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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NBN Jewish Bloggers' Conference in Yerushalayim

On 20 Aug 2008, I represented Tzipiyah at the first-ever international Jewish Bloggers' Conference, organized by Nefesh B'Nefesh. NBN flew in some prominent Jewish bloggers from USA, and provided a light deli buffet, drinks and snacks (free!), and an altogether entertaining and informative evening. In truth, I expected about 20 people to show up. Over 200 people attended the conference in Yerushalayim -- Israelis and visitors with NBN -- and I'm told over 1000 people watched the live webcast over the internet. Wow!

Although I'm not a 'big macher' in the Jewish blogosphere, I did recognize some names, and it was great to see the people behind the blogs in many cases, and to meet people involved in similar or common concerns: Torah, blogging, Israel, Aliyah, computer geekery, etc.

I was proud to represent Tzipiyah at the conference, and to rub shoulders with bloggers from better known and lesser known blogs than ours. I heard about some other interesting blogs, such as Treppenwitz, Jewlicious, and WhatWarZone.

Thank you to Nefesh B'nefesh for all their effort and money spent on this wonderful event, and to the event's other sponsors, Sun Microsystems, Office Depot, IsraelMall, and WebAds.

I hope that more of our contributors will be able to participate in future events, and that blogs with positive Torah and Israel related content and messages will continue to flourish and to shine light into the face of the darkness.

Friends, as always, we need to spread as much light as possible. Today, the fight for Jewish identity is urgent; the cause is crucial. On Monday, 25 Aug (yesterday), Israel released from its jails 198 Arab terrorists, for no reason whatsoever (besides currying favour with Rice). The madness continues; in the face of it all, we need to do what we can to strengthen Jewish pride, Jewish knowledge, Jewish identity. Proud Jews stand tall, stand firm, and know without a doubt that the only One to trust, the only One to ask for support from, is the Creator Himself. Not America, not Britain, not anybody else. Only G-d.

(picture from here)

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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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A Year in Galut

It’s been a year.

This time last year, I was in a Midrasha on a Kibbutz in Emek Bet She’an. This time last year, I was learning Torah in Eretz Yisrael. This time last year, I was home.

Right now, I am completely stuck in Galut, and my surroundings do not care to stop reminding me of that. I feel so alone, as if I am the only one not in Israel, I almost feel abandoned. Two of my friends left less than an hour ago on the El-Al flight that is taking them to their summer program, where they will learn Torah LiShmah in Israel for six weeks. For one of them, this is the first time in Israel in a very long time, and I am anxious to hear how the land will strike him, if she will reveal her ultimate beauty to him, as we are taught by Rav Kook zt”l, among other Rabbis, that she does so to those she chooses to. The other friend, he lives for Israel. He breathes the love and the longing for the land every day in everything he does, and this trip will be his first time there in four years. I am so jealous of him. I think of the last time I was in Israel, last summer, how I watched the screen on the airplane show the painfully slow approach to the dot marked “Tel Aviv,” the way the illustration of the plane seemed to be only inching along the screen. I remember looking out my window and finally, suddenly, out of the cover of the surrounding fog, seeing the jutting of tall buildings from shorelines beneath. Finally, home. I know this is how this friend of mine will be feeling, this overwhelming ache of the temporary end to suffering, an ultimate joy, as tears threaten the eyes and the soul feels the true emotion of the words “Vishavu Banim Ligvulum.” This is what my friend will be feeling in a matter of hours, as I sleep unaware in my bed. I know this, and for the past two days, a weight has been added to my heart, knowing that these friends of mine will be experiencing this purest of joys as I remain in America, trapped by my reality.

The magnitude of this sorrow has gotten so great that I feel I cannot keep it in; I must talk with someone. I pick up my cell phone to call the friend who would come over, take me out, try to distract me, and then I realize that my call will go unanswered. She, too, is in Israel, on a ten day tour with the Israel advocacy program she’s a member of, “Write-on for Israel.” I remember this with pain, like a slap in the face, as I remember the itinerary of her trip, which she showed me. Border checkpoints, archeological sites, government offices, Sderot…places immersed in our national history, and the history our nation is making now. We both despaired looking at her itinerary, she for fear that she will prove to be the least intelligent in her group, which will not be the case, and I for longing to be in her shoes.

