Children of Israel - Part 1

I found one of my favourite places in Israel today: a beautiful, massive, well-tended park. The park is liberally gifted with fruit trees, including some of the Shiv'at HaMinim, the Seven Species of produce with which the Land of Israel is notably blessed.* But besides the trees, the grass, the tranquility and the rolling masses of space dedicated to peaceful recreation and relaxation, I was most enthralled with the children.

Children are special. Or at least, children are people whose specialness easily shines outwards, whose specialness is not yet clouded by the deadening habits and ways of a society of norms, convenient character-boxing, and dismally low self-image. Children don't care what the world thinks of them. Children see the world without self-deception; they believe what they see, and they engage in it with totality. If a child is sad, he cries. If a child is happy, he dances and sings and smiles. Contrast with the world of 'grown-ups': if an adult cries, we assume there is some mortifying tragedy whose grief has caused this person to lose control. If an adult would start singing and dancing and smiling and laughing, most people would assume that he had lost his mind.

Why must it only be the children who taste life undiluted? Why must it only be the children who see things as they truly are? Why do we have to paint masks over our faces, cramp and constrict our ways, thoughts, ideas: our very souls? Why must we deaden and dull ourselves, to live emotionally constricted, experientially choked existences? We need to do some serious lightening up; we need to live with freshness, eagerness, innocent curiosity, and deep, honest passion. The child within us is still alive. Let it play! And sing and dance and cry and love and smile...

Of course, our experience and life lessons learned teach us things that children don't know, such as considering other people with more profundity and broadness, such as the necessity for rules and order and systems ('Why can't I have chocolate before I go to bed?!'), such as becoming more in touch with ourselves, with those people around us, and with G-d, such as understanding that our actions bear consequences in the world... But even so, such life's lessons don't need to weigh heavily upon us. We often get lost in the rules and systems and norms, and forget that they're only there to create order, and not to determine the very essence of who and what we are...

I love children. And when I see them, living life with no instructions or rules or restrictions on how they should feel, experience, live, I am inspired and refreshed. The children remind me to live in reality. The children inspire me to live passionately. The children remind me to throw away worry of what anyone else will think of me, but to listen to my soul, and to live, real life, like I once knew how...

So, what's special about the park; why is it now one of my favourite places? And what's special about the children of Israel? Look out for my next article in this series: Children of Israel - Part 2

Picture from here.

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* 'For HASHEM [G-d] your G-d is bringing you into a good land: a land of rivers of water; springs and depths coming forth in the valley and in the mountain. A land of wheat and barley, and grape and fig and pomegranate; a land of olive oil and [date] honey' - Devarim 8:7-8

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After Hours at the Arnona Office: When Bureaucracy Shuts Down

A short anecdote and a short observation:

Anyone who has ever visited Jerusalem’s City Hall knows that they are serious about their hours. The Arnona Department, specifically, is inundated by swarms of residents eager to file for property tax discounts. Similar to many of Israel’s bureaucratic offices, it is a place no one really wants to be. And, truthfully, it doesn’t seem that they are too eager to keep anyone there. The one o’clock closing time is strictly enforced and as closing time approaches the gate abruptly closes, locking out a crowd of unhappy Jerusalemites.

Last week I was one of those unhappy Jerusalemites—on the other side of that closed gate: I wasn’t locked out; I was stuck in. The hour was after one and I was sitting on a chair waiting for my roommate to return with a document that needed to be urgently signed. The kind secretary assured me that if I remained she would allow my roommate to reenter with the necessary paperwork.

So I sat there and waited. For an hour. Alone. With nothing to do.


I glanced over at the secretary and I noticed that she was engrossed in conversation with a man who, too, remained in the room past the one o’clock closing time. I wondered what they were discussing. And then I overheard (they were speaking in audible tones): they were discussing faith. She was not religious and he was religious. Their conversation was beautiful: he was gentle and unimposing in his argument and she displayed a genuine interest. They discussed God and belief and the responsibility that duality places upon man. She questioned and doubted and wondered; and together they thought and considered and answered.

And then I realized: in that same hour that I sat there and waited—Alone. With nothing to do—those two people stood there. Together. Engaged in meaningful conversation. Her formal work hours had ended and yet she remained, curious to hear what this man had to offer. And this man, his needs fulfilled, remained, eager to speak with a stranger.

The juxtaposition of our two experiences—disparate yet connected—emphasized the power of time and the potency of human relationships. The sentiments of frustration and impatience that result from the bureaucratic system are seemingly a common experience; and yet this moment revealed its latent subjectivity. The nature of the experience is determined by the individual and his or her attitude. While time is a fleeting factor, it can be appreciated through the determined efforts of the individual to recognize and realize his or her surrounding elements.

Soon after my friend returned with the document. All that remained was for the secretary to sign the paper and enter the data into her computer. Concerned that I would interrupt her conversation, I hesitatingly handed her the paper. She took it from my hand and yet, preoccupied, continued her conversation with the man. I stood aside and smiled.

I waited patiently and watched with amusement as the guaranteed durability and strength of the bureaucratic model disintegrated. Its supposed speed and efficiency was supplanted by the instability and precariousness of human life. The reality in which genuine personalities interact exposed the human side of bureaucracy. My past experiences with Israel’s bureaucratic offices, while sociologically interesting, provided little means of personal interaction. They were either ‘do you have that document?’ or ‘please go pay this fee’ or ‘I’m sorry, you’ll need to first get a signature from that office. And, by the way, they are only open on Wednesdays’. And then a polite smile.

This time, though, there was none of that. This time, there was silence from her side, as well as mine. I was unconcerned with the delay and I didn’t mind her disregard for my needs nor her negligence of her duties. It was a simple encounter in which the efforts and concern of one stranger and one government worker exposed that which hides behind the rigidity and stiffness of bureaucracy: real people. The system often stifles the individual, prides itself on impersonability, and yet this experience allowed me to glimpse within her soul, to her concerns and worries and hopes.

While I expected myself to be frustrated and impatient, I found myself enjoying the situation. I enjoyed interacting with a real person, one whom I could appreciate and understand; I enjoyed witnessing a genuine conversation; and I enjoyed watching as she rebelled, albeit unknowingly, against the system.

And mostly, I enjoyed that it was all for the sake of Judaism. How holy.

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Zemer's Aliyah Files #2: Music in the 'Three Weeks'

The 'Three Weeks' is one of the most difficult times in the year for me. Ashkenazi custom is not to listen to music, among other joyous activities, during the days between the 17th of Tammuz and the 9th of Av. This is because these three weeks are a period of mourning; the Talmud describes many national tragedies that happened on both of these days, which are designated as fast days, including critical stages of the destruction of the Temple, the Beit HaMikdash. The entire period is one of sadness, and one that has been reincarnated again and again over the generations as a time of Jewish tragedy -- may there be no more! I, as a musician, find it very hard to leave my instrument aside and to minimize my music listening during these weeks.

I'm now living in Israel, and I must say that the Land is alive; there is a feeling of aliveness that is tangible in everything, and that pervades everything and every person. This sadness of mourning, too, is definitely tangible to me. While there are not many more things as joyful to me as to walk down Ben Yehuda street in central Yerushalayim, and to see Jewish men and women, boys and girls, rejoicing and celebrating life in Israel with Jewish music, my joy and pride is overshadowed with sadness and discomfort during these three weeks.

Have we forgotten that we need to be sad in this time? Have we forgotten what we need to be sad about, what we need to remember? Is the fact that the Beit HaMikdash is still in ruins, more than 2000 years after its destruction, a fact of life to be accepted as a given? What is a healthy balance between rejoicing in life, especially life as a Jew in Israel, and grieving for the destruction of G-d's House on earth, and for our continued distancing from Him?

A living contradiction; a junction of opposites. How can you laugh and cry at the same time? How can you pray for the rebuilding of Yerushalayim, while thanking G-d for its continual rebuilding in our days? And... must we resolve these existential difficulties, or is it okay to live with them?

