view, just a few hundred feet from Jaffa Gate, the city was silent, beautiful, and perfect. It was a moment of incredible peace, undisturbed by the usual noises of traffic that permeate Jerusalem. At moments like these, not only is it easy to love Jerusalem, it is practically impossible not to.

After we tired of that view, Beni, Ricky, and I walked down to Emek Refaim, a street in southern Jerusalem filled with restaurants and shops. On Yom Kippur, of course, all of those were closed. As every synagogue and minyan finished its service, people from all over Jerusalem streamed to Emek Refaim to people watch and shmooze. In Israel, Yom Kippur is also known as Yom haOfanaim - Bicycle Day! With the streets empty of traffic, kids take the opportunity to take over the cities with their bikes. As we watched all of the diversity of am Yisrael  walk by in their Yom Kippur whites and on their bicycles, tricycles, skateboards, and Razors, I commented that we had been looking at before was ירושלים של מעלה Yrushalayim shel ma'alah - the heavenly Jerusalem, and what we were looking at now was ירושלים של מטה Yrushalayim shel matah - the earthly Jerusalem. Wasn't this incredible? Isn't this, the community and the am, the people, what it's really about? Beni responded, "Yes, but today, Yom Kippur IS about Yrushalayim shel ma'alah." I'm not sure that we can ever remove Yrushalayim shel matah, the world-as-it-is, from the equation completely, even on Yom Kippur, yet that moment of looking out at the physical representation of Yrushalayim shel ma'alah was a clear reminder of what I want to strive for not only on Yom Kippur.

Simchat Torah
For the second year in a row, I went to Kol Haneshama, a Progressive congregation in Jerusalem, for hakafot (dancing with the Torah) on Erev Simchat Torah. As always, it was a lot of fun, good spirited, plenty of cute children waving the flags they had made in gan. Kol Haneshama has a beautiful custom as part of their Simchat Torah celebration. Generally, the 7 hakafot are loud, with fast circle dancing, singing at the top of your lungs, and getting sweaty and dehydrated. At Kol Haneshama, the first six are like this. For the final hakafah, everyone gets into one large circle in the courtyard outside the building. As the two Torah scrolls are passed around the circle, ensuring that each and every person there has the opportunity to hold a Torah scroll during the hakafot, the community sings slower songs, transitioning and slowing down from the ecstasy of hakafot 1-6. It is a beautiful tradition, because of it last year I started to feel a part of the community rather than an outsider watching others celebrate.

Life's a Beach

So as many of you know from my very public and detailed Facebook updates about my travels for the past month and a half, I am now back in Jerusalem after a lovely four weeks on the East Coast seeing lots of friends and family, and a fun week in Brussels visiting my friend Schutz from Brandeis. Orientation for HUC-JIR's Year in Israel program starts tomorrow evening, and I have been holding on to vacation like a kid in the last week of August - which of course meant a trip to the beach in Tel Aviv today.

Danny Sanderson - HaGalshan
יום בהיר של שמש
אין שום עננים
אני וכל החברה
אל הים נוסעים
לקחנו את האוטו
הבנות כבר שם

(It's a clear, sunny day/there are no clouds/me and all my peeps/are going to the beach/we take the car/the girls are already there)

This is often my inner soundtrack whenever I go to the beach in Israel - it's completely offbase for what the soundtrack actually is in Israel, but is completely the image I had of the beach as a kid at camp. Today, however, not only were "the girls already there," but there were ONLY girls (and women) there.  I went with two Brandeis friends who are in Israel for the summer to the single sex beach in Tel Aviv. On Sundays/Tuesdays/Thursdays, it's only open to women, and on Mondays/Wednesdays/Fridays, it's only open for men. I learned from one of my friends, who is here in Israel doing research for her dissertation on the Israeli municipal laws surrounding these beaches, that every city that has a beach, needs to have a sex separated area.

This particular beach was fascinating. It's surrounded by a high wall, although you approach it from the street above, so the wall seems kind of pointless. Except for the lack of men, the beach was not strikingly different from any of the beaches further south in Tel Aviv. I was most struck by the wide variety of beachwear - from itsy bitsy teeny tiny bikinis, to normal bikinis, bikini tops with shorts, one pieces, one pieces with white dresses over them (which once they are white, are pretty pointless as a modest cover-up), to women who were in the water in full-on street clothes. And with any of those combinations, there was a possibility of a head covering (some married Jewish women cover their hair, in a variety of ways, particularly within the Orthodox community).