I left on a walk to escape the chaos of my house, and saw the house of my neighbors, a family of seven children, thank G-d, who will be making Aliyah this summer. I sit in the park, and can see the house of one of my campers. Her family, as well, will be making Aliyah this summer, G-d willing. I rejoice for these families, for their devotion to Am Yisrael, despite the difficulties involved in the process. I rejoice most for the children: they are still so young, their childhood memories will be in Israel. Their culture, their thoughts will be in Hebrew. They will naturally speak the language of our land, our Torah, the same way I speak English. This is amazing. This also causes me to feel depressed. What all these children are gaining, it was almost mine. My parents packed us up and moved us to Israel in my infancy. This, however, was before the days of Nefesh B’Nefesh, and, to my perpetual sorrow, we had to move back to the States. The experience of growing up in Israel, of speaking the language with perfect fluency, was almost mine, but I lost it. I grew up dreaming of Israel. She is part of my essence: my heart and my mind are forever focused on her. Libi bamizrach vi’anochi basof ma’arav. Centuries later, the Riha”l’s statement rings true with me. The only consolations I can give myself are that my upbringing in Galut must be a part of G-d’s ultimate, divine plan. Gam zu litovah. This is how it is meant to be.

I have to remember that in a year’s time, G-d willing, I’ll have graduated from High School and have a lifetime of great potential for closeness to G-d in His eternal home for us, in Israel. This is the dream. This is worth the pain, the impatience that is not my fault, that is out of my control. After all, this suffering will add to the ultimate joy of reaching Israel permanently. And that thought fuels my desire for Israel, for the truth that she holds, for the layers of Torah that she can reveal, every day of my life.

Gam zu litovah.

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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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The Wrong Kind of People

The chase was on! In a rash challenge to my friends, I had chosen to take the lift (elevator) up to the cinema level of the shopping centre, while they had taken the escalator. Who would get there first? Time was crucial; everything was at stake!

I waited impatiently, as the seconds ticked by, for a lift to arrive: things were not looking good for my chances at winning. Suddenly, a lift stopped on my floor, and its doors opened. I rushed inside, to find a couple and their child, with dark skin of Indian or Muslim origin. I hurriedly asked them whether the lift was on its way up or down, and explained to them the urgency of the situation. They reassured me that they were also on their way up to the next floor, and the husband smilingly suggested to me that I tell my friends that I'd been delayed by the 'wrong kind of people.' As the lift's doors opened, just before I rushed out, I smiled at him and said, 'I don't think so.'

Unfortunately, I lost the race; my friends were waiting for me when I arrived. But the incident came back to me later, and on reflection, I see that it teaches a profound point. I heard Rabbi Mordechai Machlis say once in the name of Rav Shlomo Carlebach: "A person is never in the wrong place." In its simplicity, this statement carries great profundity. Nothing is for nothing; nothing is by chance. Our smallest interactions and experiences have purpose, relevance, and, if we can discover it, meaning. As Jews, we understand that there is a Master, who crafts and forms His plan: nothing is for nothing, nothing is by chance. We, and our lives and experiences, are woven into the plan, although our understanding of the context and relevance of the parts we play are at most dim and vague.

When I told the pleasant stranger in the lift in a brief phrase that I didn't think that he and his family were 'the wrong type of people,' I really meant it. They had been kind, had seen the humour, had been sympathetic to my situation. They were, as far as I'm concerned, the right kind of people, and, although our interaction was very brief, it was a pleasure to have to do with them. How many of our family, friends and acquaintances are the 'right kind of people'? How many people are we indeed privileged to know or to interact with; how many do we take for granted?

Shavua tov

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(Image from here)

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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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Learning from my Abba

What I should be doing now is studying for the bio final I have tomorrow. Instead, I’ve been kicked out of my study center (the dining room table), by my father who is teaching bar mitzvah lessons. So I’m sitting at the kitchen table eavesdropping on what my father is telling his new student. They have just gone through the preliminaries, of who my father is, what a mitzvah is, what it means to become Bar Mitzvah.