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Zemer's Aliyah Files: #1

I made aliyah not very long ago. What a complex mix of feelings. Such a rush of exhilaration and deep joy, such an overwhelming confusion and feeling of being lost. I am oozing with emotion of all kinds. Not all things have turned out as I expected them to; I haven't always felt as I expected I would.
Flying over Israel on my way in, I had the words of some of the most deeply inspirational parts of Tehillim on my lips. And yet, in all the ecstasy of the concrete fulfillment of such profound dreams as those of me and my people these many many years, there is also heartache. There is a sense of disconnection, as I struggle to get a hold on the new and sometimes bewildering social, cultural, and structural differences. And there is a sense of lacking; lacking in this fulfillment of the dream.

The Kotel is greatly inspiring, but even in my emotional return to its holy stones, I am conscious of the fact that it's just an external part, a minor remnant, of the great Temple which once stood, and which should stand, beyond it, in spiritual glory and physical splendour. When I say, 'boneh Yerushalayim' in my prayers, I'm in two minds: on the one hand, G-d has blessed us with the rebuilding of so much of this special city. On the other hand, there's so much still missing, so much that we're still lacking. When I thank the government for its generous help and active encouragement of my Aliyah, I also remember how hurtful and damaging some of its policies are, how selfish and morally perverted some of its leaders are. When I celebrate my own Aliyah, I am also greatly upset about the many people who should also be allowed to return to this land, but who are unable to. I rejoice in my return home, while I am broken down in grief at the tragic form of the return of two of our nation's beautiful children to her borders so recently.

Excited friends and family welcomed me to Israel with joy and celebration when I arrived. And an Arab Israeli welcomed me to Israel with his premeditated attempt at murder on the streets of Yerushalayim. This tragedy (whose total potential devastation was thankfully avoided) I was shocked, angry; and the complexities of the political, social, and spiritual reality here in Israel smacked me around the face. Life in two dimensions would be so simple, yes, but it would also be terribly boring. Life in its real form is incredibly complex, and to me it increasingly seems true here in Israel. I strive to be open-minded and to find a path of truth, but the sea is a choppy and a tempestuous one to surf.

I'm still engulfed in the excitement and the dramatic impact of being planted once more in the streets of the Holy Land; I realize, as I stand here at the beginning of a profound and life-changing, life-enriching process, that life is full of surprises; that Israel is indeed a deep and complex place, that life here is beautiful, difficult, exhilarating, confusing, wonderful. I look forward to intertwining my branches with those of the magnificence of this land; I look forward to adjusting my pulse and rhythm to that of this special place. I look forward to becoming, more and more, a part of my holy home land.

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On Aliyah and Being Devoured By the Land

On my flight back to Toronto after my Year in Israel, I was writing furiously in my journal, trying to make sense of all that I'd seen, felt, learned and experienced, when a fellow passenger came up to me and struck up a conversation. We spoke about the power of Eretz Yisrael, and our mixed feelings about leaving. It was Parshat Shelach that week, and he explained to me Rebbe Nachman's interpretation of the spies' evil report of the land, specifically the phrase “the land...is a land that devours its inhabitants”(Bamidbar 13:32). Unfortunately I don't remember his exact understanding, but it implied that this statement was both true and potentially positive, if read correctly. “Perhaps it's true,” he suggested with a smile, “no one can deny that you become a part of this place. Whether you like it or not, your soul gets stuck here. Eretz Yisrael absolutely swallows you up.”

Those words echoed in my ears as my aliyah flight took off from Toronto just over a month ago. Exactly a year had passed, and as I learned Parshat Shelach on the plane, I thought about the deep, enigmatic connection between Am Yisrel and Eretz Yisrael. Over the past month as I've gone through the technical motions that will officially make this place my permanent home, I have been trying to better understand the meaning of this phrase. As I go from office to office, line to line, bus to bus, mountain to mountain, maayan to maayan, tiyul to tiyul, and Shabbat to Shabbat, this questions comes with me. What is it about Israel, about this physical mass of land in the Middle East, that completely consumes the Jewish people?

At first, I felt nothing. I felt like I was just here for the year. Perhaps it was all just so natural, so right - - the fulfillment of 3000 years of waiting. And then I began to panic. Am I in denial? Do I not understand the magnitude of my decisions? And then, suddenly, I felt everything. I felt everything, all the time. The most aggravating annoyance as I went through (and continue to go through!) the infamous Israeli bureaucracy. The most incredible frustration as I struggled (and continue to struggle!) in Ulpan, realizing my personal handicap in the language in which I will soon be studying. The most painful longing for friends and family members so far away, on so many levels. The most frantic helplessness as I heard the news of a terrorist on a mad rampage, bulldozing innocent people, smashing into the 13 bus I take to my Katamon apartment. The deepest sorrow upon feeling the effects of our captured soldiers tragic return to their home, to our home. And then the most all encompassing relief as I lit the candles and brought in my first Shabbat in the holiest city in the world. The most refreshing peace as I returned to Sfat for the first time. The indescribable feeling of touching the Kotel and realizing how close it will always be. The subtle comfort of being home. And the final clarity I have as I develop these thoughts at a maayan in the Judean Mountains at sunset (not to be too much of a cliché, or anything).

The greatest challenge, I have found, has been allowing myself to feel all that is constantly coming my way. Israel is a place so intense, so loaded, so powerful, that it is virtually impossible for my Western mind to categorize, analyze, and understand it, intellectually. My roommate gave me the wise advice of her mother, “Your emotions are a part of you. You need to embrace them, experience them, let them wash over you, and only then can you let them go.” But how could I feel something that didn't make sense? How could I understand what I was going through, when it was so much larger than my limited perspective? Moreover, how could I be frustrated, annoyed and negative when I knew it was all part of something so Good? I tried so hard to remind myself at the peak of my frustrations, that each time I was being sent from office to office to office, I was spending more time exploring the streets of Yerushalayim, Ir Hakodesh. “It doesn't matter how time consuming it is to get your medical insurance sorted out, or that every single person has given you completely contradictory directions,” I rationalized, “at the end of the day you are receiving free health care from an independent Jewish state in Eretz Yisrael that you have had the opportunity to make your home after thousands of years.” But it didn't work. All of my efforts were futile, and this type of thinking only increased my frustration.

And then it hit me. I was at a friend's going away party and met a woman who'd made aliyah close to two years ago. We spoke about the process, the challenges, the highs and lows, and she helped me to understand the inherent purpose of all that I had been going through. “This land will absolutely flatten you and rebuild you,” she warned, “any personal hang-ups? Ego-trips? Character flaws? Forget them!” And that is when I looked back over the past month, and realized that the entire experience has been picking at the very aspects of myself that need the most work. Whether it is learning how to ask for help, validating my own emotions, letting go of my ego, or relinquishing my desire to control my own fate (among many others!), my very environment is refusing to allow me to get away with my flaws. Every day, the things that frustrate me so completely, only do so because, in His abundant love and kindness, God has designed a reality where we are so intrinsically connected to this land that our experiences here reflect that which is happening internally. We are forced to address these issues head on, and the more we attempt to avoid them, the harder they will chase us. We need to become completely devoured by this land in order to realize our true potential and become the greatest versions of ourselves possible.

I know that I am currently living the dream of so many of Tzipiyah's readers, and I feel a responsibility to be as honest as possible to those who look here for inspiration as I make my own personal report on the land. It is not necessarily easy. It is not necessarily fun. Perhaps this land really does devour its inhabitants. But it is real, it is worth it, and I truly believe that any time spent here, no matter in what capacity, has the power to bring us deeper and deeper into the reality of the world, into the heart of the people, and into the individual potential of ourselves. Please God, we should all get here soon.

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The Sons Have Come Home (A Poem)

Silent boxes, grimly borne.
Underground torrents of tears suddenly burst up outwards
Heart-wrenching sobs tear through the air:
The sons have come home.

Clustering support, rallying comfort,
rays of light in an overwhelming darkness;
the pain of the excruciating unknown
has changed to embody their worst fear, and their secret silent hope:
The sons have come home.

Betrayed by murderers who cheer in excitement
as we give them back their men of evil to return to their wickedness;
in jubilation and celebrated hatred,
their monsters have gone home.
In two deathly silent coffins,
our sons have come home.

Their cruelly silenced soon deaths meant
no pain, no suffering, for these two gruelling long years;
but the moment-by-moment hair-whitening torture
that their close ones suffered
is only ended today,
when the sons have come home.

Ease your hearts, o Israel,
for the sons have come home;
cry, o Israel,
for how the sons have come home.

