So this is it. The end. It's over. After Shabbat, I'm going to see everyone again in the fall at best, never at worst. Still, this is ultimately what I signed up for, to become a Pardes Alum.

I'm almost positive that from the moment I touch down in Pittsburgh and for the entire rest of my life, I'll have to really try hard to convince myself that this whole year wasn't a dream—usually a good dream, sometimes a bad dream, but always a dream nonetheless, certainly when compared to the reality I used to know. I don't know how long it will take to readjust to reality (i.e. America), but even if I do readjust, I'm not the same person I was when I left, I'm much tanner now. I'm also wiser, know tons more Torah and can't wait to live and teach it to whomever I can however I can, know much more Hebrew and Aramaic, have a wider circle of friends, can cook more things. I am more independent and more dependent, more optimistic and more jaded than I was ten months ago. I will have to get used to the weekend being Saturday and Sunday, to being able to understand people on the street, to being able to plug my stuff in without an adapter, to knowing exactly what signs are saying, to supermarkets not having sales related to my holidays, to being a minority, to shoving and being shoved not being acceptable means of getting where you need to go (I am so not ready for Wisconsin), to knowing what the hell is going on around me.

All week I've been searching in vain for an apt metaphor to describe this week's calumniation of the year:

Saturday night and Sunday was Shavuot. After Shabbat, I went over some friends' house for a big dairy potluck then to Pardes for some fantastic lectures. Then, at around 1:30 AM a group of us set off for the Old City to hear another lecture then hang around the Kotel until the sun came up and we could join thousands of other Jews for Shacharit there. There was something indescribably special about celebrating the day everyone was supposed to bring their first-fruits to the Temple until it was destroyed 2,000 years ago at the Kotel with as many Jews as I've ever seen in one place before. At first, it seemed fitting to mark the end of a year of Torah study with Shavuot, which traditionally also commemorates the giving of the Torah, but the more I thought about it, the more it seemed kind-of anti-climatic. I mean, sure it's humbling to toil in the text all year and only then receive the Ten Commandments, but at the same time, if we're just getting the Torah now then what have I been doing the past 10 months? So Shavuot in Jerusalem was amazing, but it wasn't the symbol I was looking for.

Tuesday, Rabbi Michael Hattin had a special session to mark the debut of his first book, Passages: Text and Transformation in the Parasha. “Passages” not only as in Biblical passages, and not only as in the rough passage from slavery to freedom told through many of them, but also as in the personal journey of transformation the reader goes on when studying them, particularly when studying them with the book Passages. It's nice, but Michael Hattin already thought of it.

Thursday afternoon during the year-end banquet, when we had a big meal, heard some students speak, sang, remembered and cried (I came prepared with snorkel equipment so that I wouldn't drown in the river of tears that I knew would be shed. Pardes is also ready for this every year, having worked out a deal with the State to redirect this flow to help replenish the Jordan in an effort to help solve the country's continuing water-woes), a student about to graduate the Educators Program spoke about how one of her rabbis once told her that when you see this infinite sea of Torah in front of you, all you can do is jump in and swim. She said that after 3 years at Pardes, she feels that she can now tread water (in comparison, I'm still learning how to kick). So maybe this week, this year, was like learning how to swim in the ocean. But what kind of ocean? Is it high-tide or low-tide? Is the shore rocky or smooth? Is it a public beach, like the one in Tel Aviv a bunch of us went to Monday during our day off (ironically named Jerusalem Beach) or a private beach like the one we went to on the Shabbaton? Are there jellyfish in the water? If so, what are these, the yetzer hara (evil impulse)? Nah, too complicated.

After everyone else finished speaking, our Dean, Dr. Bernstein, got up and gave a beautiful speech to wrap-up the year that included the following Chasidic tale:

Once, a poor Jew from Kazimierz, near Krakow named Isaac had a dream about a treasure hidden in Prague, near the Charles Bridge. He immediately went to the city, where he found the bridge filled with soldiers.

One of the soldiers approached Isaac and asked him his business there. When Isaac explained about his dream and search for treasure, the soldier laughed at him and said,

"Only a naive fool would come so far for a dream! I myself keep having this dream that in a house of a Krakovian Jew named Isaac, son of Jacob, there is a treasure hidden under the furnace. But I'm not so foolish as to go to Krakow and look for it. After all, every second Jew is named Isaac, and every third, Jacob!"

Isaac thanked him, returned home to Krakow, dismantled the furnace, and found a great treasure. He became one of the wealthiest citizens of Kazimierz and founded the famous Isaak Synagogue in Krakow that stands to this day.

While this may have been little more than a ploy to get us to contribute our future wealth towards building the long-anticipated new Pardes building, the story nonetheless spoke to me—as he commented upon finishing the story, all of us here are treasure seekers: We came from all over the world to get the treasures of Torah and now the time has come to take it back home and build rich communities with it. This makes me the most successful Pittsburgh pirate in 20 years. But the comparison doesn't work because it's really too selfish—unlike gold, there is enough Torah for everyone, and the more you give, the more you have.

That night, I went to two farewell parties. The first was at a sushi restaurant, the second on the railroad tracks-turned-walking-and-biking-path that cuts through our part of the city. As the night went on and more goodbyes were said and more alcohol was drunk, I found myself standing on the tracks comforting a friend depressed about the prospect of having to leave Jerusalem to spend the summer in Hell (sometimes also called “Medford, Oregon”). “We're on the tracks,” I told her. “We just keep moving. Now you're going to Medford, but soon you'll be back here, and then who knows where you'll end up?” It seemed like a good metaphor at the time, but now I realize I was just tipsy and sleep-deprived. Still, she said it reminded her of a Tom Waits song, so it couldn't have been too bad.

So by the time to write this blog post came, I was left with nothing but depression over leaving, alleviated only by the knowledge that I'm going to see my family and friends soon, that I have an amazing summer job experience to look forward to, and that not only am I coming back next year, but many of my friends are, too. The year's still over, though, and that's depressing. But maybe it's for the best that I can't find a metaphor. Looking for a symbol cheapens the experience, tries to put it in one neat box so that I can understand it and categorize it more neatly, and also gives me a convenient excuse to not have to write or think too hard about the stuff that doesn't fit into it. Like a certain Pardes teacher says, symbolic meanings always come later, after the fact. A symbol won't work for me now, because I'm still facing the fact, I still have this experience, so radically different from anything I've ever done before staring me in the face begging to be made sense of, but I can't because it's comparable to nothing else I know. That's why I don't, can't, have an answer for it now, how can I build a house to the specifications of my child's family while he's still being born, to use a metaphor to describe the insufficiency of metaphor. But that's the point: Only a metaphor will do, but a metaphor is impossible right now so I'm left with nothing.

So maybe I'll wait one, five, ten, one hundred years until I can see the full lasting impact this year has had on me and write this post again then and make it filthy with brilliant metaphors. Until then, as I face this major point of transition in my life, I'm reminded of what the sages Semisonic said, “You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.” No, wait I mean...

Quote of the Week: “Pardes: Where 'Israel immersion' means being surrounded with English speakers all day, and 'Torah study' means attending anti-prostitution rallies.” - The outgoing Educators

Hebrew Word of the Week: חלום (“khalohm”) - Dream

This week really started last Shabbat afternoon as I sat in a corner of the Tayelet (promenade overlooking the Old City and East Jerusalem) reading the opening chapters of James Carroll's Jerusalem, Jerusalem. Carroll begins the book by discussing the tension between the two Jerusalems, the earthly and the heavenly and how, when the two rub up against each other it generates “a spark that ignites fire.” He then describes the city's importance in the 3 Abrahamic faiths, takes a tour modern Jerusalem (a chill went down my spine as I read his description of how “Jewish intellectual elite” gather on Emek Refaim as I sat in my apartment on that very street earlier that day. I mean, I know I'm smart, but that's too much), then traces the history of violence and religion (i.e. civilization) from the Big Bang until the founding of Jerusalem. My sense from the opening chapters is that the entire history of this city is a variation on these themes: of violence and religion, doom and hope, death and renewal, put to the tune of the times.

As I looked look down at my page and read about how the Rock around which Jerusalem was founded has been used for sacrifices (animal, vegetable, and human) since it's very founding, thought to be over 4,000 years ago by settlers of Jericho searching for higher ground to better defend themselves against violent thieves, I would occasionally look up to see that very Rock in its current golden-domed form in the distance, tourists leaning over the promenade railing to gawk at and take pictures with it in the foreground, and listen to Palestinian kids running up and down the stairs, playing, and laughing in the background, as I, the foreign student who has been here for 10 months and already thinks he's seen it all, sat mostly unnoticed, curled up on a limestone bench in the back corner of one of the main promenades, exactly where he wanted to be.