Oh, also I should mention that my father usually teaches boys who know nothing about Judaism, who think that Hebrew letters are Greek and who usually cannot understand what they are doing sitting at my dining room table. I am always amazed how these tiny (I’m telling you, these kids are actually getting smaller… it’s not me getting bigger!) boys walk in with no Jewish knowledge and walk out around 9 months later actually anywhere from the entire parsha, to leading a tfila.


The reason I love listening in to my father when he meets a new student are his ground rules. He says there are 3 things they have to have down before he can teach them. The first one is, “ring and walk in”, meaning the kids are always welcome. Always! To tell you the truth we have had some kids come in just to talk to my father, ask him questions and it is always “ring and walk in”. The second rule is that since they are learning for their bar mitzvah, they have to start their lesson with a mitzvah, so there is a tzeddaka box in the middle of the table and a bag of assorted change for them to give.

My father explains them the mitzvah of giving tzedakka and usually after the first lesson, the boys tend to bring their own money wanting to be fully in charge of the mitzvah. Some parents have even told my father that their son saves up a bit each week to give. Finally, the third thing is really the most special. The boys are not allowed to start their lesson without telling my father “one good thing that happened to them this week”. This is a tradition my father has already started with his children on Shabbat when he blesses us. The way he explains it to the boys is the concept of “hakarak hatov”, recognizing the good.

There is a lot I have learned and I continue to learn form my parents, but even though I have heard this introductory speech from my father well over 100 times, it gets me every time. It reminds me to keep prospective on things, so even if I am stressed for my final, there is a lot more going on in the greater scheme of things.
Now I really have to study biology! :o)

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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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The Intimate Space of a Mourner

I recently discussed the power of sudden change to provoke introspection and reveal the latent.

The pigua that occured last week at Merkaz HaRav poinantly exemplifies this ability. It has demanded that we think. It has demanded that we realize. It has demanded that we act, once again, as a We.

The murder was attrocious. It is perhaps, though, more powerful to leave the illustration and description to the sensitivity of the mind as words can only convey certain meaning.

This video is a subtle yet sharply powerful interview with Rabbi Yerachmiel Weiss, head of the of the yeshiva of the mourning Merkaz HaRav.

It is imtimate and important. It is emotional and difficult.

Just like life here in Israel.

Please watch.

http://www.keshet-tv.com/vod/vod.aspx?id=4745&article=172147&GroupID=4803

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Anomalies and Winter Barbeques

Often during winter days, the Goodness of Life lays dormant while the murkiness of the fogs obscures its presence and the chills of the cold demand it seek refuge indoors.

Today, though, was a different winter day. The rays of the sun traced the trail of the dancing breeze and insisted that I follow while the fresh air belied his affiliation with winter. And everyone noticed. Towards evening, I sat in the Gan Sacher Park and watched as two families separately conducted barbeques on opposite sides of the grass. Each reclined, laughed, ate and played. Each left a few plastic cups behind. Each enjoyed.

One was Jewish and the other Arab.

I sat in close proximity to the Arab family and watched as they ate sunflower seeds and joked over bites of chicken and sips of tea. A little girl curiously walked by me and smiled. The family soon packed up to leave and I relocated to sit beside the other family. It was a Chareidi family with six young children. They giggled and fought and played soccer and ate and I watched.


The mother eventually approached me to offer a pita and hamburger. She profusely apologized for not having offered me food earlier and yet I politely declined on the ground, of what I assumed legitimate, and explained that I was a vegetarian.

She looked at me with an astonished yet gentle glance.

Vegetarian? But what will you do when Mashiach comes—how will you eat karbanot? Eat. Eat. You can start again tomorrow. Please.

I smiled.

Her voice was sweet and genuine and harmonized with the subtle tones of serenity that seemingly escaped the grip of the fleeting hours. Her authenticity surprised me yet propelled a feeling of pleasure for it is the anomalous incident that often provokes reaction.

I was overwhelmed with appreciation for hot winter days; for simplicity; for real people; for latent goodness; for the ability to reveal.

Much of life is a matter of exposing the concealed—of ordering the indiscriminate. Especially in Israel. Beyond the muddled nature, though, of life resides a most basic structure of wholesome people who enjoy picnics in the park. Such is the power of summer weather in the midst of winter. It is the power to influence a sensitive perspective. It is the power to remind us that the existence of subtleties is a matter of subjectivity. It is the power that disperses the fog and provides harbor for the cold and reassures the Goodness of Life.