Seats are empty, places silent,
but spaces in hearts cannot be re-filled.
G-d, spare the mourners more suffering;
comfort them in their silent finality,
now that their sons have come home.

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The Palestinian People: A Divided People

Last month I spent a day in the hometown of today’s murderer.

I was in East Jerusalem on an organized trip in which Jewish men and women explore and experience the Israeli-Palestinian conflict through interaction and dialogue with those of the latter group.

On the most basic level I can say that the trip was intense and meaningful; and yet I have been unsure as to what I want to say about it. I have been contemplating and procrastinating and waiting. Time passes and truths change and old experiences must be adapted to new realities.

And, thus, the reality of today’s horrific terrorist attack certainly demands careful reconsideration.

East Jerusalem was foreign to me. It was a Jerusalem I didn’t know existed and it was a Jerusalem that belied the “Unified Jerusalem” signs that hung amongst the streets of my Jerusalem. It was a Jerusalem that revealed contradiction and complicated the simplicity of what I always believed.

We toured the area with Ashraf Khatib, a field officer for the Negotiations Support Unit, and I walked along the “security fence” and I touched it and felt the paradox of physical manifestations as means of solving deep social conflict. We listened to an impressive presentation delivered by Walid Salem, of the Center for Democracy and Community Development and we sat in intimate conversation with Palestinian East Jerusalem residents.

The visual representation of the nature of the conflict was awfully powerful. Much of the value of the situation lay in the essence of the encounter. The ability and willingness to listen to the other provides great meaning.

There were moments, however, when speaking with Ashraf and Walim, that I realized the complexity of the situation: we are dealing with professionals who, despite genuine motives, eventually resort to formal rhetoric. When a Jewish participant inquired about the possibility of improvement of interpersonal relationships between the Palestinians and the Israelis, Ashraf, almost mechanically, responded that the solution to this issue is for the Israeli government to comply with the demands of the British Mandate.

Instead of remaining on the level of the micro, Ashraf resorted to the micro: he defines the personal question of relationships in terms of land and borders and thus obscures the essence of the conflict. It is a dynamic conflict involving people and feelings rather than technicalities of land and borders and straight lines. It is the question of rhetoric versus relationships.

With all the apparent paradox, though, the conversation and games with the Palestinian residents provided genuine dialogue. I heard the Palestinian narrative; I heard an underrepresented view. It was a moment in which stereotypes were shed; labels removed; and a sense of unity and humanistic empathy created. My most basic sensitivity to the plight of another human being and the understanding of human experience was aroused. They spoke of family, of friends, and of community; for a moment we shared a language.

The content of the dialogue was intense and complex: the definition of peace itself was unclear; and yet the mere ability and willingness to listen and appreciate the other weaved a delicate sense of togetherness.

I returned to West Jerusalem with appreciation and hope.

And yet:

It was late and I went to pick up my bike which I had left locked in a park. And yet, when I arrived at the park my bike was gone. Stolen.

There was a police officer nearby. He saw what had happened: “Why’d you leave your bike here? It was an Arab who stole it—obviously. It always happens.”

And without a moment for me to react, he drove away.

And then:

A Palestinian construction work plows his bulldozer into a bus and pedestrians and cars in the center of Jerusalem. He deliberately murders Israelis and wounds at least forty others. He crushed them; he crushed us—all of us.

What do they want? And who are They, anyway? Because They told me they wanted peace and claimed support for non-violence conflict resolution and yet They want to steal and kill and disturb the social order.

And truthfully, I believe both of Them. I truly believed those Palestinians when they smiled and we sat in the confines of the American Colony Hotel and they told me of pain and aggravation and hope.

But then I returned the mundane happenings of life; and as much as I wanted to yell at the police officer for the-matter-of-fact manner with which he asserted a Palestinian had stolen my bike, inside I believed it as well. And a month later, I believe that murderer today, whose hometown I had visited, when he brutally killed three human-beings and caused me pain and aggravation and told me he doesn’t want peace.

My hope, though, I’m unsure about: I'm not sure what's left of it; I'm not sure what will be of it; and I'm not sure who's in control of it.

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Our Stories Are Not Their Stories

Our stories are not their stories;
ours are true, theirs are rooted in falsehood.
Ours are stories of decency, morality,
a drive to do good, to build peace,
to better the world and those who fill it;
theirs are stories of hatred, of evil,
of destruction and bombing and explosions and
death, death to their enemies, death to themselves,
death for death's sake,
because life, in their eyes, has no value.

Ours are stories of truth,
of the pain and destruction of innocents,
babies, pregnant women, boys and girls, elderly people;
people who cared only to live their lives,
to have weddings, go to school, go to work, eat, sleep;
theirs are stories
staged for the camera,
gleefully riotously falsified,
a play, a charade,
again and again.

Nobody cares to see our real stories of pain,
stories of truth;
but when they fling out another of their
staged stories of evil, of falsehood,
the world sits up, and bays loudly,
making a great noise.

Listen, sisters and brothers:
let us not please anyone but G-d and ourselves;
let us not rely on anyone but G-d and ourselves;
for who will fight for us,
but G-d and ourselves?
who will believe us -- who will want to believe us --
though the truth comes from our mouths and not from theirs --
but G-d and ourselves?

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Dedicated to the memory of those murdered by the Arab Israeli man who carried out a murderous attack with a bulldozer on tens of Jews in the heart of Yerushalayim today, and to the speedy healing of the injured and grieving.
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For in-depth and wide ranging analysis on the falsehood in Arab media reports, see Palestinian Media Watch.
To see how biased the world's media is against Israel, see HonestReporting.com
Image from Arutz 7 - here.

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Distance (n): the state or fact of being apart in space, as of one thing from another, i.e; she felt very far away from Him.

So I propose this question: What is distance? Is it more than just something physical, or perhaps something more spiritual? Because sometimes I can swear that I can feel my soul quite literally reaching out from my body eastward.

So I've been back from Israel for exactly two weeks. I've managed to snag a job at Starbucks and haven't done much else. What I have done, however, is realize this: the farther I physically get away from Israel, the harder it is to be Jewish. I have lived in Israel, Vancouver, and I now live in Toronto which is quite literally the middle point between the first two. It's no shocker that the east coast is more saturated with Jewish culture and religious luxury than us here on the west coast where intermarriage is at about 87%. No joke. Ridiculous right?! And we all think global warming is a problem.

So I propose this question: What is distance? Is it more than just something physical, or perhaps something more spiritual? Because sometimes I can swear that I can feel my soul quite literally reaching out from my body eastward.

For those of us who have no yet merited of making aliyah for whatever personal reason, then with your (somewhat) relaxed and free time this summer think about how you are going to keep your connection with Israel. The expression of "the time just flew away" isn't worded by mistake. Some days I'm sure you're so busy that you look down at your watch once, then again a what seems like a minute later, and really an hour has "flown" by. In our busy lives we've forgotten what it truly means to "spend" time on something. Because as they say "time is money" and if you're not really aware of what you're "spending" your time doing...then your not utilizing times purpose in a very constructive way. By physically taking a minute out of your day to think and feel about your yearning to return to Israel, just one minute consisting of sixty seconds, you are spiritually "spending" time to close the distance between yourself and your creator, and ultimately His land that He gave to you.

It's actually much more difficult than you think. One minute, when concentrated on a specific purpose, is actually a very long time. Start it easy, try and visualize walking down your favorite street in Israel. Try and hear the usual sounds and to feel the Mediterranean sun on your neck. Or imagine yourself alone in the vast Negev desert sandwiched between the sand and sky surrounded by G-d. Try this everyday for one week (that only 7 minutes!) and I can guarantee you that you will feel closer to G-d. Your connection will be stronger than ever before you are literally spending time, investing in your connection to Israel and G-d, and Israel won't seem that far away after all.

Seriously. Why wouldn't you do it?

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To Define and to Defend

It’s been almost a month since it happened; and yet it is taking time to process its events. The images, interaction, and memories remain clear; and yet demand clarity.

I was on the bus home from school. It was a long day and it was late in the evening and we were approaching Mea Shearim, the Haredi neighborhood of Jerusalem. And then we stopped moving. I peered out the window, as I began to smell smoke, and noticed the garbage bins in the distance: they were set on fire and placed along the main road of the neighborhood, and thus there was only one very narrow lane for traffic.