The next day was Yom Yerushalayim. While this day goes by largely unnoticed in American Jewish communities, and, to some extent in the rest of Israel, it goes without saying that, here in Yerushalayim, the day celebrating the liberation/reunification of our holiest city is a huge deal. Popular activities on this day include any combination of saying Hallel, singing Yerushalayim shel Zahav, having barbecues, praying at the Kotel, and desecrating God's Name by antagonizing the Arab residents of East Jerusalem (who have it hard enough as it is). I did the first three. After class Sunday was the first Pardes Yom Yerushalayim Alumni Barbecue. In addition to the many real Pardes alumni who came by that evening to eat meat were many current Pardes students, many of them (including myself) wearing “Pardes Alumni” T-shirts we got the week before. Since I am coming back next year, I told them then that I'd get a shirt next year instead, but they insisted I take one now. At the barbecue, seeing all my friends wearing the shirts, too, I realized being a Pardes Alumni means having a whole family of best friends that you know you'll likely never see again from a community that exists nowhere else outside Jerusalem. So then I guess I will be an alumni after all. But aside from the huge shadow cast by the thought of an alumni in two weeks, the barbecue was great—in our modern evolution of the thanksgiving offering, I ate as least as much meat there as I did at the Yom Ha'Atzmaut barbecue, if not more. If I can assume the aroma was pleasing to God as it was to me, I know they were accepted.

Tuesday morning, I was on top of the world. A fantastic, high-energy community Rosh Chodesh service followed by a huge breakfast, combined with my great new haircut from the day before, plus all the other good things that had happened to me recently, including subletting my apartment for the remaining months on my contract and getting hired as the mashgiach (kashrut supervisor) at Camp Ramah Wisconsin for the summer, had me feeling happy and giddy as I've ever felt by the time Gemara class started at around 9:45 and continued through the rest of the day.

Then I got home, checked my email and for the first (and please God the last) time time in my life my jaw dropped, my eyes bulged and I found myself in a completely paralyzed in a state of shock when I saw that Mr. Allan Goodkind had had a sudden heart-attack and died in his sleep. Mr. Goodkind was a tzaddik, and I don't use that term lightly. At first I had heard of him and his wife as people some friends often went to for Shabbat. Then, one week, maybe about two years ago, I was stuck without a Shabbat lunch and my friends said I could come over to the Goodkinds with them, it would be fine. I demurred, but they insisted. When I got to their house, the warmth was palpable. Mr. Goodkind immediately shook my hand with that loving twinkle that was always in his eyes that makes you feel like he loves you like a son. Then I noticed the stacks of issues of The New Yorker and Time piled all over his living room and immediately knew that we would get along fine. Then came the meal. Some people don't eat on Thanksgiving what the Goodkinds treated guests to on a typical Shabbat—Appetizer: warm pull-apart challah with dips, gefilte fish, and sometimes faux crab. Main course: two-kinds of chicken, turkey, beef and lamb kabobs, carrot kugel, green beans, and cholent. Dessert: fruit and at least two different kinds of cakes, but only if we sang for it first. I came back many, many times. Each time there was another eclectic mix of people, old, young, middle-aged, observant, Orthodox, non-religious, and all those in-between, all treated with equal amounts of love by Mr. Goodkind, who would always be sitting at the head of the table, wearing his black hat, and relating Torah to whatever subject came up.

But my favorite memories of him are from the smaller meals. Last year on Passover, when he asked me when I would be joining he and his wife for a Yom Tov meal, I mentioned the only meal I had free. He said he'd speak to his wife and let me know. It turned out, they weren't planning on hosting for that meal, but had me over anyway so it was just the three of us. It was a dairy meal that was tiny by their standards but still one of the largest meals I had all week. We ate and talked for hours, then, before I left, they gave me lots of leftovers to take home, which I, wanting to emulate them, promptly gave the best parts of to a friend.

I remember once he said how he wrote a strong letter of protest to the pastor in Florida who was planning to burn a Koran. Another time he defended the Park51 Community Center in Midtown-Manhattan that became a Talking Point in the 2010 election season. He could lein any parsha on a moment's notice and taught many others how to lein. On one of my last meals over his house, he had over the new Conservative cantor in town. They got along great and he offered to help him in any way he could and made him promise he'd come over again on a week when his wife could make it. He spent a little time learning at Pardes a long time ago and always asked me how my preparations for it were coming. He had an apartment in Jerusalem and constantly apologized to me that it wasn't available for me to use while simultaneously kvelling over the growing family that currently lived there. Maybe a month before I left, he said he was invited to a wedding in Jerusalem in September and wanted to be sure we met up while he was there. We did. We met up and he gave me a clipping in The Jewish Chronicle he saved for me announcing my blog and took me out for a meal, and that was the last time I saw him alive. Now I really regret not getting a picture with him.

Though he used to be an English teacher in inner-city Chicago, Mr. Goodkind worked as mashgiach in the kitchen of the JCC after moving to Pittsburgh. I was looking forward to going back home and telling him I was going to be a mashgiach, too. I pictured the scene my head how after I told him, he would smile and his eyes would light up as he said, “That's terrific!” like he did to any piece of good news, then he would offer to help me in any way he could and give me pieces of advice throughout the day as they came to him. I couldn't wait to sit in the place of honor beside him at his Shabbat table upon returning, exchanging mashgiach shop-talk and swapping stories. Now that I can't do that I am twice as determined to be the best damn mashgiach I can possibly be in his merit.

The first thing I noticed once I came out of my state of shock was that he was going to be buried at Har HaMenuchot Cemetery in Jerusalem on Wednesday. Every week after the meal, no matter the weather, he would escort us guests out of his house to the sidewalk. I had no idea where the cemetery was, but I was not missing this chance to return the favor. I looked up bus schedules and coordinated with a friend in seminary who was likewise touched by him to meet and go to the funeral together. The cemetery is on the very edge of the city. Standing there, it's extremely difficult to believe you are still in a city—the place where Mr. Goodkind is buried is surrounded on all sides by rolling white hills with a staccato covering of trees. It's almost a shame those who will be there the longest can't enjoy the view. Against this backdrop, I got a stark reminder that bodies in Israel are buried in only a white cloth as I watched the men who had been accompanying his body and saying Psalms from the time it began its journey lower him into the ground. Then I got the special, though undeserved merit helping to bury him in Jerusalem soil. After the roughly 10 of us there had buried him, the man who lived in the apartment Mr. Goodkind so wished he could give to me gave a eulogy. He began by speaking at length about his goodness and love of Torah, then told us how during the many months he couldn't afford to pay Mr. Goodkind rent, he would go long stretches of time too embarrassed to call him due to his great debt to him, yet, always, Mr. Goodkind would call him, ask how his family was, and forgive everything.

In the end there could be no doubt, Avraham Goodkind was the most aptly named individual I will ever have the privilege of knowing. May his memory forever be for a blessing.

Early the next morning, there was a baby naming at Pardes. Our fundraiser, Robby Grossman, had a new daughter on Yom Yerushalayim, and, amid much singing and dancing, and a few l'chaims, officially named her Bracha Ariella. “Ariella” after “Ari'el,” a name for Jerusalem, in honor of her birthplace, day, and his father's deep love for Israel, though he himself was never able to live here.

Quote of the Week: Me: I feel like my hair should be a final exam for beauty school.

Laura: I think you'd make the girls cry.

Hebrew Word of the Week: עגול (“eegool”) - circle

(X-posted from my home blog, Yinzer in Yerushalayim)

One of the unadvertised perks of Pardes is that after studying holy texts in their original in the Beit Midrash for a whole year, no matter how advanced your Hebrew level, you come away with a black-belt in using dictionaries. Yet I have noticed that for all the dictionaries we have for Jewish religious language, there is, incongruously, not a dictionary of “Pardesian,” that unique jargon you learn upon entering the Orchard. Until now. As a gift to any incoming students who may be reading this and as a memento to those who are leaving, I present this necessarily abridged first edition of The Practical Dictionary of the Pardes Lexicon, heretofore to be known as “The Kwait.” You're welcome.

Avoda Zara – Idol worship, literally “foreign service.” This is an all-encompassing term used to describe worship of foreign deities and/or the self, and commonly used around the Pardes Beit Midrash to describe any “Jewish” subject that does not involve learning Gemara and/or Halakha. There is a Makhloket about the Tanakh.

Bittul Torah – Literally “canceling Torah.” One of the most popular pastimes at Pardes, this is the Halakhic term for the sin hanging out at the coffee station, checking what's on the Hefker table, shooting the breeze with your chevruta, checking email and Facebook, flirting with people of the gender(s) you are attracted to as they walk past you in the Beit Midrash to grab a dictionary or a Tanakh, or any number of other things people do to waste the time they should be spending studying Torah (see: Avoda Zara, "Blog, The", FOMO). However, it should be noted as Rabbi Dr. Levi Cooper has famously said, “Bittul Torah is better than no Torah at all.”

“Blog, The” – Usually used to refer to Pardes student blog, These and Those. There are two types of students at Pardes in relation to These and Those: Those who write for it (all 5 of us) and those who are constantly being nagged to post their pictures, videos, poems, reflections, bored doodles they made in class, whatever they can do, onto the blog. It is most famous for being the second-most coercive institution at Pardes (for the first, see: Community Davening).

“BDB, The” – Abbreviation for Index to Brown, Driver & Briggs Hebrew Lexicon. Arguably the best-kept secret in the Beit Midrash, this is the best thing ever to happen to studying the Tanakh in Hebrew. Beginning with Genesis 1, it lists nearly every Hebrew word in the Tanakh then gives its definition. As a bonus, rather than just give you the word as it appears in the Tanakh, it lists only the roots of words in each verse in alphabetical order, forcing you to have to think at least a little bit about the unknown word in question, thus saving you from feeling too guilty for using it. This book is also notable for being perhaps the only index in history to make the book that it indexes obsolete.