And so I walked home slowly and noticed that beside my house there was a fragile tree dressed in delicate blossoms.

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"Go Gather All the Jews"

I am not going to make this a long post just what is on my mind. After every pgiua (attack) we are always told by our Rabbis that we cannot all pick up arms and fight, so we are meant to make a tikun. We are meant to improve ourselves, we are meant to daven (pray) with more kavana (intention), we are meant to learn more and overall become better people.
Yet where were these boys so brutally murdered? I
n their Beit Midrash (study hall), where they had just finished davening (praying), and had just started learning for their night learning. Were they not doing exactly what they were meant to do?


I am not usually one to question things. Thanx G-d, I have my own way of understanding, but this, this I cannot reconcile against anything. This raises many questions. For last number of weeks I have been working very hard on a campaign to raise awareness about what is going on in Sderot. It has been extremely time consuming with a lot of people putting in a lot of effort and IY”H (G-d willing) it will work out as amazingly as we hope it will.

Each person is moved to action for different reasons, personally I have had enough. It is time to do something. I do not know what and I do not know how, but I do know that we have to do something NOW! We, the people who care the students with a voice we have to act.

I spoke to my friend Shoshana Cohen who told me: “It’s a good thing that Purim is coming up, because we definitely have a few lessons to learn and apply from the megilla, to our situation today.
First, when Mordechai was telling Esther that she needed to go to the king, and save the Jewish people, he let her know that now was her time to stand up and be Jewish and help am yisrael. If she didn’t do it, someone else would, but he told her that she should definitely not miss her chance. Let’s not miss our chance here. It’s our time now to step up and help am yirael.
Secondly, right after Esther accepts her mission, the one thing she tells Mordechai to do, is “Lech Knos et kol haYehudim” She tells him “Go and gather all of the Jews.”

Esther here is letting us in on the secret of how to save am yisrael. She doesn’t just say “get the Jews” but she says “Go and get ALL of the Jews” “Kol HaYehudim”. The only way that we will ever win is if we stand together. She knew that if am yirael was united, no one could stop us. I hope and pray that we can do just that, unite and stand up to help our brothers and sisters in Sderot, in Yerushalim and around the world.

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Pride at a Robot

I had a simple, yet profound, experience the other day.

If you've been to South Africa, or if you read Madam & Eve, you'll know that one of the things that characterizes life in South Africa is the 'street vendors', the guys who stand at street corners, in the middle of the road, trying to sell you wire hangers, newspapers, little people and bicycles made of wire, and many other things, or just begging for a few coins or for something to eat. Huge unemployment makes these common sights.

A bit of a twist on the usual is where a guy will offer you a service, which you're expected to pay for. This can be cleaning your windscreen as you wait at a robot (the South African term for traffic lights), or holding out a big black bag for you to throw your rubbish into. As I mentioned, you're expected to give the man a bit of money in exchange for the service he has made available to you.

I was in my car the other day, waiting at a robot, when a man with a black bag approached my car. I am generally quite free with giving out money to people who are collecting at a robot, but for some reason, that day I didn't feel like getting out my wallet, finding a coin, opening my window, etc. I was in a rush to get somewhere for Shabbat, and I was focused on my travel route and the traffic. But I mentally nudged myself, and thought, why not just give the guy something. So I found a coin, and opened my window. As I gave the man the money, he said to me, "Thank you. My business has been quite slow today." I said something in reply, and drove off.

As I drove off, I was suddenly bowled over by what the man had said to me. Of all people, doing any kind of work to earn a bit of money to support themselves between now and tomorrow, to call what they are doing a business, this man, effectively (to my mind) just a step up from a beggar, would come right near the bottom of my list. I simply did not expect him to think of himself as a businessman, and of his day's work as a business. I suddenly realized that I had been privileged to interact with this man. He had such a positive outlook, such a confidence in himself, that was, to me, so unexpected. He was in such a lowly position, and yet he viewed himself with pride and with dignity.