The streets were mobbed with men and young children dressed in black and white and earlocks and velvet hats and bekeshas. The kids were disturbing traffic; they were taking smaller garbage bins and throwing them in front of the passing cars; they were shouting; they were causing me to feel as though I was a stranger in a foreign city with foreign people.

I was stunned. Traffic was stopped. People began murmuring on the bus. No one knew what was going on.

And so I got off the bus. I approached a haredi woman standing on the sidewalk. She was married and relatively young—perhaps late twenties.

What’s going on here?

I’m not sure of the exact details. Apparently, a young boy died in a car accident and the government won’t let them bury him. They want to perform an autopsy. A tragedy. A tragedy. Unbelievable. Can you imagine if you had died and they wouldn’t let you be buried?

She spoke passionately. She was staring at the fire and the words floated out of her mouth, sounding a bit premeditated.

I remained standing with her. I was intrigued and emotional and frustrated and I shared those sentiments with her. I insisted that while I can empathize with her pain, such a means of action will provide no solution.

She was convinced otherwise: this is the only way that the government changes things; we go out and protest and this is how things change. I am very proud of them; this is the right thing to be done.

Passer-byers stood and watched. People noticed us. People watched us. People, I assume, wondered.

I though, could not accept her arguments. I asserted that such action—while on a local level may provide solutions—foster greater splintering within the Jewish community; this is surely no conduit to empathy and understanding. The innocent onlooker—the outsider—experiences distance and frustration and disunity.

And she had a quick response: I’m not looking for unity. There’s not chance of that and that’s not what I daven for. I daven that one day the chiloynim will come back. And that’s all I can do until everyone comes back.

And no, she’s not going out there. She’s not trying to bring them back. Because—like she said—she doesn’t want any contact with them unless the chiloynim come to them. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with them. Her kids see them driving on Shabbat and scream goy goy. And they think that the woman without a head covering is a goya or an arab. How can she teach them otherwise?

Her words were bewildering. I was shocked—in the truest sense of the word: the abrupt and simple manner with which she disregarded all attempts of unity was painful.

It is difficult to fathom any united effort if, as she claimed, there is no incentive to reach unity; the absence of a common goal precludes any common action-- of which I strongly believe.

Eventually, perhaps frustrated, the woman mentioned that her kids were waiting for her at home and that she was worried that someone would walk by and record our conversation and she walked off.

I too, though, walked off frustrated: I was frustrated at her harsh and insensitive words; I was frustrated at my inability to empathize with her; I was frustrated with the paradoxical reality I attempt to decipher; I was frustrated that I felt like a foreigner; and I was frustrated with the abruptness of the conversation’s ending.

And yet, amongst the inundation of despair I embraced this intimate moment. For me it was a unique moment which provided the haredi woman a forum to define herself and defend herself against the other. I appreciated the encounter as an attempt at dialogue—a means of expression, of understanding. Appreciation, I think, is integral to the development of a solution.

While I do recognize that this woman’s words represent her alone and that she was, perhaps, an extreme representation of the community, I remain slightly despaired and yet forever hopeful.

Martin Buber has a powerful book entitled On Intersubjectivity and Cultural Creativity. He writes elegantly and poignantly. And, perhaps, herein lies a viable approach to the solution of this conflict.

Here’s what I read:

“A time of genuine religious conversations is beginning—not those so-called fictitious conversations here none regarded and addressed his partner in reality, but genuine dialogues, speech from certainty to certainty, but also from one open-hearted person to another open-hearted person. Only then will genuine common life appear (47).

Genuine conversation, and therefore every actual fulfillment of relations between men, means acceptance of otherness. When two men inform one another of their basically different views about an object, each aiming to convince the other of the rightness of his own way of looking at the matter, everything depends so far as human life is concerned, on whether each thinks of the other as the one he is, whether each, that is, with all his desire to influence the other, nevertheless unreservedly accepts and confirms him in his being (65).”

I like to think of this approach as my guidance. I like to hope that this model will transfer from the ideal to the realistic.

The next step is the general implementation of such a motive; the next stage is genuine education. And, as always, the question remains: is it possible?

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Jewish Women, Arab Men

Assimilation. Intermarriage. We've heard the statistics, the unsettling and the shocking. We've seen the charts and figures. 'Will your grandchildren be Jewish?' Our minds wander on to other occupations; we watch a movie, and conscientiously, if absent-mindedly, we notice all the Jewish names: actors, producers, directors... everywhere we look, Jewish names... Jewish people? What does assimilation look like? The iconic picture that springs up in our mind is sweet; a cute couple, in blissful love: they hardly know of the sternly forbidding lines they're crossing. What does it matter to them? They're in love - Just like any other story-line in a good romantic movie. So... is it another soul lost? Another broken link in the chain? What happens after intermarriage? And whoever heard of Jews intermarrying with Arabs?

Her real name is a dim, quiet shadow, in the mists of her almost-forgotten past. She carries a new name. She has learnt new customs, and has learnt to bear so much from a world she never before dreamt of. The sparkle in her eye, the pride in her posture, have faded with the name of her youth. She sometimes feels she wears a mask; or maybe she has become her mask. The beatings, yes, they came as a shock at first, but now she can suffer them almost silently; she has learnt, she has progressed. Her children's names, good Arab names, strike, in some deep recesses of her masked soul, at a still-tender nerve; something's not right; something, even after all these years, is foreign and bitter. But she tries to ignore that voice... until one day, suddenly, it becomes too much to suffer...

This woman, this Jewish woman's story, is true, many times over. It's a story that's happening today, right now, with hundreds of Jewish women, mostly in Israel. How bitter the difference between the first blissful infatuation when she and Ahmed had first met, and her life today, years down the road; she remembers her attraction: what a handsome man, what grace, what charm. A man like any other, surely? Her embittered life taught her differently. She learned to wear clothes of servitude, took the beatings of the cheaply valued woman, learnt the language of harshness, raised her children on teachings and values so very far from those she knew, deep down, to be her own. It all started with an innocent flirt, with a date or two, with a man who wasn't really so different, it seemed, from all the Jewish guys around her.

Intermarriage is when a Jew marries someone who is not a Jew. If it's the man who is the Jew, his children, by Torah law, are not Jews: tragically, he is the last, broken, link in a millenia-long chain of generations. He may love his wife and children, but they are not Jews, and they are only family until a certain point. If it's the woman who is the Jew, her children are Jews, too. But this may be more tragic than the first scenario: her children, and she herself, will very likely be so distanced from anything Jewish, and certainly from the wellsprings of Jewish identity such as Shabbat, Jewish Festivals, Synagogue, and Israel, that they will quickly forget they were ever Jewish. True, there are many amazing stories of Jews raised as non-Jews, sometimes coming from generations of non-Jews, whose inexplicable deeply inspired quest for meaning led them on the strange path back to their forgotten roots. However, there are many more silent stories; stories that begin and end in loss; souls cut off from their roots, princes and princesses so very far from the palace...

Unfortunately, hundreds of Jewish girls fall into the trap of serious relationships, and then marriages, with Arab men. So many of them end up like the woman I described above: shadows of their real selves, broken, embittered, and truly captive to their Arab husbands and their families: emotionally, and often physically. They have no escape; if they try to run away, they will be caught and cruelly punished. But it's their hearts, minds, souls that are truly captive; these Jewish women, like most Arab women, are treated with cruelty, barbarism, and deep inferiority by the men, and the women's spirits and self-images are utterly shattered. They can barely muster up the courage to think about escaping, never mind to get out and run for their lives.

How do these trapped Jewish women find help? How can they escape? There is a wonderful organization called 'Yad leAchim' ('A Hand to Brethren') that is committed to saving Jews from assimilation, missionaries, and other tragedies whose root is in weak or non-existent Jewish identity. Yad leAchim has a hotline and other services which are available for anyone to use, and they have a section that deals specially with the trapped Jewish women which I've been discussing. Their work and dedication is legendary.