This beach raises a lot of interesting questions for me - many of which we discussed while we lay out (probably with not quite enough sunscreen, at least on my end). Is there a straight line from separate sex beaches to separate sex bus lines (which have been a big issue in Israel and Jerusalem in the past year)? In my mind, I don't think so. I think these beaches enable those who act out values of modesty in their life with a particular set of actions to go to the beach, and swim, and get sunburnt. It's also very much a minority - it's a small beach, one which I didn't even know existed, nor did most of my non-Orthodox friends who I've talked to since. It's the kind of place that if you don't GO, you just not aware of it at all.

I think it's all interesting from the standpoint of creating women's only space within the public domain (although clearly 3 days a week, it is also men's only space, space that is already plentiful in Israel's plentiful domain). Being there reminded me of this article from The New York Times, about a women's only park in Afghanistan, particularly the description of how women take off their usual modest clothing once they are away from male gaze. This then leads me to the question of what specifically is driving the need for these beaches? Is it the desire to protect women from male gaze (and vice versa on men's days) to enable them to wear bathing suits? Or is it to create a space where people can go to the beach without being exposed to other people's perceived immodesty? One friend raised that this was just a nicer environment to bring your kids to splash around in the water.

I had a thought as I was wading into the (very warm!) Mediterranean for a swim, that with women's days and men's days, there really is no space for someone who doesn't fit into the gender binary, just as in a prayer space with a mechitza, or in a public space that only has male and female labeled bathrooms. But then I checked myself and remembered the miles of other beaches that don't use gender to separate either time or space.

I'd love to hear what any of you think about this - whether you've been in similar spaces, have thoughts about the genderedness or the religiosity of it...

Nesher adventures

On a recent sherut (shared shuttle) trip to the airport, I had one of those classic, only-in-Israel moments. Usually, a sherut trip from Jerusalem to Ben Gurion airport is at least a 2-hour ordeal, as the shuttle drives through every Jerusalem neighborhood you never knew existed, picking up one passenger at a time, and loading up the van with their screaming babies and giant suitcases filled with presents for the family back in the states, before hurtling at breakneck speeds to the airport - all this for the low price of 50 shekel!

Instead, I was the first pick-up at 6:45, and after just 2 more stops, I arrived at Ben Gurion in less than 2 hours. At our 3rd and last stop, we picked up...wait for it...an seven person Irish-American band from Alabama and ALL of their instruments. As Naomi said in response to the text message describing the absurdity of this, "What on earth were they doing in Israel?!" The previous weekend, a well-known folk music festival, Jacob's Ladder, had taken place in the north of Israel, and they had been in the country, their first visit, to perform. And they LOVED the country, their Israeli host Menachem, and the handful of Hebrew words they spoke in their Southern accents.

Of course, the only-in-Israelness of this isn't complete yet. Right after we drove through the security checkpoint at the entrance to Ben Gurion, the driver's phone rings. He answers it on speaker phone, and the caller is looking for the ish b'mishkafayim - the gentleman in the glasses. My first thought was that for some reason, airport security was looking for him, but it turned out that it was the band's Israeli host, Menachem, calling to say goodbye to his guests. Only in Israel is it normal for someone to call the cell phone of a shuttle driver to talk to a passenger.

Of course, on my return trip from the airport, the sherut driver got out to take a piss behind the van. Only in Israel...

Zichronam Livracha - May their memories be for a blessing

Much to write about. It's been awhile, and a lot has happened. This is a pretty heady time of year in Israel - Pesach is followed very rapidly by Yom Hashoah (remembering the Holocaust), and then a week later, Yom Hazikaron (Memorial Day) and immediately after by Yom Ha'atzmaut (Israeli Independence Day).

I don't have much to say about what Yom Hashoah was like, as I spent most of it home sick with strep throat. I can say, that it is true, I verified it, that there is nothing on TV in Israel on Yom Hashoah except for Holocaust movies.

Yom HaZikaron, Memorial Day for fallen soldiers and victims of terror attacks, started tonight. A siren sounded across the country at 8pm, marking the beginning of the day. In addition to the state ceremony held at the Kotel, neighborhoods and communities all over Jerusalem held their own local ceremonies. Lauren and I, along with her roommate, went to the community ceremony in Baka, the neighborhood where many of my friends live.