When we talk about humility and arrogance, about self-denigration and self-confidence, concepts that often seem to be blurred and mixed with each other, we have a wonderful example to unblur the confusion. Here is a man who seems to be lowly and downtrodden, but upon closer inspection, we see that he is filled with pride; pride for himself, and pride for what he is achieving and accomplishing in his life; with what he has been given. This is the ultimate humility, and can be no further from arrogance. Humility doesn't mean that you look at yourself as the lowest of the low. It means that you see yourself for what you truly are, with true and honest appreciation for your talents and abilities and for the good that you accomplish in the world. It also means that, in the light of honesty and truth, you see all your limitations, failures and weaknesses. But it certainly does not mean that you see yourself as rubbish... this is false humility, and is a very dangerous and destructive mindset to have...

I was privileged to meet a wonderful, proud, humble human being, at the robot the other day...

Photo from this page

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1+1=?

When I dropped math in high school and spent my grade twelve year mocking all of the number crunching nerds around me, I never imagined that years later I’d be wiping the dust off my old textbooks and starting from square one. Now, as I study for my SATs in order to get into university in Israel, it looks like the joke is on me. I was complaining to my family about the tediousness of my new favorite subject when my sister asked jokingly, “What if 1+1 doesn’t really equal 2? Then everything else you’re doing is useless!” From there, erupted a dinnertime conversation about the essence of Oneness. My father, the token Breslover, argued that 1+1=1 because the nature of oneness is a completion so whole that it leaves no room for separate parts.
My brother, the 17-year-old hooligan, argued that he was being ridiculous because 1+1 clearly equals 2.
I, the mathematician, argued that 1+1=window.
My sister, the normal one, marveled at how her joke turned into a philosophical debate.
My mom ate her Chinese food.
The question may seem silly, but the power of oneness is something that has mystified us since Day 1. Pardon the pun. And the rhyming.

This week’s parsha, Vayakhel, opens with Moshe gathering B’nei Yisrael together to give them the commandment of Shabbat.

“And Moses gathered (vayakhel) the entire assembly of the children of Israel and said to them: These are (eleh) the things that Hashem commanded…” (35:1)

The commentators ask many questions about this verse: Why is the commandment of Shabbat repeated so many times throughout the Torah? And why now, specifically? Why did Moshe gather the people in such a way as seen in very few other places in the Torah? Furthermore, the Netivot Shalom points out that Shabbat is the epitome of the experience of closeness to God. How is it possible that right after the grievous Sin of the Golden Calf, the Jewish people can be expected to climb to such lofty heights? Are we not tainted and unworthy? By comparing the language used in this week’s parsha with last week’s parsha, we learn an important lesson:


“…and the people gathered (vayikahel) around Aaron and said to him, “Rise up, make for us gods that will go before us…” (32:1)

“And upon the completion of the golden calf: “They said: ‘This is (eleh) your god, O Israel…” (32:4)

Through carefully examining the language, we are told to pay close attention to the connection between these two events. But what could possibly be further away from Shabbat, man’s acknowledgement of God as the Creator of the universe, than idolatry? Whereas in last week’s parsha the people gathered together in order to proclaim an idol as their god, this week, the peopled are gathered together by Moshe in order for him to proclaim the word of God unto them. The Netivot Shalom goes on to say that there is an element of Teshuvah contained in Shabbat that can bring a Jew up from the depths of any situation imaginable, even that of the Golden Calf. What is this element? None other than the Power of One, of course. He interprets Pasuk 35:1 in such a way that the word “eleh” is referring to “vayakhel” – Moshe gathered the entire assembly of the children of Israel to tell them not only the ‘Dos and Donts’ of Shabbat, but also the message of unity, captured in the word “vayakhel”

If man never sinned, perhaps as an individual he would be able to achieve oneness with God. However, after sinning, in order to man to reach such lofty heights, we need to be lifted along with those around us. The only antidote to the most grievous of sins is unity. For example, the generation that built the Tower of Babel in efforts to wage war against God was spared the punishment of being wiped in the merit of their unity. Furthermore, when B’nei Yisrael were in Egypt, we had sunk to the 49th of 50 gates of impurity. We were on the cusp of total spiritual annihilation. In order to become an Am worthy of receiving the Torah and experiencing the revelation of God at Har Sinai, we needed to bypass all of these gates. It is for this reason that Hashem gave B’nei Yisrael the mitzvah of the korban pesach. This is a communal mitzvah – not only must the offering be eaten with the entire household, but “kol kehal haedat yisral” – “the entire congregation of the assembly of Israel” must slaughter it together (12:6). It was only through this type of behaviour that B’nei Yisrael finally achieved the level of encamping “k’ish echad b’lev echad” – “like one man with one heart” – at Har Sinai.