Community Davening – A Shira Hadasha-style Halakhic partnership minyan that meets for Shacharit services every Monday as a sort of compromise between the Egal and Mechitza Minyans. Like most compromises, however, this one too apparently has proven so traumatic for those involved that most participants repress it from their memories each week as soon as it ends, thus necessitating its organizers to need to remind students about it's existence and how good it is for them to participate in it roughly every hour for the entire rest of the week. The advent of this minyan marked the moment when Pardes could no longer consider itself a non-coercive environment (for the second moment, see: “Blog, The”).

Community Lunch – Universally considered one of the highlights of the week, this is the communal meal eaten every Tuesday at Pardes. Each week, our master chef David Berman outdoes himself again to prepare another fantastic, elaborate, exotic vegetarian meal (with vegan and gluten-free options for those who so require them, of course); so far we've had Southern, Italian, Mexican, South African, Middle Eastern (duh), Thai, and doubtlessly tons of others I'm forgetting. This meal is not free, however, it comes at the cost of having to sit through about a half-hour of announcements, most of which you've already heard at least twenty times (see: Listserve, Community Davening).

Egal Minyan – The egalitarian praying option at Pardes, it usually meets a few days each week for Shacharit and every day for Mincha in Room 5. Most students at Pardes are of one of three minds about this prayer option—some consider it to be a more liberal, inclusive, modern alternative to the more traditional Mechitza Minyan, some are indifferent towards it, and some consider it Avoda Zara. While the Egal Minyan by definition counts men and women equally there is a continuing Makhloket over precisely which men and women should be counted. As a result, the announcement, “There will be an Egal Minyan meeting” is one of the most common contexts in which this phrase is used.

“Frank, The” – Nickname for The Practical Talmud Dictionary by friend of Pardes, Rabbi Yitzhak Frank. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Gemara, this is a thoroughly remarkable book no one should ever think of even coming near the Talmud without. In this book, Frank gives all the most common words in the Talmud in the forms they are commonly found in, their Hebrew equivalents when the word is Aramaic, colloquial, clear English definitions, contextualizations, and textual illustrations, complete with lots of “?” and “?!”'s to show a phrase's proper emphasis, plus lists and conversion charts of Talmudic measurements and monetary values, and a separate reference guide for all the Talmud's many abbreviations in the back. That rare and happy moment when you discover Rabbi Frank took his textual example for a word from the very instance of it you were looking for is called a “Frank Find.” As I gushed to him as he signed my copy of his book when he came to lecture at Pardes, I don't know how I could have ever studied Talmud without it. (See also: “Jastrow, The.”)

FOMO – Acronym for “Fear of missing out.” By far the most common illness effecting Pardes students, it is responsible for countless hours of sleep lost and Torah Bittuled.

Hefker – Ownerless. While this word denotes a technical Halakhic category of ownerlessness, at Pardes, it is most frequently used in connection with the Hefker Table, where free stuff, like 3-day-old challah and rugelah, trashy old novels, pitas, leftovers from community lunch, maps of Jerusalem, chocolate, flyers, and, occasionally, homemade cookies or brownies can sometimes be found. You know there is something good on this table when Pardes students are buzzing around it like vultures on roadkill. Without having the statistics to back this up, I would conjecture that Hefker is the largest-source of non-FOMO-related illness at Pardes (though whether such illnesses are really non-FOMO-related is debatable).

“Jastrow, The” – Nickname for the Dictionary of the Targumim, Talmud Bavli, Talmud Yerushalmi and Midrashic Literature by the late, great Rabbi Dr. Marcus Jastrow. While the Frank contains just about all the technical terms of the Talmud, this dictionary seems to contain about 98% of the other words in the Talmud you don't know (i.e., 98% of the words in the Talmud), including miscellaneous words like “wind blast” (זיקא) and “witches” (חרשין) that you couldn't possibly make sense of the passage without. That rare and happy moment when you discover Rabbi Jastrow took his textual example for a word from the very instance of it you were looking for is called a “Jastrow Jackpot.” An added bonus of this dictionary is that it comes in app form. (See also: “Frank, The.”)

“Kah Echsoyf” – Considered by many Pardesniks as the greatest of all Shabbat songs, it is best sung on Friday night with a bunch of guys drunk enough to think they're Chasidic (see: 'Shkoyach).

Listserve – Arguably the world's leading producer of kosher spam, the Pardes Yahoo! listserve each day produces a flood of emails, with a typical ratio of one useful one for every 10 useless ones. Listserve emails typically give information on schedule updates, events going on around town, reminders, upcoming events, what David Berman is cooking today, Community Davening reminders, job opportunities, and requests for information on where to buy a deck of playing cards. The amount of time it takes you to go through all the information sent through it on a typical day is dependent on how long it takes you to delete emails. (See also: Bittul Torah, Community Lunch).

Makhloket – Disagreement. If Pardes had a short, pithy motto like “Veritas,” or “E Pluribus Unum,” this would be it. All of Pardes' philosophy and approach to Judaism, and what is so special about the place, summed up in one word. If we had to expand on it, it would be “Makhloket l'shem shamayim,” argument for the sake of Heaven.

Mechitza Minyan – The more traditional, gender-divided prayer option at Pardes. This minyan meets every day but Wednesday for Shacharit (a.k.a. “No Pray Wednesday”) and every day for Mincha in the Beit Midrash. Like the Egal Minyan, Pardes students tend be of one of three minds about this service—some like it because feel it is their only Halakhic option and/or that it a comfortable, traditional prayer-space for them, a place where they can focus on prayer with a little less distraction; some are indifferent towards it; and some consider it exclusionary, sexist, antiquated and feel discriminated against when they have to pray behind a wall and not matter (see: Processing Session).

Processing Session – A moderated session convened following a major experience (like living in Israel) during which students are free to discuss their thoughts and feelings on a given matter in an open, warm environment. These sessions can get heated, but more often than not discussion is civil and respectful and most people leave feeling better about themselves and the issue at hand or else keeping the potentially offensive things they really wanted to say bottled up inside until they can let it out later amongst like-minded friends. Such sessions are particularly associated with the Self, Soul and Text Track, dealing as it does with new and sometimes deeply personal and emotional spiritual practices (see: Avoda Zara).

'Shkoyach – Perversion of the Hebrew יישר כחך, “y'yeshar ko-khakha “(“kokhaykh” if the honoree is female), figuratively meaning “congratulations,” or “great job.” This expression usually used to show someone your appreciation for and pride in the good deed they did is used more often than not at Pardes in a sarcastic sense, after the manner of a certain teacher. For example, “You're laying tefillin now while you still have 4 whole minutes left until shkiah [sunset]? 'Shkoyakh.” This ideally should be followed by an eye-roll and a sneer.

Tiyul – One of three (not including the two Shabbatonim) school-wide hiking excursions during the year. The first in November explores the Negev Desert, the second, in January, the Aravah (part of the Negev Desert), the third, in March, the Golan Heights. The tiyyulim are extremely popular and present much-welcome opportunities to get out of the Beit Midrash to actually move around a little, spend quality time with friends and teachers, eat lots of great food, and see sights more novel than the new zit on your chevruta's nose (see also: Vatikin).

Vatikin – Correctly pronounced “va-Tee-KEEN,” it is the earliest possible time to pray the Shacharit service, basically sunrise. This is the time at which Pardes davens before leaving for Tiyyulim in the winter months when it is around 6:00 AM. Attempts to organize an egalitarian, musical service of this type at the tayelet (promenade overlooking East Jerusalem and the Old City) have thus far proven unsuccessful.

Quote of the Week: “I'm frangry....and I think you should all join in my franger.” - Laynie Soloman, using a word coined by Zvi meaning “frum and angry.”

Hebrew Word of the Week: מלון (“meelohn”) - Dictionary

The weekend before last was the retreat Shabbaton for Self, Soul, and Text class at Kibbutz Hanaton, our teacher James' home, in the Galil. The schedules Friday and Saturday were nearly identical, each day going like: 9-9:45: Sit. 9:45-10:30: Walk. 10:30-11:15: Sit. 11:15-12:30: Lunch. 12:30-1:15-Sit. It was brutal, and that's no joke, since “Sit” didn't mean “Lay on a couch, go on your computer, and schmooze,” it meant, “Sit upright in the big white tent like the kind we use in Pittsburgh as the Game Day Live Tent at Heinz Field for 45 minutes, focus on your breathing, or, if your nose is too stuffy to make that even remotely relaxing, then on the feeling of your butt in the cushion and try to meditate without thinking of scenes from The Simpsons.” and “Walk” didn't mean “Go for a stroll on the beautiful grounds of the Kibbutz,” it meant “Slowly pace back-and-forth over the same 10 feet of ground, trying to focus on your steps and breathing without humming the Red Hot Chili Peppers song in your head. The hardest part of this was that we couldn't hike: Hanaton is a gorgeous place, with birds singing everywhere, that kibbutz smell (read: cow dung) in the air, rolling green hills and farmland, a huge clear sky showing Omnimax sunrises and sunsets twice-daily, and a Druze village in the distance, and the nearest source of water was the reservoir in the distance sealed-off with barbed-wire; all we could do, however, is see everything from a distance. Meals offered no escape either, since this was a “silent” retreat, and by “silent,” they mean “lonely:” there was no talking, touching, looking, or even smiling at your friends from Thursday night until Saturday night. As I said, it was absolutely unforgiving. When we weren't Sitting or Walking or praying, we were usually either listening to an excellent class by James, meeting with him privately, or singing niggunim with him. Friday afternoon, we all went to the mikveh.