We arrived a little late, so we were standing in the back, near the entrance, which was heavily guarded by security and police. Towards the end of the ceremony, a little boy, probably about 3 or 4 years old, started crying - he couldn't find his parents. Watching the police and the security push aside their guns, kneel down, and take care of this little boy who couldn't find his parents, juxtaposed with the ceremony mourning all of the children of Israel who have died - 22,682 since 1860 - was striking and poignant. It reminded me of the Yehuda Amichai poem, which I may have quoted here before, "An Arab Shepherd is Searching for His Goat on Mount Zion."

An Arab shepherd is searching for his goat on Mount Zion
And on the opposite hill I am searching for my little boy.
An Arab shepherd and a Jewish father
Both in their temporary failure.


These two holidays, so close together, with their drastic shift from the mourning of Yom HaZikaron to the celebration of Yom Ha'atzmaut, are very conducive to deep conversations about what Zionism is, what the State of Israel is and could be. Coming where they do in the cycle of my own time here, after I've been living in Jerusalem for a substantial amount of time, and am anticipating another year here, they raise questions of my own relationship to this place. We had a panel at Pardes today called "Keeping the Faith," with 3 Pardes alumni, who all made aliyah, and live very different lives in Israel, with very different outlooks. One speaker talked about how he is not an armchair Zionist, and by living in Israel and serving in the army, he engages in the dirty, practical work of Zionism. I also don't want to be an armchair Zionist, yet my understanding of what my role is in the dirty, practical work of Zionism doesn't equal aliyah and enlisting in the IDF. I'm still figuring out exactly what my role is, what my relationship is to this place.

Right now I'm listening to Galgalatz online (Israeli radio). On Yom HaZikaron, the radio stations all play sad music, transitioning to happier music as Yom Ha'atzmaut starts. Tomorrow, there is another siren in the morning, and in the afternoon, I'm going to the military cemetery, Har Herzl, with Pardes. Tomorrow night, I'm going to an "alternative beacon lighting ceremony, for a just, equitable, and deserving Israel," sponsored by Yesh G'vul. There will be much more to share and reflect on over the next 48 hours.

Zichronam livracha - may their memories, of all those who have died because of this conflict, seeking safe homes and freedom for future generations, on both sides, be for a blessing - and may that blessing be that soon the day will come when a parent's greatest fear is losing their child in a crowd, not sending him or her off to war.

For lo, the winter has passed...

As I write this, sitting on my mirpeset and overlooking the courtyard behind my apartment building, I can see my neighbors in the next building over, who have moved their Pesach cleaning outside - there seems to be an entire stove out there, being cleaned. Stores and restaurants all around Jerusalem have signs announcing whether or not they will be open during Pesach and I saw a poster last night informing me when I could take my kitchen utensils and pots to be immersed in boiling water to kasher them for Pesach - right in my neighborhood! In addition to the holiday preparations that are everywhere in Jerusalem this week, the trees are blooming, flowers are budding, and the entire city smells like a flower shop (also known as hell for those of us with seasonal allergies).

I spent last week on a Pardes tiyul to the Golan Heights, in the north of Israel. I'd been to the Golan before, but mostly for tourism and learning about the history of the area, rather than hiking. It was breathtakingly beautiful. Wildflowers were blooming, everything was GREEN (rare for this region of the world), and it was so fully and entirely spring. On the first two days of the tiyul, we hiked to waterfalls with deep pools - and I was even brave enough to jump into the freezing cold water on day 2. Hiking in Israel reminds me that no matter what, despite all the challenges of living in this country, all of the heavy, complicated stuff that I write about and think about, I love this land. I am so happy to be living here this year, to have the opportunity to stay for another year.

At Shabbat services on Friday night, at Nava Tehila, a Renewal community in Jerusalem, we sang parts of Song of Songs, traditionally read/sung around this time of year, usually at the Shabbat during Pesach:

כי הנה הסתיו עבר הגשם חלף הלך לו. הניצנים נראו בארץ עת הזמיר הגיע
For lo, the winter has passed, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on earth, the time of singing has come. (Song of Songs 2:11-12)

Singing these verses at Kabbalat Shabbat felt like such an apt description of the past week. I love that in Israel, the liturgical cycle reflects the natural rhythm of the world, rather than feeling totally incongruous.