It's noble work, and unfortunately very necessary, but it would be so much better if we didn't need Yad leAchim's services. How do you prevent intermarriage? How do you stop assimilation? I believe that these issues, as well as the current leadership crisis in Israel, are all rooted in the same source: Jewish identity. If I don't know who I am, then how can I value myself and my kind? And if I cannot see any value in myself and my kind, what stops me from attaching myself to people who are so basically and fundamentally different from me? If she doesn't have a pride and interest in being a Jew, what stops a trusting, beautiful Jewish girl from being led from misguided love to captivity and brokenness in the space of a short time?

Of course, assimilation has all forms and shapes, and it's mostly not accompanied by such violence and brutality as the cases of Jewish girls marrying Arab men. Sure, we don't want anyone innocent to suffer; we want to save them from cruelty and pain. But it's crucial for us to understand that the root of assimilation, in whatever form it takes, is the weakness of our Jewish identity; our failure to feel deeply connected to the Torah way of life. We need to re-define what Jewish identity really means. What is Judaism? What is Torah?

It must surely mean more than bagels and lax, more than just living in Israel, and more than just a set of laws, do's and don't's. Our generation is desparately thirsty for meaning. Torah holds that meaning, although so many dimensions of its depth has been almost lost, hidden over the years... Today, we are returning to our Land; G-d has opened His arms to take us back to Him. And as we return to the Land, we also need to bring out the full depth and spirituality of Torah that has lain dormant for so many years, to re-ignite ourselves and those around us with the awesome light of Torah. Rav Kook speaks about the power to fight against Nature, and then the awesome power within Nature itself, with which, when the time is ready, when we are connected to our source, we can engage once again, like we did so many years ago. Torah is so much deeper, so much broader, than we can imagine. In its true, full form, it speaks to every single soul; it tells every person what he or she needs to hear, what his or her soul is so hungry to hear. Let's bring it out, and shine its light on ourselves and all of our brothers and sisters of the House of Israel. May it be very soon.

-----

• Yad leAchim's Hebrew site is at http://www.yadleachim.co.il/
• Their English site is at http://www.yadlachimusa.org.il/
• A recent article on the Yad leAchim site, with answers to frequently asked questions by a Yad leAchim social worker, a story like the one above, and advice to mothers, can be found here.
• For an incredible story about children and grandchildren of a Jewish woman who married an Arab man, and their return to Judaism with the help of Yad lAchim, see part 1 and part 2.

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"Only in Israel" Moments

BS'D

I can't even begin to explain the joy I get in the realisation of just how blessed I am that my entire life right now consists of a series of "Only in Israel" moments. You all know what I mean by that- those times when it feels like you're on some parallel universe where being a Jew is the absolute, coolest thing to ever happen to the face of this planet, and you're a part of it. Just like everybody else. And it makes sense, and it's normal and that's just the way it is on this plane of consciousness, right? That's when you realise that you're not caught up in some warped reality..this is Israel's real, day to day life, the impossible is truth. As Ben-Gurion said,

"In Israel, in order to be a realist, you must believe in miracles".

The most incredible part of these moments is that you stop and marvel at these incredible people with inner strength beyond the scope of your typical ex-pat's understanding..and then you realise that these seemingly superhuman beings are your people. You stop to ponder-could you possibly be made from the same material as these resistant sabras? The reason why I have gone off on this "whoooah Israel and Israelis are so amazing" tangent (aside from the obvious fact that Israel and Israelis ARE so amazing :p) is that, especially over the last little while, I have found myself caught up in the things I see around me and the incredible acts of chessed people are doing on a daily basis. They are living incredible lives of yiddishkeit and true goodness, on a scale others dream of, and to them it's...just the way things are! All of these little moments slip by in time and are often left unnoticed, and I thought it would be nice to do them some justice..so I'm inviting you to share with me (and all the other awesome Yidden here checking out Tzipiyah-you are the GREATEST!) some of your favourite "only in Israel moments" that have stuck out in your minds over time!!

To kick it off, I geuss I'll start with acute moment that I got to witness today. Unfortunately, it's not the most incredibly profound (don't worry, I'll mull it over and get back to that!) but it's sometimes the small little things that happen all the time that have the greatest effect. In the same way that we often forget to thank Hashem for all the little miracles he causes on a daily basis and only thank Him when He does something huge..the everyday miracles are still nonetheless miracles! For example, I took the first train from Yerushalayim today to (or at least, in the direction of) the airport (needless to say, getting a group of half asleep girls to ANY destination will always be quite the adventure). By chance, we sat in the last car of the train, and it absolutely warmed my heart to see a minyan instantly formed, and a bunch of men davening out loud (picture to follow!). Between Jerusalem and Bet Shemesh, they managed to finish all of shacharis, but on his way out, one of the men informed me that there would be another minyan on its way. I didn't think much of it, until I saw a positive FLOOD of men walking into that last train car, half of them already decked out in their taleysim and tfillin. The car was absolutely packed, and as we made our way through the hills they swayed and fought gravity in order to say to Hashem they are grateful for the things He does in their lives, that they acknowledge His goodness and hand in everything and to beseech Him to continue to do so. Sounds a bit melodramatic, right? Technically, there's no hyperbole here-this is all just fact. If our ancestors could even see what I was lucky enough to witness today (just another ordinary every day occurrence) they would likely fall to their knees and praise Hashem through their tears. What?? The Jewish people are able to FREELY practice their beliefs and openly display their religiosity without the fear of persecution? A life of halachic adherence is actually attainable, even by a man on his way to work?? Impossible. The broken-spirited Jew in Auschwitz would never even dare dream that there would come a day where a Jew could carry a siddur on a train, let alone wear a kippa, wrap himself in his holy tallis, bind himself with tfillin and daven with a minyan on his way to work. And yet, these dreams are our reality, and the impossible is truth...

only in Israel.

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61 Reasons to Love Israel!

This past Yom Ha'atzma'ut, and related events, have really made me think about Israel. A theme I've heard from a few people, which resonates a lot within me, is that while Israel is certainly not perfect, it is also so beautiful, so wonderful, and the greatest blessing for us, the Jewish People. Through my passion for Israel, I've tended towards cynicism and a more negative outlook over the past few months, a mindset mostly fueled by some unfortunate events and trends specifically within the more politically related contexts. (Then again, what isn't politically related in Israel?!) But lately, especially since Yom Ha'atzma'ut, I've been heading back towards the side of positivity, joy, and pride in the abundant good in Israel, despite the very real 'bad' things that are there too.


Jacob Richman (check out his site) sent out a wonderful email to his subscribers. It's an article written by Barbara Sofer on the Jerusalem Post: a list of 61 reasons, in no particular order, why she loves Israel. I'm sure that a lot of us have read similar lists, and are probably familiar with some of the facts, but I learnt a lot, and was inspired and moved by some of her facts. It adds fuel to my personal passion of making Aliyah, which is happening in a few months! And it makes me really proud of Israel, of the Jews living in Israel, and of Jews in general. This is great stuff. Here it is:

Top 60 plus one reasons I love Israel

by Barbara Sofer
May 8, 2008

Why do I love Israel? Let me count the whys. Here, in no particular
order, is an updated list, with new additions and highlights of recent
years.

1. Jerusalem is so quiet on Shabbat that you can hear birds singing
even on the main streets.

2. We change our calendars on Rosh Hashana, not January 1,
because that's the real new year

3. Just hours after leading his Chelsea team to its first Champions
League final, Petah Tikva-born coach Avram Grant joined the March
of the Living in Auschwitz, and told all of Europe that his pride at
Israel's emergence from the horrors of the Holocaust surpassed
any football achievement.

4. We serve kosher food in the trendiest malls.

5. Streets bear the names of prophets and medieval poets.
Our communications satellite is called "Amos."

6. Land of milk and honey: Big news when Israeli archeologists
recently discovered evidence of the beekeeping industry - even
beeswax - that goes back 3,000 years.

7. Land of milk and honey: We're so successful at making milk
products that we have hundreds of choices of cheese and advise
New Zealand about making sheep cheese.

8. The Nahariya-based Strauss company, started by dairy farmer
immigrants from Germany in 1936, together with the Elite company
started by a candy-maker immigrant from Riga in 1934, are the
largest coffee manufacturers in Central and Eastern Europe, and
second biggest in Brazil. Aviv Matza exports its unleavened bread
to Egypt.