I came into the weekend stressed—I had a meeting and missed the bus to the Kibbutz most others took so I had to wait 45 minutes to catch another one and ride it myself; about getting back; about subletting my apartment over the summer; about finding a job; about 101 other things—and there were times when I thought I would go mad—Shabbat dinner in silence, you call this Judaism? I can't meditate, my mind is everywhere, if I don't check my email, I'm going to freak out; no, I just need to go for a jog if I can just clear my mind and go for a jog, I'll be fine, we're starting Shabbat WAY too early, why can't it just be next Shabbat already, how can we have a Saturday morning service without a Torah reading, what kind of rabbi are you? What happens if I just fall away into the abyss inside my skull....to think that all 7 billion people on Earth are this deep (read: tangled).

Yet, after spending a whole Shabbaton by my self, and experiencing approximately one moment of inner-peace for every bug bite, I left changed—I was uncharacteristically, almost unnervingly, calm, and in-control of myself and my emotions for the next few days. I left itchy.

But true calmness can only last so long in Israel. Sunday afternoon, all of Pardes went on a tiyyul to the Gush. We walked the “Trail of the Forefathers” then ate dinner at the homes of some teachers, three in Alon Shevut and one in Efrat. The Gush is one of the most beautiful, most serene places I've ever seen, as though the landscape described in every Zionist song was sculpted into a collage, creating an impossibly picturesque utopia. You could practically taste the milk and honey. Our two Dutch students said it reminded them of the South of France. The dinner at the teacher's house was lovely and kind, but much less surprising: The standard questions were asked, and the standard answers were given, which admittedly are different than I thought they were before I came to Jerusalem. Nevertheless, after we bentched and went back to Jerusalem, my political views remained unchanged.

Tuesday afternoon, we heard an excellent group lecture by Micah Goodman, best-selling author and Director of the Ein Prat Academy for Leadership, like Pardes for Israelis. He spoke about the crisis of Zionism in the modern era—the State of Israel has achieved almost none of the purposes it was originally created to achieve, so what to do now? His answer, after a long, charismatic, fascinating speech, about autonomy, the creation of denominations, the crucial antipodal Jewish reforms of the late 1800's, and all the other ways Judaism has changed since the Emancipation and the Enlightenment, was that Judaism in Israel needs to change—the current model isn't working, and that Israel would do well to adopt the pluralistic, community-based model of American Judaism. As he said, “American Judaism had the right idea in the wrong location.” I admit he has a point, though I wonder how far outside New York his experience with American Judaism runs.

Wednesday, my Chumash class went to the Shrine of the Book at the Israel Museum to see the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Aleppo Codex, the Biblical text upon which all others are based. The Dead Sea sect lived as ascetics, spurning the world to live in silent, celibate seclusion. Most thoughts I wanted to have of “I'm glad I would never practice like them” were dead in the water. I don't think the enormity having the privilege of seeing the actual Aleppo Codex has, or perhaps even could sink in, without my mind imploding in awe and gratitude.

Early Friday morning, Pardes left in two busses for the end-of-the-year Shabbaton at the Achziv Field School, right on the Mediterranean shore. Like the first Shabbaton, this one, too, defied words. Just try to imagine singing and dancing in a Carlebach Kabbalat-Shabbat on a roof overlooking a perfect, Oh-come-on-God-now-You're-just-showing-off sunset over the ocean with people desperate to suck every last bit of marrow out of the precious little time they know they have left together, and extend that feeling over two days at the sea shore, then you might have some inkling of what it was like.

Quote of the Week: “'God and I are like two fat men in a small boat. We keep bumping into one another, and laughing.'” -Shams-ud-din Muhammad Hafez, quoted by James.

Hebrew Word of the Week: שנוי (“sheenooee”) - change

I came to Israel wanting to learn Torah, and I have. Thank God, I've learned tons of Torah here and am privileged to learn more each day. But now that it's May and I'm entering into the home stretch of my first year in Israel, I've gotten to thinking about some of the other things I've learned since coming here nine months and one lifetime ago, the bonus features of my Israel experience, those unexpected extra scoops of ice cream that have made spending nearly all my savings on this crazy adventure even more worthwhile.

While here, I've also learned:

*That I am the type of person who will get excited about having a surprise lesson on Aramaic grammar, far more so than I ever was about a surprise lesson in English grammar.

*That I look fantastic in women's pants, even if I don't quite have the butt for them.

*That if God had wanted us to wait in line, He would not have given us elbows

*How to cook. Specifically, how to stir-fry, make rice, quinoa, curry, lasagna, halushki, Israeli salad, and an infinite amount of other things if I choose to put the time and thought into it.

*That Israelis aren't big fans of leashes, for dogs (bad) or for children (good).

*That I am not the only engaged, passionate, and observant non- or post-denominational Jewish freak (what my friend Falynn calls “Baynim”) out there. There are more just like me, and they all find a home at Pardes.

*That my arms have an above-average level of flexibility in their ability to stretch to touch nearly all areas of my back. I spent my entire life assuming I was almost certainly the most inflexible person who ever lived. So when my friend, a former yoga teacher, noticed this flexibility last week as I scratched myself, I was shocked, though I was also tremendously relieved since I can now rest assured knowing my long-standing fear that I was evidence of a physical devolution of the human species is groundless. Quite the opposite, in fact: I know realize that my ability to scratch my own back, something I've never thought anything of until now, is actually a pretty useful adaptation, ladies...

*That the 9 th -10 th graders at Congregation B'nai Tikva – Beth Israel in Sewell, New Jersey are the most awesome Jews in the entire world. Or at least in New Jersey.

(Hey, there are a lot of Jews in New Jersey.)

*That Shukophobia, or a paralyzing fear of the shuk is a real condition affecting not just me but hundreds of other overly-coddled, English-speaking wimps all over Israel.

         -Related, that different things go in different bags.

*How to play Settlers of Catan, or, as we call it here, Settlers of Canaan.

*That not every Jewish resident of the West Bank is a right-wing religious fanatic.

*What it's like to meet and speak with actual, real-life Palestinians.

*That FUBU is owned by a Jew.

*That there is no institution more quintessentially Jewish than the breakaway minyan.

*How to sing. While going to shul on Shabbat at first felt like missing choir practice, I'm now in love with being in a city that isn't shy about joining together in praiseful song to its Creator. The best part is how the music on my (and, very noticeably, many other people's) lips during Shabbat and holidays spills over into the rest of the week, infusing it with a special holiness and joy not found in most other places.

*That if God had wanted me to meditate, He would not have given me dust allergies (though wait till next week...)

*That I can speak in public.

*That Israel had a woman Prime Minister (Golda Meir, elected 1969) before it ever had a woman bus driver. In the nine months I've been here, I haven't seen one anywhere driving any kind of bus: public, private, school, shuttle, tour or otherwise. I guess it's all about choosing your battles.

Quote of the Week: “I never want to dismiss the possibility of sarcasm, especially when reading Rabbinic texts.” - Leah Rosenthal

Hebrew Word of the Week: ללמוד (“leelamohd”) - to learn

This is the time of year for family. Last week, when Shabbat directly followed the last day of Pesach, creating a rare 8-day Passover in Israel, Friday afternoon, I was kindly invited over the home of a local family. The Mr. and the Mrs. were born in America, but each have been here for well over 20 years. Also at the meal were two of their 4 children, the Mrs.' father, and family friends with two small children. As often happens when I eat meals with strangers, while I didn't know these people at all when I woke up that morning, by Kiddush, I already felt like family. When I first began hanging out in more observant circles in college, I couldn't get over how inviting complete strangers over for holiday meals is considered no big deal; in fact, more often that not, the hosts act as though you are the one doing them a favor. But of course, that just isn't true, it's the opposite, and feeding me is the least of it—by letting me come into their meal, into their living room, knowing they know nothing about me other than that I am a hungry Jew and that I know nothing about them other than that they are extremely generous, I can drop my baggage and just let myself feel at home and become a grateful member of their extended family. Maybe the most special thing about being a Jew is knowing that you are a part of (nearly) every other Jew's extended family.