Yesterday, I went to the doctor to get my medical forms for HUC filled out. Only in Israel would the doctor be more confused as to why I needed a physical to go to rabbinical school than with the entire concept of rabbinical school in the first place. On his shelf, next to the usual medical books, were books like "Medical Ethics and Halacha." Another one of those "only in Israel" moments...

את דתית? - Are you religious?

Coming at you live from Aroma (Israel's #1 coffee chain) in Kanyon Hadar, the mall across the street from Pardes. I've designated 12pm-1pm on Sundays and Wednesdays as class-free, an hour off - which, as all of you camp people know, is for iced coffee and checking email.

Once a week, I volunteer in an absorption center for Ethiopian immigrants (olim) in Mevasseret Zion, a small city not so far from Jerusalem. The families live in the absorption center (mercaz klitah) for 2 years after arriving in Israel. Several Pardes students go every Tuesday afternoon and spend time with the families and the kids there. My family has 5 kids, 4 of whom live at home - Isubalo (11), Tadla (8), Haftamo (3), and an infant. The Ethiopian community in Israel has not been well-absorbed into Israeli society - even after leaving absorption centers, they still live in relatively close-knit and isolated communities. They are poor and the adults speak very little Hebrew. Upon arrival in Israel, the Ethiopians were forced to undergo conversion, because their halachic Jewish status was questioned. Conversion in Israel is controlled by the rabbanut, the state rabbinic authority (and is currently in the news a lot) - those who convert in Israel are required to maintain a certain level of Jewish observance. As a result, the kids in the Ethiopian community in Mevasseret attend religious schools.

This past Tuesday, we took our kids outside to play, to the delight of every other child in the neighborhood, who couldn't wait to play with our jump rope, climb on the human jungle gyms, and ask us a million questions about where we were from, what we were doing there, and if we were coming back next week. Shira (another Pardes student volunteering there) and I were sitting on the curb chatting, when three older girls, probably around 13 or so, walked up and started to ask us the same million questions. With one new question: את דתית? (Are you religious?) I was wearing a skirt, which probably prompted the question. It's a tricky question to answer here. The word "דתי" isn't just an adjective, but a label that corresponds most closely with modern Orthodox. Particularly for these kids in the absorption center, where B'nei Akiva, the religious Zionist youth movement, has a significant presence, "religious" has a very particular social meaning. The kids hadn't heard of Reform Judaism, despite the fact that there is a vibrant Progressive synagogue in Mevasseret Zion, that I visited a few weeks ago for Shabbat with Shir Tikva.

It's a common question, especially when I tell Israelis that I'm studying Talmud and Torah at Pardes. I've been asked it when sitting in a bar on a Friday night (not usually the favorite stomping ground of the religious). Adult Israelis (as opposed to teen girls in the absorption center) have usually at least HEARD of Reform Judaism (reformim as they're called here), but are less likely to have some knowledge of what it means when I say that I'm a Reform Jew.

Breaking down religious stereotypes since 1986...

Today is our last normal class day until after Pesach - tomorrow we have a day of classes about Pesach (including a showing of The Prince of Egypt!), and then it's vacation! Vacation plans include a trip to the Golan Heights with Pardes, a long weekend in Turkey with Benn, seder, visitors from Boston, and some traveling around Israel. It's definitely spring here in Jerusalem: trees are green and blooming, the weather is significantly warmer (already hit high 80s!), and it smells like flowers everywhere. When I tried to buy cake mix last week to bake a birthday cake for a friend, I failed at the first grocery store I went to - they had already cleared out the chametz from several of their aisles, replacing it with kosher for Passover cake mix - gross!

"Let the peoples tremble...let the earth quake"

(Psalm 99:1)

This blog post was originally supposed to be about the drought here in Israel. The Sephardi Chief Rabbi of Israel declared yesterday, Thursday, a fast day. Rav Amar said, "Because of our sins the water situation is in a serious state. Our duty in this situation is to scrutinize and examine our actions and bring ourselves close to God with all our hearts. We must be repentant with broken hearts and anyone who is able should fast, if not a whole day, at least a half day." This is a tradition, that when winter hasn't been wet enough, the chief rabbi will call for the entire country to fast (which doesn't happen) in hopes of bringing the rain. I was going to write about communal responsibility taking care of our world, both spiritually and practically.