I learned this Netivot Shalom on Monday morning before going to the rally organized by the Jewish community in support of the residents of Sderot, who have been barraged by Qassam rockets on a daily basis for the last eight years. The rally was deemed ‘a huge success’, and the community of Toronto was praised for being the leaders of North American Jewry for finally taking action. The overarching theme of the speakers (including Alan Dershowitz!) was that of the solidarity between the Jews of Toronto and those of Sderot. “Your future is our future,” emphasized David Koschitzky, chair of the UJA Federation of Toronto, speaking to a tired group of Sderot citizens gathered together on a live video feed at 3am. As I looked around the spacious hall, full to capacity with 2 000 Jews of all ages and religious background, waving Israeli and Canadian flags, I wasn’t sure if I should be proud or ashamed. The speakers all seemed to be very impressed by the message of strength and unity expressed by such a turn-out, but I couldn’t help but wonder: “in a city of more than 200 000 Jews, where are the other 99%?!”

And then I thought back to the Netivot Shalom. What is so powerful about unity, anyway? When we are gathered together, the individual is nullified, he teaches. We do not disappear in a creepy communist way, but rather when God sees Jews gathered together in love and support of one another, our individual sins fall away. They are completely overshadowed by the power of our coming together. As my token-Breslov-father was sure to remind me, surely all of the Toronto Jews that missed the rally were busy learning Torah and visiting the sick, but for the few that did not know about it and instead watched the Raptors game, perhaps the unity among those gathered together in Toronto and Sderot is enough to bring us all one step closer to Peace in the Middle East.

So as we enter into this Shabbat, I hope that we all have a heightened understanding of the essence of unity on Shabbat and the totality of the Oneness of Hashem. May we all spend quality time with those we love and remain united in thought, action and prayer with all of Am Yisrael around the world.

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Decisions

Ask any grown up what the scariest part of being an adult is, and I bet you they'd answer it's the responsibility. I can easily tell you that's what's scaring me most about getting older, and it all flies by so fast that it's not until you hold your future in your hands that you realise it ever fell there in the first place. Making choices and decisions are the unfortunate consequence of growing up and recognising the gravity of seemingly minute decisions can be terrifying. It's all so much easier when we're younger, our parents hold our hands and tell us where to go, where to live, what to do, make our meals, wash our clothes.....and we happily skip off to play on the swings while our parents balance the checkbook. In every decision that we make, the alternate option is lost, and there is no way for us to see how it would have played out and whether we did, in fact, make the right decision-and it's hard living with that kind of uncertainty.

At the moment, I am feeling the decision making pressure in copious amounts. It seems like an easy enough thing to do, right? Make one simple choice, it shouldn't be that hard! But from where I'm standing, I realise that one basic decision has the power to alter my entire future. If anyone's ever seen the movie The Butterfly Effect, you know what I'm talking about. The smallest things can change our lives forever, without us realising its possible ramifications in the moment. As Kundera (author of one of my favourite books ever) said: ""There is no means of testing which decision is better, because there is no basis for comparison. We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself?" Life is nothing more than a series of moments, little cliffs we jump off of every day without thinking.

In high school, we learnt in business studies class that in any situation, there is an opportunity cost-the loss incurred by choosing one option over the next best alternative. We make hundreds of choices each day, and therefore incur equal opportunity costs. Waking up at 8 in the morning means we lose out on sleeping in till 8:30. Eating a bowl of cereal for breakfast means we miss out on the chance to have some eggs. Driving to work means we miss out on taking the bus. In each situation, there isn't even a way of knowing what you have lost.

Ultimately, though, this is the way of life. It's all about trust in Hashem. We need to be able to take that blind leap every second of every day and know that Hashem is our safety net-there's no need to look down. No matter which decision we make, He has it all planned out, and everything will work out for the best. That's the beauty of Judaism-we have free will, yet everything is already decided in shamayim. We often question how this can be possible..my Rabbi once laid out the issue in this way: it's kind of like a scientist running a mouse through a maze with cheese waiting for him at the end. Knowing the behaviours of the mouse, the scientist can predict the exact course the mouse will run to reach his goal. Despite this knowledge, at each corner the mouse makes the decision for himself, with no intervention from the scientist. He runs according to plan, yet made all the decisions by himself.