That night, I experienced the opposite side of this phenomenon when, for Shabbat dinner, two friends of mine who are roommates had family over: one her father, the other her brother and sister-in-law, and invited friends over for a combined family meal. My friends soon became translators between the thee overlapping families present—after nearly seven-and-a-half months together, nearly everything we Pardes students say to each other is an inside-joke. Similarly, almost anything a family member wanted to say about our mutual family member required explanation—in order for this anecdote to make sense, you have to first understand who this person was before she got jokes about yichus. Mostly, though, since we were in the majority, we Pardesians talked our own language amongst ourselves, while the family members looked on in bemused judgement of their loved ones' choice of company. I would imagine my friends were facing a very George Costanza moment, the opposite of my experience at the former-strangers' house: How can you be a member of two families, how can you occupy to two totally different histories, milieus, expectations, selves at once, especially when they are both so Jewish?

Monday, we finally came back to classes after nearly 3 weeks off. Wednesday, the day before the official Yom HaShoa, our morning classes were preempted for commemorative activities. The first introduced us to important Jews from Warsaw in the early-20 th century. The program began by introducing us to Jewish denizens of Warsaw like the great Yiddish author I.L. Peretz, actresses Esther Rachel and her daughter Ida Kaminska, and father of Esperanto (and Shinto deity) Ludwig Zamenhof who lived and died before the Nazis, to emphasize that Jewish life in Warsaw didn't begin with the Ghetto, that the Jews of Warsaw weren't just standing around for 100's of years being hated by their neighbors, they were active in all disciplines, had a diverse, thriving, growing, living community, and that maybe the biggest tragedy of the Ghetto was how it strangled it.

Following these, we learned about many of the heroes of the ghetto, including the Piasetzener Rebbe; Janusz Korczak, the pediatrician and author who famously refused freedom to accompany his orphans to the Treblinka death camp; The Pianist Władysław Szpilman; and Emmanuel Ringelblum. I had never heard of Ringelblum before, and he particularly fascinated me. He is perhaps the biggest reason why so much is known about the inner-life of the Warsaw Ghetto. While there, he organized a varied group, among the rich, poor, rabbis, atheists, capitalists, socialists, men, women that were all smushed into the Ghetto together called Oyneg Shabbos, to archive everything they possibly could from life in the Ghetto for the sake of preserving for the world the truth of the horrors they lived. They filled 3 milk cans with material, but sadly only 2 have been found. To hear about the sufferings in the Ghetto is one thing, but to have not only faces, but also everyday stuff: newspapers, ticket stubs, diaries, drawings, posters to connect it to, has had an incalculable influence on making unimaginable suffering relatable and real for people. A number, 300,000, is as good as meaningless, but a single letter can leave you paralyzed.

Following this, we met a survivor, Morris Wyszogrod. Before the war, Mr. Wyszogrod's parents, a musician and a theatrical costume designer, pawned some of their belongings to enable him to develop his talents as one of very few Jews admitted into one of Europe's elite art schools, the Marshal Josef Pilsudski School of Graphics. When the war broke out, these talents saved his life countless times, as he was constantly spared by Nazis wanting to use his abilities either for their own personal gain (as when a drunk officer commissioned him one night to make a portrait of him and his girlfriend making love upon threat of death) or to help the Nazi cause (as when he was ordered to make a sign that said “Entry Forbidden for Jews or Dogs”). Apparently, by Nazi ideology, only the Jews who couldn't paint were less than human. And Mr. Wyszogrod can paint: The drawings he showed from the camps, black-and-white, art-deco-like sketches of huge men in army regalia brutalizing waifish Jews with other waifs, barbed-wire, and, in every picture, a flock of V-shaped birds flying off somewhere in the distance in the background, looked pulled straight from a macabre New Yorker. After he presented his life, we asked him questions, the obvious, impossible ones no two survivors have the same answer to: How do you carry on after the Holocaust? How can you still believe in God? “The only way I know how to live is as a Jew,” he said (though I paraphrase). “So that is how I decided I'm going to keep living.” It's working—the man is well into his 90's and walks, speaks, and thinks straight and clear as someone half his age who didn't go through the Holocaust.

The next presenters were Pardes students who went on the Poland trip in January. For those of us who didn't go (or at least for me) details of what exactly happened on that trip have always been blurry. On the one hand, those who went came back from the shared experience so much closer, with a seeming mutual understanding and perspective not shared by those who didn't go. On the other hand, even when pressed, they rarely talk about what they saw with the rest of us, as though to say, like Jews who were born in that country not so long ago, “If you've never been there, you could never understand.” But that day, four of them broke their relative silence to share pictures, memories, and personal reflections. This was by far the most powerful part of the day. If I try to write more about it, I'll ruin it.

Next, we had a speaker from Yad Vashem, Dr. David Silberklang, lecture on his new research into how much Polish Jewry knew before the Nazis came for them. His conclusion: They knew more than we thought they did, but their amount of knowledge could have made no lick of difference to their inevitable fate.

You know, I may have actually overstated the case before—there were some public statements about the Poland trip from its veterans prior to Wednesday. On her first Erev Shabbat back from Poland, my friend Nikki posted as her Facebook status: “After returning from Poland, I've never been so happy to be pushed around by dozens of Israelis in the shuk....Am Chai Israel!!!!!!"

We had classes as normal that afternoon and Thursday, Yom HaShoa proper, the idea being that the best way to honor those murdered for being Jews is by continuing to study Torah in our beit midrash in Jerusalem.

There was one difference: Sometime in the morning, I would guess around 10:30, we went outside to hear the siren. Every year on Yom HaShoa, a siren is sounded throughout the country and everybody— in schools, stores, and offices, cars, trucks, and busses, even on highways—stops what they're doing, stands, and remembers. It has to be one of the eeriest, most moving things I've ever seen.

As the alarm was sounding, and I noticed all the Israeli flags people have begun decorating their cars and balconies with for Yom Ha'atzmaut next week, it occurred to me how little Israelis—a proudly Hebrew, free, strong, ruggedly independent, and assertive people often seen as aggressors—really have in common with their cousins in the Holocaust, commonly seen as Yiddish, powerless, oppressed, vulnerable, and victimized. Yet, just like how just about every Jew, even non-religious one, make Passover seders, so, too, a week-and-a-half later, everyone, even Sabras, stop and stand in tribute for Yom HaShoa. We lean one week and stand the next, not because they keep trying to destroy us, but because we can still lean or stand or do whatever we decide the situation calls for, together. We may be the smallest of peoples, but we are the largest of families.

Quote of the Week: [To his future 10-year-old child] “I hope that the world you live in is one that makes believing in the Shoa more difficult than believing in God.” - Andrew Lustig, from “My Child, the Holocaust Denier.”

Hebrew Word of the Week: משפחה (“meeshpakha”) - Family

“Even if all of us were wise, all of us understanding, all of us knowing the Torah, we would still be obligated to discuss the exodus from Egypt,” says the Haggada. While by no means do I, like most of the people I had seder with this year, consider myself inordinately wise or understanding, I knew spending seder night with other Pardes students, all of whom have, in some way or another, been studying Pesach for at least the past month, would make this year's seder night different from any I had experienced before.

So what ultimately made this year's seder different from all the others? Every other seder I've been to had meat, but this one was vegetarian—the pascal yam replaced the pascal lamb in remembrance of how God gave the more liberal-minded Israelites special permission to slaughter a root vegetable instead of a yearling yam for their Pascal sacrifice in Egypt. Every other seder I've been to didn't have Persian Jews, but this one had one, giving us an excuse to adopt their custom of beating each other with scallions during Dayenu. Every other seder I've been to does Maggid by going around the table, but at this seder, everyone prepared presentations on pre-selected segments. By far, this was my favorite change: All year, I have seen my friends as Torah students, now I had the privilege of having them as Torah teachers. I once heard that more commentaries have been written on the Haggada than on every other Jewish text combined. If this is true, you would think there is nothing new anybody could possibly say about it, yet, by combining their own personal learning, experience, creativity, personality, and passion, everyone made me think about the text and the seder itself, in exciting, inspiring new ways. This is what the Haggada means when it says that in every generation we are obligated to see ourselves as though we personally have come out of Egypt—every generation and each person has their own Exodus, and the genius of the Haggada, the reason it has generated so many commentaries and will keep generating more each year is because it encourages us not only to see our personal story and our family's story, our place, as part the larger story of our People, but to celebrate it and share it.

Every other seder I've been to, the meal has been one of the highlights, if not the highlight, but at this seder, after hearing everyone's presentation and filling up on karpas, by the time we got to the meal at around 1 AM, everyone was too full and tired to eat more than a few bites of the food. Even though it was really good, we still had piles and piles of it left over.

This year in Jerusalem, everything about Pesach was different. I had an idea to go around town taking pictures of the unbelievable looking kosher-for-Passover food in the restaurants, whole shelves in the supermarkets blocked off, and other fun and unusual sights around the city then posting them on the blog. Monday, I took a nice walk around the city and got lots of nice pictures, then stopped on a park bench in Baka to review my shots before reading more of God in Search of Man, which I had been working on since I first got on the Mega Bus to New York to come here. I was on the chapter called “Freedom,” about how man's free-will consists pretty much exclusively in his ability to make moral decisions, how only by rising above the animal instinct and choosing the right over the comfortable can humans be said to be free in any meaningful way. I finished this chapter then got up to walk home, thinking about its ramifications for my life and decision-making. Once I was about half-way home, I realized I left my camera on the bench. I got back not 5 minutes later and breathed a sigh of relief to see the case was right where I left it. I got closer and retracted that sigh once I realized that while case was indeed still there, the camera was not. So no more pictures until the rest of the world learns to study Heschel (though of course, he was hardly the first to say this, he just put it best).