But then a 7.0 earthquake hit Haiti. If I were in the States this weekend, any synagogue that I might find myself in for Shabbat would be acknowledging the crisis and suffering, praying for the people of Haiti. In comparison with the tens of thousands dying under rubble, praying for rain, for this one teeny country, seems selfish and insignificant. No one is dying, today, because of the drought in Israel. Yet the drought is systemic, and absolutely affects people's lives and physical well-being. When I pray the words of the Gevurot, משיב הרוח ומוריד הגשם - Who causes the wind to blow and the rain to fall, my intention is not only towards Israel, but towards this whole, dry region. In the West Wing episode, "College Kids," President Bartlet shares his daughter Ellie's teacher's opinion on why there's always been conflict in the Middle East: "It's because it's incredibly hot and there's no water."

The tradition of declaring a communal fast day in times of drought in Eretz Yisrael is rooted in the assumption that the drought is because of our human failings, as individuals and as a community. The liturgy is not in ecological terms, although many interpret it as such, but in the language of sin and forgiveness. When this language is contrasted with Pat Robertson's words about how Haiti deserved this as punishment for a pact with the devil, I'm challenged by the theology inherent in these fast days, that droughts are a punishment to Israel because of sin, whether the sin of not keeping Shabbat, of sinat hinam (senseless hatred), or the treatment of the Other. But I do believe that how we act communally impacts the world. It's easy to think of examples for the drought, especially since it requires all of us to collectively reduce water usage through lifestyle changes. My friend Josh G-S saw a greater distinction between the fast day and Robertson's words than I did. He pointed out that the fast day comes from within the Jewish community, rather than from an external individual accusing an entire country of sin. We call on ourselves to take stock of our actions, through prayer and fasting.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes in his commentary to the prayer ברכת השנים (blessing the years, in the Amidah) in the Koren siddur, that, "Israel is a place that teaches its inhabitants the need for prayer." So is the world. Both of these natural events cause people of all faiths to cry out in prayer. In my siddur class this past semester, we talked about the power of prayer, and whether or not it has tangible impacts on the world. We talked about how our prayers can change us, by reminding us of our ideal selves and the world as we believe it should be, and through that, change the world.

Yesterday at Pardes we said tehillim, psalms, for both those suffering in Haiti and for ending the drought in Israel. Isaiah asks, "Is this the fast I desire?" Hopefully, the fast day, the psalms, the prayers for Haiti will lead to not only prayer and introspection, but real, world-changing action.

Blessed is God, Ruler of the Universe, whose power and might fill the world.

Bradley Burston's prayer for the people of Haiti

JRF's adaptation of Burston's prayer

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.

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.

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.

First Day of School...

...for me and all the children of Israel. As my roommates (Sarah and Naomi) and I walked to class this morning, every 5-year old in our neighborhood (which is a lot, because we live in a family neighborhood) was being walked to their first day of school by their entire family, shiny new backpacks and all. The first day of school was great, although overwhelming and exhausting - lots of people in not so much space, plus a long, long day, with new faces and new information.

Rabbi Landes, the rosh yeshiva of Pardes, taught a shiur to the whole school this morning. The piece from Talmud Yevamot that he taught opens with R. Hiyya and R. Shimon b. Rabbi arguing about which direction one should direct their eyes when praying - down to the Temple below, or up towards the heavens above. R. Ishmael bar R. Yosi comes in and says that his father's answer to this question was, "A man who offers up his prayers must direct his eyes to the Sanctuary below and his heart towards the heavens above."

The teaching off of it that I really liked was how these 2 directions represent the constraints of community and history (if you direct your eyes towards the Temple, which could alternately be interpreted as towards the community itself) and towards heaven is bringing your own self to Judaism. Both of these aspects - the community and the self - are needed for Jewish life, and they balance each other out. It reminds me of the Maya Angelou quote at the end of yesterday's post: "remember, you did not go empty-handed."

After a looong day of classes, the roommates and I braved the adventure known as an Israeli grocery store. Incredibly overstimulating, especially when faced with the task of stocking a pretty much empty pantry and refrigerator. It was crazier than MarketBasket, which I didn't know was possible. I'm pretty sure the people around us in line to pay just left their carts at the register and went on to continue shopping, then came back and nudged back into line. It was really sweet to come home (home!) to our apartment, unload the groceries, and cook dinner.

Tomorrow - first day of chumash and Talmud!