9. We have laboratories to check for the biblically prohibited mix of
linen and wool, shatnes, and we're the first country to make men's
suits from recycled plastic bottles, for sale soon at Sears.

10. At Jerusalem's Biblical Zoo, the loudspeaker announces
"afternoon prayers (minha) are now being held near the elephants."

11. The Biblical Zoo is kosher for Pessah. The primates eat matza;
the parrots get rice.

12. Every kindergartner knows that frogs are the second plague in
the Haggada, but our "save the frogs" campaign was launched at
the Biblical Zoo on Passover.

13. Mega investor Warren Buffet's first investment outside the US
($4 billion) was in Israel's Iscar company. He got so much positive
publicity that he told Iscar's CEO: "I was nobody before I bought
your company."

14. Sixty years after statehood, even young people refer to something
old-fashioned as "from the days of the (British) Mandate."

15. Theodor Herzl's bearded image welcomes visitors to hi-tech
Herzliya, and we celebrate Herzl Day.

16. My five-year-old grandson can tell you all about Theodor Herzl.
Also about Spiderman.

17. Combat soldiers aren't embarrassed to phone their moms and
grandmothers.

18. While Intel Haifa workers were working in an underground shelter
because of the missile attacks in the Second Lebanon War,
Intel announced the new multi-core processor developed there.

19. Entire families show up for military graduations, and bring
enough food to feed an army.

20. Name droppers. The poet Chaim Nachman Bialik named the
Egged bus company and also the Tishbi winery

21. Youngsters travel far to visit the Kibbutz Kinneret cemetery
where poet Rahel and national song laureate Naomi Shemer are
buried.

22. First graders read the Bible in the original Hebrew, and celebrate
with a party.

23. We follow the level of the Kinneret more faithfully than we do our
stock portfolios.

24. We have only one Pessah Seder but Purim, our dress-up holiday,
lasts three days. In Jerusalem on Purim, it's hard to tell who's in
costume and who isn't.

25. We have the highest concentration of hi-tech companies outside
Silicon Valley, and also the most yeshivot anywhere.

26. After a calamity, police have trouble keeping away bystanders
who want to help.

27. Thousands of free-loan societies flourish. You can borrow wedding
dresses and pacifiers.

28. Despite the tensions and political dissension, Israel has the
highest Jewish birthrate in the world.

29. Despite the tensions and political dissension, Israel is the
fastest growing Western country in the world.

30. "Jerusalem of Gold" is still voted the favorite national song.

31. We have timeless cuisine: You can order Israeli breakfast,
business lunch and dinner simultaneously at Israeli cafes.

32. Our pilots fought over the honor of taking part in a fly-by over
Auschwitz 60 years after liberation.

33. Israeli fighter jets accompanied tourists safely home from
Mombasa after they were threatened.

34. We have 120 members of the Knesset because that's how many
were in the ancient Great Assembly.

35. We first developed candy-sweet cherry tomatoes as a
TV-watching nosh.

36. On Remembrance Day and Holocaust Remembrance Day,
the act of remembering halts traffic. Even kindergartners stand
silently, and understand why.

37. While dining rooms are shrinking in Western homes, Israeli
dining room tables are getting longer.

38. We invite strangers for a home-cooked Shabbat meal.

39. An Israeli artichoke farmer with a sore back developed the
sophisticated Hollandia beds and exports them from Sderot to
many countries, including Holland.

40. Strangers feel free to tell a parent to put a hat on the baby in
a country where we wear scarves, snoods, spodiks, streimels,
wimples, fedoras, berets, tarbushes, homburgs, kippot and keffiyot.

41. While other Western nations debate immigration, we absorb
more immigrants per capita than any other country in the world.
Almost immediately all learn the Hebrew word for patience, savlanut.

42. Our street musicians can play in symphony orchestras;
our supermarket clerks know calculus.

43. Our biggest shopping seasons precede Rosh Hashana and
Pessah.

44. Municipalities' decorating contests feature succot, not trees.
The Succot holiday is high season in Israel; book hotel rooms
a year in advance.

45. Even politicians from anti-religious parties say "Baruch Hashem."

46. "Where were your grandparents from?" is a common question.
Where else would anyone care about my grandparents?

47. We celebrate Mother's Day, now Family Day, on the yahrzeit of
Henrietta Szold who, with Recha Freier, organized Youth Aliya but
who had no children of her own.

48. For all the talk about the greening of the planet, we're the only
country in the world that started the 21st century with a net gain of
trees. (Thank you, Jewish National Fund)

49. During the Second Lebanon War, JNF rangers stayed in the
forests during Katyusha attacks to save the trees

50. We're among the most Internet-connected people on the planet.
We invented the cellphone, instant messaging, the chat room and
the silent prayer, but still talk best with our hands.

51. Before Purim, the TV weather forecast relates specially to the
day the kids go to school in their costumes. For a week before
Yom Kippur, the weather report focuses on the upcoming fast.

52. We love children, and have more IVF per capita than any other
country. It's free up to the first two children.

53. We celebrate Independence Day with a Bible Contest.

54. Israelis developed both the system to see photos from Mars and
cameras to monitor crime on buses in Brazil.

55. Despite our soul connection to chicken soup, per capita we're
the world's biggest eaters of healthier turkey, bigger even than
America. Go figure!

56. We're among the first to help countries that experience
disasters, and the first to have our field hospitals up. When Israel
helped Turkey after an earthquake, an Israeli doctor made an
incubator from a matza box.

57. Jewish soccer players for Bnei Sakhnin compete against
Arab players for Maccabi Tel Aviv.

58. Childbirth and burial are free. Even the homeless have health
insurance.

59. On Saturday night, the radio summarizes the news for all those
who don't listen on Shabbat.

60. We're agricultural high achievers, producing seven times the
output with the same water we used 25 years ago. Our date trees
average 182 kilos - 10 times more than the average in the Middle
East. One date tree is growing from 2,000-year-old seeds found in
Masada.

And, as on a birthday cake, one for next year:

61. We come from more than 100 countries and dream in Hebrew.

The original article on JPost can be found here.
Image of the bumper sticker from here.

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Oy.

You may think that was a sigh of despair. And in a way it was. But more importantly, I think, it’s a sigh of concern—of deep distress.

Last Shabbat while reading the Chareidi magazine Mishpacha, I came across an interview with three influential Chareidi rabbis on the “Burning Issues of Chareidi Jewry”. A prominent section of the article discussed the respective rabbis’ positions towards the Reform, Conservative and Modern Orthodox movements. Here’s a bit:

“Members of the Conservative and Reform movements are all from our beloved Jewish brethren, may they one day merit to see the truth. The movements themselves, though, cannot, in all honesty, be viewed as Jewish movements. Since the goal of their movements is to distort Judaism, eliminate belief in Hashem, and eliminate mitzvos and Torah, there is no other way to view them.

Our approach to Conservative and Reform Jews should be to speak to them, let them know we care about them, introduce them to Torah, and try to get them to understand how much they are missing by not having Torah.

Before World War I and World War II, Orthodoxy joined the other movements in certain organizations to empower the Jewish community before the government, perhaps for the sake of the Jews overseas.

...But there are more problems created than solved when such bodies represent the Jewish people in the eyes of the government.


Number One, it gives them legitimacy in their own eyes and makes us recognize them. Inevitably, we will be sitting down with them at the table and calling them “Rabbi this” and “Rabbi that” when they possess no scholarship, and are utterly undeserving of being called a rabbi in any way.

…Number Three, giving them recognition causes us to stop and look at them as people who are lost and in need of being healed and helped. We will stop looking at ourselves as rescuers, and begin to see ourselves as their equals, or just another sect.

...I would say that Modern Orthodoxy is not a Torah movement, but I wouldn’t say it doesn’t have Torah value.”

I was stunned.

(Admittedly, I did include the excerpts that emphasize the impact of the expressed opinions and I do recommend that you check out the website where the article should appear by the end of the week; yet the potent shock and paradox is undeniable.)

And then yesterday I came across this article posted on the Haaretz website professing that “We have had it up to here with the ultra-Orthodox”:

“These are painful statements, but they must be said loud and clear: Two peoples live in this land, both Jewish - they and we. They are the ultra-Orthodox, who see themselves as emissaries of God on earth. We are all the rest - secular, traditional and religious. It is not that we have suddenly separated; we never were one people. We tried to delude ourselves that we were. They knew all along that we were not.