Anytime I mention Haifa to someone who has been there, their first response is always, always “Oh, it's so beautiful there!” I have been dying for an opportunity to have its beauty leave such a strong impression on me since coming back from Birthright. Besides that it's right on the beach, the Bahai Gardens are there, and that it's beautiful, the only other thing I knew about Haifa was what someone told me over Sukkot, after telling me how beautiful it is. She said, “Jerusalem prays, Tel Aviv plays, Haifa works.” I have been praying in Jerusalem all year, one afternoon playing in Tel Aviv left me sunburned (though I'm told it leaves many much worse); a day of watching other people work in beautiful Haifa sounded like just the vacation I needed. Tuesday, my friend Eric and I took the 3-hour bus ride to see the beautiful city for ourselves. While on the bus, I saw a guy walking away from me up the aisle wearing a Steelers kippa and a Steelers shirt. I considered saying “Hi,” but figured he would beat me to it once he saw my Pirates hat. Sure enough, almost as soon as he turned around, he recognized me as a landsman and introduced himself. The following conversation ensued:

HIM: Hey, are you from Pittsburgh?

ME: To be wearing a Pirates hat, I'd have to be either from Pittsburgh or crazy.

HIM: [pause] So you're not from Pittsburgh?

ME: No, no I am!

Following this, he fulfilled his Halakhic obligation of asking me if I was from Squirrel Hill. I told him I was from the South Hills, and he said he was from McKeesport, but has been living in New York for something like the past 20-years. We talked for a little while more and our conversation ended with him telling me how to stream Pens games online. (Thankfully for my sanity. I fell asleep before I could take his advise for every game so far.) Later, as he got off at his stop just outside of Haifa, Eric made a comment about his accompanying Steelers tote bag. “It's like a religion,” I told him, but really, if you have to ask, you'll never know.

Anyway, once we got of the Haifa Central Bus Station, we saw the beach is directly in front of us, and huge hi-tech offices behind. Everything in Haifa is huge: the office buildings, the cranes at the port, the mall, the walking distances—I would have taken pictures, but... not everyone reads Heschel.

After staking out the food situation at the mall, we got a taxi to the Bahai Gardens. They were even more gorgeous than they look in pictures, with sparkling clear water features, blooming flowers, and perfect grass—Eric at awestruck at just how perfect the grass was: 'How do they give it such uniform height and color?! In this climate!! All the work that must go into it!' Again, I would have taken pictures, but...

So they were impressive but they were also kind of disappointing since, even though the Gardens continue all the way up Mt. Carmel, only the bottom two levels are open to tourists. So they were nice, but in themselves would hardly be worth the 3-hour bus ride. After the Gardens, Eric and I walked through downtown. Every angle of downtown looks like a postcard, only once you notice something moving or hear a car horn do you remember that it's real—the Gardens are smack in the middle of Mt. Carmel, which ends in a small plain leading directly to the Sea. Lovely as it is from a distance, though, up-close, downtown is mostly convenience stores and parts wholesalers. Jerusalem prays, Tel Aviv plays...

Following our trek downtown, we took a shuttle back to the bus station and walked back to the mall to get Chinese food. Outside Jerusalem, it is nearly impossible to find a restaurant that does not serve kitniyot on Pesach. Eric and I knew this would be a challenge, but I can't complain since it's still much easier than traveling during Pesach in America. I thought not being able to go wherever I wanted and eat anything anywhere I went during Pesach would be annoying, but I've actually found the challenge quite meaningful. For me, kosher in general and Passover especially, has always been about learning how to say “no,” how to build the strength to withstand temptation and stick to your principles in spite ample opportunity to do otherwise—a skill that reaps benefit in life far beyond the food court. Living in Squirrel Hill for two years, then coming to Jerusalem has made kashrut almost too easy; truthfully, where I live, it would almost be harder not to keep kosher. As I repeatedly refused the rice at the Chinese place in the Haifa Mall, even while the woman kept insisting I take some, I felt once again some of that spark of inspiration that reminded me why I came here to begin with.

Wednesday I went to the Kotel. It didn't dawn on me until I was pushing my way through literally thousands of other Jews to get to it how symbolic, indeed how redemptive, this act was. I found davening the Musaf Amida for Festivals at the Kotel, saying things like, “Bring back our scattered ones from among the nations, and gather our dispersed people from the ends of the earth. Lead us to Zion, Your city, in jubilation, and to Jerusalem, home of your Temple, with everlasting joy,” while standing and praying among hundreds of other Jews of all persuasions from all over the world, was both inspiring and absurd: Inspiring because here we are doing what the text says—after 2,000 years, it actually happened! Absurd because how can I really say other passages like “because of our sins we were exiled far from our land and driven far from our country” with a straight face while standing mere meters from the Temple Mount? But the tension was exhilarating and inspiring, and I've never considered it such a blessing to have to push my way through a such big crowd.

Later that day, with my experience at the Kotel still too fresh in my mind to have settled into any one specific meaning, I read,

In this moment, we the living, are Israel. The tasks begun by the patriarchs and prophets, and carried out by countless Jews of the past, are now entrusted to us....We are either the last, the dying Jews or else we are those who will give new life to our tradition. Rarely in our history has so much depended upon one generation. We will either forfeit or enrich the legacy of the ages....

What we have witnessed in our own days is a reminder of the power of God's mysterious promise to Abraham and a testimony to the fact that the people kept its promise....We own the past and are, hence, not afraid of what is to be. We remember where we came from. We remember the beginning and believe in an end. We live between two historic poles: Sinai and the Kingdom of God.

 A few seconds later, I finished God in Search of Man. If the person who took my camera is reading this, I have a book to trade you. אם אדם לקח את המצלמה שלי קורא את זה, יש לי ספר להחליף אותך. Si la personne qui a pris mon appareil photo est de lire ceci, j'ai un livre à vous échanger.

Quote of the Week: “I was at a meal last night hosted by this guy from Pittsburgh. He said, 'Now we're going to cut the matzy.' I was like, 'What?' and he said, 'You know, because we can't have chally.'”

Hebrew Word of the Week: חרות (“khayroot”) - the freedom to

Tuesday through Thursday, we were in the Golan. Unlike our last two tiyyulim, the Golan, Israel's back 40, is the anti-desert; especially now, in the springtime, the place is so overflowing with life and water and cow dung, you can't take one step outdoors in the entire region without stepping in one of the three. The whole time, I just had to keep reminding myself this garden paradise was still Israel.

Shortly after arriving in the Golan, we began our first set of hikes. I did the hard hike—a five hour tour of Nahal Jilaboon and Gesher Pekak. In what would become a recurring theme through out our hikes, we walked through forests, on cliffs, and saw some stunning waterfalls.

Including this, the second-largest in Israel.

Later on, some people who were apparently lucky enough to be born without the ability to feel cold got to swim underneath a different waterfall.

This is the former site of a swimming pool Syrian officers built for themselves while patrolling the Golan before '67. Apparently, these dot the area. After seeing this and hearing the story of Eli Cohen, we finished the hike by trekking down a steep hill on a rocky, narrow path, rusty barbed wire and a minefield on either side of us. In America, it would be a lawsuit waiting to happen, but in Israel, it's just another part of the trail. Though it's easy to forget because it's peaceful now and never makes the news, and, thank God, it's native Druze population likes being Israeli, the Golan was a war zone until really the end of the Yom Kippur war in 1975. Reminders of this cover the region like cow poo, there are old tanks nearly everywhere, including this one outside a rest-stop, that some of the most liberal students at Pardes gathered around for an oh-so-ironic photo-op.

One tank has never held so many vegetarians.

The Golan's bloody past was an especially big theme Wednesday morning, when we went to Mt. Bental overlooking the Syrian border.

It's best known for having arguably the most photographed sign post in Israel and for it's coffee shop, Coffee Annan (so named because a. this means “Cloud Coffee” in Hebrew, and b. as a way of sticking it to Kofi Annan, who pushed hard for Israel to give the region back to Syria. Sticking it to the UN is a favorite past time here, as well it should be.) I went to Mt. Bental before while on Birthright, but the weather made this an entirely new view of the mountain.

  Birthright

This time

After seeing Mt. Bental and sampling its coffee, we took a short bus ride and split into groups for hiking. I did the five-hour hard hike through the Banias stream.

I mentioned before how hard it sometimes was to remember that we were still in Israel, but reminders were always there.