Keeping in mind that life is short, we need to recognise the power of each decision we make, and ensure that we do not leave that power untapped. Not all opportunity costs are as inconsequential as the eggs we miss out on when we eat cereal for breakfast. Other decisions, like learning torah vs. facebooking or sleeping in vs. volunteering at an old folk's home have far greater ramifications. These small day to day choices shape the person we are and become, without us even knowing it. They build up our schar in olam haba. They change the people around us, and can affect them for years, even if you don't see it's impact right away.

The gemara brings down a story in mesechet brachot about the Tana Shmuel. His father was a very pious, careful man, to whom many members of the community would leave their money to in the event that they should pass away and leave behind young children who could not be responsible for it, until they reached a certain age. He was so cautious with this money that when he himself passed away, even Shmuel did not know where it was hidden. It got to the point where, for his lack of knowledge, he was being accused of having stolen the money for himself. Shmuel went to his father's grave to ask where on earth the money could have been kept and, while there, encounters the "ghost" of his friend Levi who had passed away some time ago. He asked Levi what he could possibly be doing still on this earth- Levi had been a learned man, a careful follower of mitzvot and , on top of that, a rosh yeshiva!Levi then explained that for seven years, he had skipped a shiur every day by Rav Afas. For this, he was accountable for two grave aveyrot: firstly, every day Rav Afas noted his absence, and was hurt. Secondly, as Rav Chaim of Volozhin says in Shar Daled of Nefesh HaChayim says: one word of torah is greater than all the mitzvot. Therefore, by skipping the class when he had an opportunity to learn, Levi was bitul torah!

From this, we learn the grave power of each decision we make, the way each moment can shape and alter our lives. Despite all his good deeds, Levi would not be allowed to enter gan eden for seven years (one year for each in which he skipped Rav Afas' class). In each moment, each interaction, we have two choices. We can choose to put in a little extra effort, or take the easy way out. We can think of another's feelings, or we can be selfish. No matter what we ultimately choose, we need to be careful that the opportunity cost is not the option that could have bought us a brick in the road of the world to come.

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A Karate Lesson

I do karate. I train regularly every week, and I've been doing it for about 4.5 years. Last night, our class of about 25 people split up into pairs, and we did controlled sparring (fighting) for about half an hour. Each fight lasted about 4 minutes, and I think we had about 7 matches each, with a different partner each time.

If you're fit, and you've been doing karate regularly, a few sparring matches shouldn't be difficult. But the real test of stamina comes in at the last few matches, once you've already had at least 5 good, hard fights. You're feeling exhausted; your body is shouting a loud 'NO MORE!' at you, and you'd like to just sit down and rest until the lesson is over. But your mind knows you have to go on. You didn't think you could push yourself this far, but, as you do it, you see that you're able to draw energy from somewhere, and you're able, somehow, to keep fighting. And if you're up against a good, strong fighter, you *have* to carry on, because if you don't you'll get hurt. Mind over matter, or at least over body.

As I drove away from our dojo (training hall) last night, I suddenly had a new insight into life. Life is like a whole string of karate fights: each challenge that we experience in serving G-d is a fierce battle between our Yetzer HaTov, the 'Good Inclination', the side that wants us to connect to G-d and His desires of good for this world, and our Yetzer HaRa, our 'Inclination to do bad', or to abandon G-d and His desires, and rather to focus on more selfish, personal desires. Even if the pressure of our situation comes from external factors, eg. a person that we have great difficulty tolerating, but with whom we are forced to interact, bad traffic in the morning, making us late for work / studies, or anything else, we have to understand that the real struggle of how to react to this pressure is happening inside ourselves. The different forces are fighting each other, deep within the juncture between our soul and our body.