What did we not do to preserve unity? We were ready to admit that they personified the true Judaism; we accepted marrying and divorce according to the laws of Moses and Israel based on their version; we accepted - willingly or gritting our teeth - limitations on our lifestyle; we agreed to ignore the status quo agreement that was wrung from us as hush money, so that they would not show up before the United Nations investigative committee and persuade it to prevent the establishment of the Jewish state; we sent our young men and women to defend them, while they spend their time at yeshivas or just wandering the streets; we agreed to support them, since after all they do not have time to work for a living; we even came to terms with their spitting at us, we whose "wagon is empty" while theirs is full.

All these things did us no good. They continued to take the fruits of our goodwill from us, while giving nothing in return. A unilateral treaty was created in which we give and they take.

…Therefore we have had it up to here with their insults. We are no worse Jews than they are. On the contrary: Good manners come before Torah. Humanness is not the antithesis of Jewishness, but rather stems from it."

Again—stunned.

But then I took a moment to understand: the attacks are coming from both sides. They are hurtful and often unfounded; they are piercing and unnecessarily blunt; and although I do see elements of truth in each argument the truth remains irrelevant. What concerns me is the form in which each author presents the facts: verbal wars are certainly not conducive to meaningful reform. Tasteless words and biting phrases will certainly hamper progress.

In this splintered society we must disregard focusing on the differences and attempt to produce a network of empathy and understanding. We can no longer assume a position of superiority and importance: I believe that there is truth in my way; yet that does not preclude belief in the other way— a belief in both ways.

We have a common tradition; a text: we have the Torah. From there arises dissention as a plethora of interpretations produces an even greater number of opinions. We must, however, trust the proclaimed intentions of the other and validate every individuals desire to forge a relationship with God.

The approaches are each very different; yet the complexities that produce a system of customs—the very habits, symbols and values that characterize one group—are a means of personal expression and demand appreciation.

At the end of the day, though, we must expose mutual ground. I do recognize that nice thoughts and happy ideals are partially meaningless. And this is where you come in. The question remains: how do we alleviate this tension? How can we create a common living ground which honors the respective differences? Even if there is dialogue—what issues shall be discussed?

It seems it’s always someone: Arab and Jews; Religious and Secular; Modern-Orthodox and Ultra-Orthodox.

Oy.

Deep down I am hesitant to post these articles. Perhaps they will only exacerbate the present schism rather than alleviate the discord. Ultimately, though, change and productivity result from awareness.

So here it is. It all depends on us.

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Remember, today: Yom HaSho'ah, Yom HaZikaron, Yom Ha'Atzma'utּ

Sadness and joy,
drizzling sunbeams,
remember, remember,
and fill your soul with memories you never witnessed;





Remember, remember,
join yourself up again to the
massive Whole.










Grieve, shed tears,
make room for the darkness
of the families, children destroyed forever,
though they were never your children.







Remember the blood-stained uniforms,
the smell of explosions and darkness and death,
though it was not your nose
that smelled them.





And remember the joy,
fireworks and flags,
elation and trepidation,
fighting fiercely, joyfully for your lives -
though it was not you
who fought, whose heart rejoiced.




To be one of the Nation,
to be one with the Nation,
my mind must remember,
my soul must remember.






To be a soul holding hands
with those before and those after,
with those beside me and those far away,
I must remember.
We must remember.





Taste the joy,
the fear, the darkness,
the light, the death,
the throngs of jubilant rejoicers and
the full, silent cemeteries
in the moments of silence.
Remember the stories.
Remember today.

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* Pictures 1, 2, 6 & 7 are of the Gush Katif Human Chain, and are from this site. There are more wonderful pictures there; go and look!
* Picture 3 comes from this page.
* Picture 4 comes from this page.
* I'm not sure where I got Picture 5 from.

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What Isreal's Greatest Accomplishments Mean for You

Today I read this:

Maybe worse are others who are content to wear “I love Israel” t-shirts, and are driven to write letters “defending Israel” to their local papers, but are either unable or unwilling to see the imperfections of our home–thereby retarding efforts to fix and mend, to build a healthy nest for our People. The ‘love’ these organizations teach is the love of romantic comedies or fantasy romances — a drunken, vertigo inducing love that covers all flaws and produces little for the long-term benefit of the relationship.

As love goes, however, as my fear grows, so does my obligation to my People, and my desire to participate in the next sixty years–at least–of the building of a home that will provide my People a model of commitment-despite-imperfection, loyalty-through-action. And I am encouraged by the fact that I am not alone in this: despite the cynicism of the average Israeli, they, too, are committed to building such a home - to defending, growing and developing a place to which our People can always return and participate in, no matter the disagreement, the disillusionment, the anger and the tears.

(from 60bloggers.com: “Love is not a Crush: Israel and Obligation” by Ariel Beery-that same one, by the way, that co-launched Creative Zionism)

And then I thought this:

This Yom Ha’atzmaut Project is a great initiative. It’s novel; reveals subtleties; creates awareness; allows for expressed diversity yet retains solidarity; and fosters an environment of positivism.

We’re basically extracting all the darn good things place has got to give.

But let’s not forget why this place has got all those darn good things to give: because of a great number of people who considered their existence and considered Israel’s existence and realized that the two are a proportionally related.

Cause, apparently, they love Israel.

But what really is love?

Do we love Israel just like we love to hang out with friends; and love to watch a great movie; and love to walk on a breezy day; and love our parents?

Or do we just love loving?

And so I truly hope this:

That all this talk of Israel's greatest accomplishments will bring about a genuine love: a love that appreciates the good and recognizes the not-so-good; a love that enraptures all its beloveds with the thrill and delight of an intimate relationship; and a love that desires reform.

Then we can really work on building our country so we can brag about her for another sixty years.

How’s that for real love?

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An Advocacy: the Rise from Aliyah to Activism

Making aliyah, it seems, is not the fruition of that idealized dream. And by “it seems,” I mean I once thought it was. I came here to live because I can and We can and We should and from there everything would work itself out. Somehow.

Yet that Somehow still hasn’t shown up. Or rather, that Somehow has transformed into a Someone: a Me.

Israel is a complex country: a country that professes the ideals of democracy yet attempts to retain loyalties to a historical and religion responsibility. Israel is a country that needs my help along with your help.

Living here, I have come to realize, is not about finding the most comfortable place to live, that town that reminds me most of back home or the location that will best suit my needs. Living here is about us—about the community of Am Yisrael—and what we can do to ensure that such an entity exists and continues to exist, even beyond the borders of Israel.

This past summer I met a group of solid people. They were all young and intellectual and motivated and strived to affect change. They were part of the PresenTense Institute, a Creative Zionism summer program. Their website tells it best: they enable “socially-minded entrepreneurs from the fields of hi-tech, business, social action, education and the arts to turn their envisioned projects into reality.” Basically, they are a bunch of young minds who care and do something about it. It's pretty impressive.

Become part of this active reality at http://www.creativezionism.com.

Read what they have to say. Think about what they have to say. What do you have to say?

We are living in precarious times. The meaning of Zionism is up for debate. It is a term we afford great prominence; it is the subject of much debate and discussion and yet in some sectors it is slowly being replaced with alternate values and morals.

What is Zionism? What do we want out of this place, anyway? How are we going to actualize such goals in an age of post-modernism and equality for all and pluralism and individualism and social concern?

The folks at Creative Zionism know. Do you?

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Transcending towards Jerusalem

When we speak to G-d, especially in the formally organized prayers found in the Siddur, and most especially during the standing prayer ('Amida'), we do something simple but most profound. Wherever we are in the world -- Northern Hemisphere, Southern Hemisphere, New York, Sao Paulo, Durban, Perth, London -- we face towards Israel. The Talmud (Brachot 30a) explains further: if one is in Israel, one faces towards Jerusalem; if one is in Jerusalem, one faces towards the Beit HaMikdash (Holy Temple); if one is standing in the Temple (as we all will one day, may it be very soon), one faces towards the Holy of Holies...* It's one of the most basic things about praying. Pretty simple, right?