After the hikes, we went to see some sight none of us had ever heard of, and, tired from the hike as most of us were, and didn't want to get off the bus to see. This sight turned out to be the memorial for the worst helicopter disaster in Israel's history—on February 4, 1997, two Israeli Air Force helicopters collided in the Golan, killing all 73 soldiers aboard. The memorial is so touching, even our weary, cynical hearts were moved by it, or at least mine was. After being briefed on the nature of the tragedy, we first saw the families' personal memorial. In the woods by a creek, where one of the helicopters went down, the families have hung little homemade mementos to their loved ones from tree branches. The ground is scattered with yahrtzeit candles and other small things the families wanted to be there. I deeply regret not taking any pictures, it was truly one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, it reminded me somewhat of the temporary memorial fence for Flight 93 in Shanksville. Following this, we moved on to the permanent memorial—a long covered stream (I would guess 73 meters long) running down from a circular pool of water, with rocks with the victims' names on them forming concentric circles within the pool. Outward from the pool radiated paths leading to a larger circle, like a helicopter rudder. In the grass areas between the pool and the outer circle were 73 large stones, as our guide Ma'ayan pointed out, each one, while similar in size and composition, is utterly unique in appearance and orientation.

That night after dinner, we heard a presentation by a man named Mike, who lives in a small moshav nearby the beautiful complex where we were staying. Though an archaeologist by profession, Mike was here today to talk about his moshav, which takes great pains to be half-religious, half-secular. The expected conflicts arise—how can secular families make food for communal meals? (the solution is everyone buys food for them) What if the religious guys really need a minyan, can they call one of the secular guys? (yes, but he does not have to participate in the service) Should we have a rabbi? If so what kind? (Mike said there was lots of heated discussion about this, but in the end it didn't really matter anyway because they could never afford one) Whose house will the kids play in on Shabbat? (kids aren't stupid, they can understand that it's okay to do things in one person's house and not in another's). Though this makes it seem tense, Mike emphasized that the conflicts are the exception and that the vast majority of the time, everyone lives together in peace. The whole point of this endeavor is the children—so they know how to not just live with, but understand, appreciate, work, and play with those who are different than them. I pray that when they grow up, at least some of these kids will move to Jerusalem, we could really use them here.

Thursday, everybody joined together to do a hike through Nahal El-Al.

The hike was full of unexpected surprises. The first was seeing the Golan Iris, a protected and extremely rare and beautiful species that grows only in the Golan Heights.

The second was the strength of the river.

Ordinarily, the water at this point is just a stream you can walk across with no problem. This year, the historic amounts of rain turned it into a team-building exercise—some of the stronger guys got in the water and found footholds strong enough to help everyone else across.

(Photo stolen from Yishai Paquin)

We hiked for an hour-or-so more, then right before the end of the hike we came to another abnormally strong, deep stream. Unlike the last one, this one had muddy banks and a muddier bed. It also had a stronger current, and a group of Israelis with little kids interrupting our group to cross it from the other side. This is also when it started raining.

But we survived with only one pair of shoes as a casualty. On the other side of the stream, at the top of the hill, at the very end of the hike, we were rewarded for our trouble with a stunning view of green mountains and valleys and cliffs, a huge, sparkling blue sky, and even some dude playing the guitar. So we hung out there for awhile and ate lunch, then we went home.

The forecast for the tiyyul was rain and cold, but thankfully, every day turned out gorgeous—blue skies, the occasional light breeze, and roughly 70° temperatures—hot enough to wear short-sleeves and no jacket, cool enough not to break a sweat. Perfect.

Without doubt, this was my favorite tiyyul. The deserts are nice and different, but I didn't fall in love with them. Here, lost amongst the cliffs, mountains, rocks, flowers, vineyards, apple orchards, and rivers, I understood for the first time what people mean when they say they feel a “spiritual connection” to Israel. Some places you have to look for Godliness and accept whatever traces of it you can find, but the Golan screams it at you. This plateau, this magical garden where cacti grow next to waterfalls, might be the most stunning place I've ever seen. This is the only place I've yet been in Israel where I could legitimately picture myself living someday, if only I were capable of doing farm work. I know, I saw the Golan with her best face on, in the spring when everything is in bloom and the temperature is just right, and had I been here during a dead winter or a scorching summer, or during a war, I might feel differently, but for right now, I'm content to just be naïve as all new lovers and think the Golan is perfect.

Quote of the Week: “We're going to go down and see the waterfall, then when we come back up here, Rav Elisha wants to talk about Jesus.” - Jamie, our tour guide.

Hebrew Word of the Week: מפל (“mahpal”) - waterfall

Tuesday through Thursday, we were in the Golan. Unlike our last two tiyyulim, the Golan, Israel's back 40, is the anti-desert; especially now, in the springtime, the place is so overflowing with life and water and cow dung, you can't take one step outdoors in the entire region without stepping in one of the three. The whole time, I just had to keep reminding myself this garden paradise was still Israel.

Shortly after arriving in the Golan, we began our first set of hikes. I did the hard hike—a five hour tour of Nahal Jilaboon and Gesher Pekak. In what would become a recurring theme through out our hikes, we walked through forests, on cliffs, and saw some stunning waterfalls.

Including this, the second-largest in Israel.

Later on, some people who were apparently lucky enough to be born without the ability to feel cold got to swim underneath a different waterfall.

This is the former site of a swimming pool Syrian officers built for themselves while patrolling the Golan before '67. Apparently, these dot the area. After seeing this and hearing the story of Eli Cohen, we finished the hike by trekking down a steep hill on a rocky, narrow path, rusty barbed wire and a minefield on either side of us. In America, it would be a lawsuit waiting to happen, but in Israel, it's just another part of the trail. Though it's easy to forget because it's peaceful now and never makes the news, and, thank God, it's native Druze population likes being Israeli, the Golan was a war zone until really the end of the Yom Kippur war in 1975. Reminders of this cover the region like cow poo, there are old tanks nearly everywhere, including this one outside a rest-stop, that some of the most liberal students at Pardes gathered around for an oh-so-ironic photo-op.

One tank has never held so many vegetarians.

The Golan's bloody past was an especially big theme Wednesday morning, when we went to Mt. Bental overlooking the Syrian border.

It's best known for having arguably the most photographed sign post in Israel and for it's coffee shop, Coffee Annan (so named because a. this means “Cloud Coffee” in Hebrew, and b. as a way of sticking it to Kofi Annan, who pushed hard for Israel to give the region back to Syria. Sticking it to the UN is a favorite past time here, as well it should be.) I went to Mt. Bental before while on Birthright, but the weather made this an entirely new view of the mountain.

  Birthright

This time

After seeing Mt. Bental and sampling its coffee, we took a short bus ride and split into groups for hiking. I did the five-hour hard hike through the Banias stream.

I mentioned before how hard it sometimes was to remember that we were still in Israel, but reminders were always there.

After the hikes, we went to see some sight none of us had ever heard of, and, tired from the hike as most of us were, and didn't want to get off the bus to see. This sight turned out to be the memorial for the worst helicopter disaster in Israel's history—on February 4, 1997, two Israeli Air Force helicopters collided in the Golan, killing all 73 soldiers aboard. The memorial is so touching, even our weary, cynical hearts were moved by it, or at least mine was. After being briefed on the nature of the tragedy, we first saw the families' personal memorial. In the woods by a creek, where one of the helicopters went down, the families have hung little homemade mementos to their loved ones from tree branches. The ground is scattered with yahrtzeit candles and other small things the families wanted to be there. I deeply regret not taking any pictures, it was truly one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, it reminded me somewhat of the temporary memorial fence for Flight 93 in Shanksville. Following this, we moved on to the permanent memorial—a long covered stream (I would guess 73 meters long) running down from a circular pool of water, with rocks with the victims' names on them forming concentric circles within the pool. Outward from the pool radiated paths leading to a larger circle, like a helicopter rudder. In the grass areas between the pool and the outer circle were 73 large stones, as our guide Ma'ayan pointed out, each one, while similar in size and composition, is utterly unique in appearance and orientation.

That night after dinner, we heard a presentation by a man named Mike, who lives in a small moshav nearby the beautiful complex where we were staying. Though an archaeologist by profession, Mike was here today to talk about his moshav, which takes great pains to be half-religious, half-secular. The expected conflicts arise—how can secular families make food for communal meals? (the solution is everyone buys food for them) What if the religious guys really need a minyan, can they call one of the secular guys? (yes, but he does not have to participate in the service) Should we have a rabbi? If so what kind? (Mike said there was lots of heated discussion about this, but in the end it didn't really matter anyway because they could never afford one) Whose house will the kids play in on Shabbat? (kids aren't stupid, they can understand that it's okay to do things in one person's house and not in another's). Though this makes it seem tense, Mike emphasized that the conflicts are the exception and that the vast majority of the time, everyone lives together in peace. The whole point of this endeavor is the children—so they know how to not just live with, but understand, appreciate, work, and play with those who are different than them. I pray that when they grow up, at least some of these kids will move to Jerusalem, we could really use them here.

Thursday, everybody joined together to do a hike through Nahal El-Al.

The hike was full of unexpected surprises. The first was seeing the Golan Iris, a protected and extremely rare and beautiful species that grows only in the Golan Heights.

The second was the strength of the river.

Ordinarily, the water at this point is just a stream you can walk across with no problem. This year, the historic amounts of rain turned it into a team-building exercise—some of the stronger guys got in the water and found footholds strong enough to help everyone else across.

(Photo stolen from Yishai Paquin)

We hiked for an hour-or-so more, then right before the end of the hike we came to another abnormally strong, deep stream. Unlike the last one, this one had muddy banks and a muddier bed. It also had a stronger current, and a group of Israelis with little kids interrupting our group to cross it from the other side. This is also when it started raining.