And, some fights are easy. When things are going well for us, when we're happy, feeling on top of things, feeling good about ourselves, then the fight is a lot easier. But when we're tired out from all our previous fights, or we're feeling down, or miserable, or we've taken a knock by someone who hurt us, this is when the fight is really hard. We have so much more to overcome, now, in order to emerge victorious over the forces that pull us so tenaciously away from the path of doing right. And just like in karate, when your body is telling you that you've simply had enough, you can't take anymore, you physically are not able to stand up there, put your hands up, and fight -- so too in these challenging situations, our Yetzer HaRa tells us that we simply can't put up with this strain, this pressure, this hardship. And, just like the karate fight, we have to keep fighting. We can't give up.

And I thought to myself, imagine if the fights of our lives that G-d really cares about are the ones that happen right at the end of our strength, when we're tired, broken down, miserable, down. Imagine G-d's voice coming to you, as your strength seems depleted, saying, "Don't give up now! Now is where the real fight is! Yes, you did well with the others. But now, when it hurts, when it's hard -- now is when I'm really watching anxiously to see how you'll do."

This makes a lot of sense to me. The Ba'al Shem Tov says that everything we see and hear contains a lesson for us to internalize; there's a reason that we were exposed to that experience. And I think that here is a lesson we can learn from a karate fight (or any other kind of physical fight): even when you're worn out, exhausted, broken, you still have to get up, put your hands up, and fight! This is where it really makes a difference; and this is where you'll really grow, if you draw on your extra reserves of energy, fortify yourself, and carry on.

(Image from this site)

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Smile! :)

Shalom, world! :)

This is my first post to Tzipiyah.com. I'm very excited to be a part of this awesome project. A great yeyasher koach to Dan Ilouz for the initiative and all his efforts!

I live in South Africa. It's a good and beautiful place in many respects (although of course it's just not Israel). In fact, I just bought another pet elephant yesterday; my brother's riding him out to the shopping mall ;-) But seriously, things haven't been so wonderful here lately. Crime, our infamous problem, has been on the rise, and we're having a national electricity crisis: the provider can't produce enough for the booming population of city-dwellers. This has had a major impact on people's personal and business lives, and is significantly damaging the country's economy.

Looking around me, I find that a lot of people, including me, are getting depressed. We South Africans are easy-going, "chilled" people in general ('sweeeeet, broe'), but a lot of people are not taking the current situation well. There's a lot of fear, a feeling of a big unknown, and uncertainty about the future. A lot of people are leaving the country, including hundreds to Israel! :) (The aliyah organization is actually battling to cope with all the aliyah applications!)

But I was reminded of something that Rebbe Shlomo Carlebach says about happiness. Describing Reb Nachman of Breslov's approach to happiness and sadness, Rebbe Shlomo explains that sadness is a focusing on what one doesn't have, while joy is a focusing on what one does have, right this moment. Rebbe Shlomo explains:

"What is the difference between sadness and joy? Joy really fills
you: whatever you have is fuller; and sadness empties you out. 'I
don't have this, I don't have that,' so even what you have you don't
have. People walk around sad because they don't know what to do
with their future. You have this minute right now. What are you
doing with it? The difference between sadness and joy is very simple.
Sadness always tells you, 'Oy Vey! What are you going to do in ten
minutes? What will you do ten years from now?' If you are really
filled with joy for one minute, then you will know what to do the
next minute also.

What is G-d giving you? He is giving you this minute. He hasn't
given tomorrow, He promised He will give tomorrow. Of course I
don't know what to do tomorrow, because I didn't receive it yet.
Sadness is very much concerned with what I don't have, and I really
don't have tomorrow yet."

(From: 'Reb Nachman on Joy', at this site with great teachings of Reb Shlomo)

It's amazing what a difference this can make to your life. We all have situations that are difficult,
times that are tough. But the difference between sadness and real joy is really all in your mind.
It's a choice -- a difficult one, often; but a choice. Live in the moment. I know that this has made a great difference to me in tough situations in the past: if I just focus on this immediate moment, everything looks a lot better... when we realize that G-d has given us this moment, right now, to fill with meaning, it makes the past and the future comparatively almost insignificant... especially in terms of worrying.

Rebbe Shlomo ends his talk with the following inspiring words:

"In the end Reb Nachman says, 'I want you to know that all this
talk is really meaningless, because how can I tell you to be happy? It
is up to everyone himself, but I am begging you to be happy.'"

May we all merit to be happy!
May we see the true happiness of the final Redemption of our world, very very soon!

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