No, not really. I'm out of town at the moment, and when I got up to pray this morning, I went outside into the cool breeze and began to speak to G-d ('pray'). When the time came to do the Amida, I turned to the north, as we do in South Africa (check an atlas). Do you know what I saw? I saw tall buildings sloping upwards on my left and on my right, and a small triangle of sky, opening upwards, which was occupied with the top of another distant building. The buildings were okay, but nothing magnificent. And, in these new surroundings, I thought, is that what I'm praying towards? This mediocre-looking building?

I reminded myself that, of course, this building means nothing in terms of my direction of prayer. I'm not praying to the building, or even through the building. I'm praying beyond the building. I'm praying all the way to Jerusalem! I was filled with inspiration and pride (and an instant decision that I'd write an article about it for Tzipiyah.com :) ); I suddenly had a deeper insight into a very simple custom that's so intrinsic a part of our prayer rituals. When we pray, we turn and face towards Jerusalem. Even when we're so far away physically, we direct our hearts** towards our most cherished place. We yearn for its rebuilding and completeness; we long to be there. And even if we know that today we can't be there, we connect with its holiness; we know that it's the seat of G-d's presence in this physical world, and, when we connect to G-d in prayer, we try to picture ourselves right there. The very essence of our prayer is deeply woven with Jerusalem.

On the last day of my latest trip to Israel, I was feeling tearful and heavy-hearted, knowing that I'd have to leave this special place. I walked into a newspaper shop between Ben Yehuda and King George streets, to buy a paper to read on the plane -- wonderful for improving your Hebrew. The shopkeeper, an older man, and I got talking. I told him, for some reason, that I was leaving Israel that night. I still remember what he said to me. I think he said that he and his family had been living in Yerushalayim for many generations. And he said, go back, do what you have to do. But come back. You know you'll come back. And whenever you pray, picture yourself standing at the Kotel. See yourself standing there, even when you're so far away. You'll come back!

It made it a little easier to bear.

The Talmud ends off the section about praying towards Israel and Jerusalem with the most beautiful words. Shir HaShirim (Song of Songs) 4:4 says: "Your neck [O Israel,] is like the tower of David; built as 'Talpiyot'" -- Rabbi Avin / Rabbi Avina says, ['Talpiyot' means] 'Tel,' the hill, towards which all 'piyot', mouths, face: Jerusalem (the tower of David) is the hill towards which all mouths face in prayer. Wherever we are in the world, we turn towards Israel and Jerusalem.

Let's get to Jerusalem soon. In our prayers, and in our physical lives. Very soon!

Shabbat shalom

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* The Talmud goes on all the way up to envisioning oneself standing before the Holy Ark, as one is standing on progressively holier gorund.
** The Talmud there (Brachot 30a) actually uses the term 'direct one's heart', and does not actually mention physically facing towards Israel, Jerusalem, etc.

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On that day, this song will be sung...

A beautiful song popped into my head today. I hummed and sang it for a while, until I realized that the song and how I learnt it are very significant today. It takes me back to some time I spent in Israel in 2005.

I had spent a pleasant evening with a very good friend of mine in central Jerusalem. After a great meal at Burgers Bar, we decided to walk across to the Old City and the Kotel. We made it more interesting by trying to find a short-cut. It was a quiet, pleasant evening, and we enjoyed the walk. But then we saw something unusual...

When we neared Kikar Tzahal (Tzahal Square), the intersection of Jaffa Street closest to Jaffa Gate (?), we saw a lot of people grouped near the gate. Up close, we saw a very large circle of men, mostly bearded, wearing white shirts and smart pants, and kippot s'rugot (crocheted yarmulkes). They were dancing slowly around, in a circle, singing songs of passion, joy and trust in G-d. I don't remember if it was my friend or me who decided to join in, but we walked up and joined hands with the men, becoming part of the circle.

It was a bit bizarre; here, at maybe ten, eleven at night, was a large group of men, singing and dancing, with virtually nobody else around, on the wide plaza area just outside Jaffa Gate. An armed soldier and policeman stood guard. My friend and I were both quite casually dressed, and I was distinctly aware that I was wearing a black T-shirt with a skull and crossbones. But no matter. Nobody cared.

After a while of dancing, we re-grouped into many rows of about seven or eight men, shoulder to shoulder, and we began dancing through Jaffa Gate. We progressed through the Shuk, and down into the Arab Quarter, along streets and alleyways that I'd never walked along before. The whole area was deserted, as the residents were under a temporary curfew, for our protection. We danced and danced, and even circled a small block within the alleyways; we joined hands again and went right round the block!

My friend and I were swept along with these men we'd never met, becoming part of their singing and joy. Their songs were songs of pride and hope, of confidence and passion. One song that I learnt, as we sang it over and over again, went like this:

ביום הוא יושר השיר הזה, בארץ יהודה"'
"On that day, this song will be sung, in the land of Yehuda:,
עיר עָז לנו, ישועה ישית חומות וָחֵל.
'We have a mighty city; He sets up salvation as walls and bulwarks;
פתחו שערים, ו‏יבוא גוי צדיק, שומר אמונים'"
Open, you gates, so that the righteous nation, that keeps faithfulness, may come [through]!'"

I actually never caught all the words at the time -- Google has referred me to -ישעיה כו:א-ב Isaiah 26:1-2 -- but parts of the verse, and the powerful chorus, that I shouted out together with maybe a hundred men, has stayed with me since then. These are words of triumph; words of hope; words of redemption; words of a nation that can sing joyous songs of its glorious return to its holy city, to its holy land. The most beautiful thing is that 'ביום ההוא', 'on that day', was truly referring to that very night in Yerushalayim. We were experiencing the fulfilment of a millenia-old prophecy. I didn't even realize this at the time.

The date, of course, way Yom Yerushalayim, the annual day in celebration of the liberation of holy Jerusalem in the Six-Day War from the Jordanians. And we danced and danced, singing all along, the men from Merkaz HaRav yeshiva*, and my friend and I, all the way through the Arab Quarter to the Kotel. And there we danced some more, and said some special festive chapters of Tehillim.

Not so long ago, as many of us know well, the Merkaz HaRav yeshiva suffered an enormous tragedy in its Beit Midrash, study hall. Eight young boys, who learnt at the yeshiva, were murdered by an Arab-Israeli terrorist. The personal, familial, communal, and national aspects of the tragedy are immense, and shock-waves still resound through the Jewish Nation.

I suddenly realized, today, that I had had a tangible, brief connection with some students of Merkaz HaRav*, about three years ago. I and my friend had sung and danced with men we didn't know, in celebration of something holy and special. What inspiration, what a message of hope and joy and unity, even in the face of tragedy. What joyous celebration of Jerusalem! What vision and pride... Let's remember the wonderful things that G-d has done for us, and that He continues to do for us... Let's sing the song today, in Jerusalem!

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* I have always assumed, from that night, that this is where they were from; either the yeshiva itself or its kollel (does it have a kollel?). I may be wrong, and they may have been from some other yeshiva or kollel. But even if so, their powerful message of hope and joy, of Tzipiyah, anticipation of goodness to come, and the deeply inspiring experience I had with them, remains strong.

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Megilla in the Park: We Come to You!

I just saw a heart-warming article from Arutz 7, about an incredible initiative for Megilla reading on Purim. In the midst of a difficult national, communal, and personal period, it is so uplifting to read about initiatives like these.

The idea of this wonderful organization called Lev Yehudi is that so many 'secular' Jews in Israel feel uncomfortable with going into a shul to hear the Megilla being read. So, they are organizing lots of Megilla readings in more neutral or relaxed environments, such as parks, private homes, and offices. There is a lot of interest for these events, which is so inspiring to hear. The people behind Lev/Rosh Yehudi understand that there are so many people who want to hear the Megilla, to connect to the deep spiritual aspects of Purim and Jewish life in general, but who are scared of entering shuls because of media- or culturally-spread prejudice, bad experiences in the past, or a feeling of discomfort with the strict and seemingly uncompromising ritual and its proponents, the 'religious' Jews. So, instead of bringing the people to the Megilla, Rosh Yehudi brings the Megilla to the people! What a wonderful idea, and what awesome love for one's fellow Jew.

We often are led to believe that Israeli society is so polarized, but here is proof, or a reminder, that things are so often not what they seem... just like Purim.

For more details, please read the article over here.

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