But we survived with only one pair of shoes as a casualty. On the other side of the stream, at the top of the hill, at the very end of the hike, we were rewarded for our trouble with a stunning view of green mountains and valleys and cliffs, a huge, sparkling blue sky, and even some dude playing the guitar. So we hung out there for awhile and ate lunch, then we went home.

The forecast for the tiyyul was rain and cold, but thankfully, every day turned out gorgeous—blue skies, the occasional light breeze, and roughly 70° temperatures—hot enough to wear short-sleeves and no jacket, cool enough not to break a sweat. Perfect.

Without doubt, this was my favorite tiyyul. The deserts are nice and different, but I didn't fall in love with them. Here, lost amongst the cliffs, mountains, rocks, flowers, vineyards, apple orchards, and rivers, I understood for the first time what people mean when they say they feel a “spiritual connection” to Israel. Some places you have to look for Godliness and accept whatever traces of it you can find, but the Golan screams it at you. This plateau, this magical garden where cacti grow next to waterfalls, might be the most stunning place I've ever seen. This is the only place I've yet been in Israel where I could legitimately picture myself living someday, if only I were capable of doing farm work. I know, I saw the Golan with her best face on, in the spring when everything is in bloom and the temperature is just right, and had I been here during a dead winter or a scorching summer, or during a war, I might feel differently, but for right now, I'm content to just be naïve as all new lovers and think the Golan is perfect.

Quote of the Week: “We're going to go down and see the waterfall, then when we come back up here, Rav Elisha wants to talk about Jesus.” - Jamie, our tour guide.

Hebrew Word of the Week: מפל (“mahpal”) - waterfall

Sunday night Pardes made history as the first yeshiva ever to host the launching event for a new edition of the New Testament. The Jewish Annotated New Testament, co-edited by friend of Pardes and Gene Wilder look-alike, Mark Z. Brettler, is actually a lot like the original New Testament, except the word “Jesus” is replaced by “Yeshka.”

No. In reality, it was produced in part to combat that very brand of shallow understanding too many Jews have of Christianity and Jesus to begin a new, intelligent, and respectful dialogue between the faiths. Personally, it's always been a pet-peeve of mine when religious Jews blame gentiles for being so ignorant of Judaism, while in the same breath espousing embarrassingly ignorant statements about other faiths as though they were fact. Jesus isn't Voldemort, we can say his name! While it is highly unlikely those who do not will want anything to do with this new book, it is still exciting and, I think, important, that it exists. The commentaries and essays in it are from 50 Jewish scholars from all-over the world, many of them observant, none of them Jews for Jesus, in an effort to bring the long-ignored Jewish perspective on the authors, characters, milieu, even ideas it contains all of which, after all, were Jewish back into the public consciousness. As many of the speakers pointed out, the books of the New Testament contain a wealth of context and information about the late Second Temple-period that shed enormous light on the development of the Judaism we practice today, not to mention how Jews in the Western world cannot possibly understand their culture if they don't understand Christianity.

The launch took the form of a panel of scholarly all-stars weighing in on the significance of this book, moderated by our Rosh Yeshiva, R. Landes.

The first speaker was Dr. Marcie Lenk, of Ben Gurion University, who spoke about why it's so important for Jews to study the New Testament. Her presentation in a quote: “We can only understand the other if we allow the other to speak in his/her own voice.”

Following her was Prof. Avigdor Shinan of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, who spoke about why every scholar of Judaism should study the New Testament. His presentation in a quote: “Any scholarship that ignores an important source is not real scholarship, and any scholar who would ignore such a source is not a real scholar.”

Next was Rabbi Dr. Daniel Sperber, professor of Talmud at Bar-Ilan University. He was the only speaker of the night I had heard of before coming to Pardes, as his reputation precedes him as one of the lights of our generation and I was most eager to hear his presentation. He spoke about the Halakhic ramifications of reading the New Testament, about whether the discomfort so many Jews have with it is the result of it's being legally forbidden or merely culturally taboo. He argued that since the Sages of the Rabbinic Era had a in-depth understanding of real idol worship, Sages throughout time have understood Christianity for the sake of public disputations and anti-missionary activity, interfaith dialogue has brought tremendous good to the Jewish People in the modern-era, most significantly Vatican II and the Papal apology for past harms, and we are living in the Information Age where information is available to everyone, it is therefore Halakhically permissible today for everyone to study the New Testament.

The final speaker was Mark Brettler, of Brandeis and Hebrew Universities. His presentation in a quote: “Judaism cannot be fully understood without Christianity, especially early Judaism.” He also made a good case for how this book and the Jewish commentaries within it on problematic passages, would help Christian readers dispel many myths they may have learned about Jews and Judaism.

The whole evening was so fascinating, and I learned so much, I had never been prouder to not go to a “real” yeshiva. It made me pray fervently for the day when the world will be ready for The Jewish Annotated Koran.

During the question and answer session, someone asked the panel if they thought the Jews should try to “take back” Jesus. They answered that there's nothing to take back, he always was.

Tuesday, I went to the group lecture called “What we Talk About When we Talk About Learning,” which presented Rabbinic texts on how Torah can only be acquired once you leave all your presuppositions and past beliefs behind. As R. Yose ben R. Hanina says, words of Torah will only remain with one who becomes naked for them (Bavli, Sota 21b). Some opinions say you can only acquire Torah by killing yourself for it. Wednesday we said “E.l Ma'ale Rachamim” for the victims of the terrorist attack in France then said Psalm 130 for the people under constant rocket fire in the South. Coincidentally, later that day in Self, Soul, and Text, we practiced killing ourselves. We read texts about the spiritual importance of remembering our own mortality then did a death meditation, close your eyes and imagine yourself getting older. Moving hurts. So does breathing. You don't understand things the way you used to, you are utterly dependent on others for everything. You know the end is near, and your loved ones are all gathered around you, somber looks on their faces. Now your body is being treated by the chevre kadisha, now people are gathered for your funeral, speaking remembrances of you, now you body is being eaten by worms and maggots, and your soul....What do you imagine your soul is doing?

It was a sobering, powerful exercise. It made me conscious of how badly I just want to be loved for who I am, to never try being someone I'm not, to raise children who share my values, and resolved to always act for the good. Most others seemed similarly effected. While reading the texts, my chevruta and I discussed a lot about how much we enjoy Judaism's emphasis on living a good life in the here-and-now, how refreshing it is that Torah focuses you on making the most of the life you currently live without getting so hung-up on next-world speculations. One classmate, after over 6 months at Pardes, even had to ask our instructor whether Judaism even believes in an afterlife. Like any good Pardes instructor, he began his reply, “It depends who you ask.” It had just never been mentioned in any other class; it seems mostly irrelevant, while you're so busy trying to figure out the best way to live, to think about how you're going to not live. Yet here it was now, death, shoved into our consciousness whether we were ready for it or not. Just like the real thing, except not at all.

All around the school all week were Haggadas, complaints about kitniyot, and talk of vacation plans. In both morning classes for the past few weeks, we have been studying things related to Passover: Gemara relating to the Seder in one, the Biblical account of the first Passover in the other. This can only mean Passover is fast arriving. The season was officially kicked-off at Pardes Thursday night with the Leil Iyun shel Pesakh, a public event centered around learning and eating. There were two sessions of classes, each about an hour long. For the first, I chose a Bibliodrama class about the Exodus. One of my first thoughts upon hearing about this session was that there's enough Bibliodrama in this country already, there is no need for me to create more. But I decided it would be something different, so tried it anyway. As it turns out, “Bibliodrama” is not confusing politics with the Bible, rather it's role-playing the Bible in a much healthier way—we started by choosing personas among the original Israelite descendants into Egypt: some were young people born there, others were elders who remembered the old way of life, some were happy about the change, others resentful. In character we discussed the issues at hand. Then we role-played the new Pharaoh deciding to “deal wisely” with the Israelites, then Israelite slaves and Egyptian taskmasters, then Israelites and the Egyptian army as they approached the seeming dead-end of the Reed Sea. At each stage, after role-playing, we had to ask ourselves, “At this point, would you rather be an Israelite or and Egyptian?” It was never an easy choice—would you really rather be the oppressed, beaten, and enslaved than the oppressor? Were the Israelites betrayed or did they have it coming? I have been studying the first chapters of Exodus since October, yet I feel like I gained at least as much fresh perspective on it in that hour as I did in all those five months. You just can't underestimate the importance of putting yourself in the other's shoes.

The second session I went to was called “The Four Cups of Wine and the Problem of Evil.” To simplify a complex point, the lecturer discussed the Talmudic debate about which of the four cups during the Seder we should lean for: Some say we should not lean for the first two since we are not yet considered “free” when we drink them, others say we should lean for the first two but it should be optional for the last two since leaning will be old hat by then. Some trust in God enough to lean even when things look bleak, others refuse to be comfortable until their redemption arrives. As the tradition has come down, we Jews have decided to lean no matter what.

Quote of the Week: “It's fine to call it the 'New Testament,' just don't call ours the 'Old Testament.'” - Prof. Avigdor Shinan

Hebrew Word of the Week: מות (“mavet”) – death