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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
//The biggest event this week was our Critical Issues speaker, Rabbi Michael Melchior, former Member of the Knesset, executive in the World Zionist Organization, current Chief Rabbi of Norway, and, would-be top candidate to succeed Jonathan Sacks as Chief Rabbi of Britain, if he wanted the job, which he adamantly does not, no matter how much our British student tries to bribe him. More important than all these credentials, however, is his work in religious conflict-resolution.
In his lecture, he told us how he knew from time it happened that history would not end with the Cold War, but rather that God was about to reenter it, as a piece of grafitti he saw at the time said,
“Nietzsche is dead.” -God
He was right. He has spent his life since then publically annoyed at those on the right and the left for their foolishness in thinking they can resolve religious disputes through political means, and meeting with religious leaders to try resolving religious conflicts—and this is where the crazy part comes in— religiously. For Israel and Palestine, this means he has met with extremeists on both sides, reviewed and learned sacred texts with them, and got them to sign agreements in principle on means of making peace with their enemies based on their traditions' teachings. If belief in God can't be a catalyst for peace in the world, he said, then we should all give up on religion. But he believes so strongly that it not only can but needs to be that he has put up with being largely ignored by those in power, and having, he claims, -$800,000 in his bank account. Much of that debt has come from opening religious conflict-resolution centers all over the Mideast, including two in Jerusalem—one just down the street from Pardes, and the other in East Jerusalem. For the immediate result of his efforts, he has those signatures—religious extremeists agreeing, at least in theory, to a religious peace. He would not name names, but nonetheless insisted that he has gotten some of the most extreme leaders on both sides to agree to what a final peace will look like. When pressed on what that is, he said something like, “Everyone already knows what the final peace agreement will look like, it's just a question of doing it.” For some people this was maddeningly vague, but I think I knew what he meant. I wish I could give a better description of what he said, the names he dropped, the ingeneous ideas he had, but, unfortunatly, you just have to hear him.
You also just have to see him: Rabbi Melchior might be the closest I'll ever come to meeting a Biblical prophet. He is a man so utterly consumed by the spirit of God that he'll go anywhere—even to Nabulus to meet with Islamic extremeists—and speak the truth to anybody—even to Presidents and Prime Ministers—for the sake of justice, peace, and the glorification of God's Name, personal consequences be damned. For me, the most impressive thing about him is how Orthodox he is. I know I might lose a lot of my Pardes street cred for saying this, but the fact that he's not some guitar-playing “let's-all-feel-how-much-God-loves-us-as-we-sit-around-and-sing-kumbaya” Reform rabbi or even some crazied Messianist on the other extreme, but a bona-fide black canvas-kippaed, white-and-gray-bearded, suit-and-tie wearing, hyphen-inducing, unabashedly Zionist Orthodox rabbi saying and doing these things, meeting with the other side and making peace, is why he has gotten the respect and results he has. He fits so many stereotypes that no one will say he isn't being a “serious Jew” (whatever that phrase could even possibly mean) by shattering them all.
On the subject of religious conflicts, you're probably wondering what it's like here with all that's been going on in the South and with Iran and how I'm effected by it. Everyday I see the headlines: more missles, more hightened rhetoric, and I worry about Israel, the Jews, and all the innocent people, especially children, caught in-between. Just like I did in America. The truth is, I'm in such a bubble here, that it's extremely hard to forget how I'm very literally right in the middle of everything now, because here, in the eye of the storm, all is quiet.
In some ways, I wish it wasn't so. Sometimes I feel like, 'I'm here, this is real, I'm sharing the fate of my people, I'm really in it with you guys now!' And then I realize how stupid that is when I live here without fear. I thank God every day that we live in peace and pray that it will increase for everybody. But the point remains—whether the paper is the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette or Haaretz, headlines are headlines, and my daily routine is my daily routine and it's all too easy to feel detached. In a small world, a few thousand miles makes no difference as long as the blood you see is just ink on the paper and not coming out of your own skull.
Even in Jerusalem, not all news is filled with international tension. Friday morning was the 2 nd annual Jerusalem Marathon.
All over the city, people came out in the cold and wet weather to cheer on the runners and give them high-fives.
I enjoyed watching everyone, but I was on the lookout for one runner in particular: Anne my Chumash and Mishna chevruta last semester. During our time together, she talked a lot about her training regiment and how excited she was for it, so when the big day finally came, I was eager to see her and cheer her on. She sent me an email the day before estimating what times she might be near my house. When I missed the first time, I went ahead with my Friday routine, planning to catch her for the second, then she called me almost right smack in the middle of the two times when I was in the middle of making an Israeli salad for Shabbat saying she was very close to my apartment. I dropped everything, ran outside and saw her running more-or-less alone from the pack. I didn't want her to stop for me, but she did anyway just long enough for us to hug and for me to wish her good luck before she took off again. I was so proud of her.
Quote of the Week: “Creation is the undifferentiated desire that there should be.” - R. Mike Feuer
Hebrew Word of the Week: לרוץ (“la'rootz”) - to run
When I woke up to a snowstorm this morning, I was so happy I could dance. It wasn't just snow, it was big-flaked, sticky snow, the kind you could make snowballs out of were there enough of it, and it looked for all the world like there would be before too long. I grabbed my camera, bundled up and headed outside to find a bizarro Jerusalem as much as a bizarro snowstorm. Unlike the procedure I'm used to, they are so unprepared here,
no one has shovels or salt or snow tires or parking chairs. In lieu of a plow, a construction vehicle drove down main streets with its shovel to the road, accomplishing absolutely nothing since there was no accumulation there.
And who uses an umbrella in the snow?
(Photo Stolen From: Shanee Michaelson)
On the ground, it almost instantly became piles of slush, the kind that splatter like a puddle when you stomp on them. By the time I finished running my Friday morning errands, it had almost all melted.
Far more lasting in the world is the effect left by people. We all fall to Earth in some time and place not of our choosing, and in the grand scheme of things, no one's stay on this Earth lasts appreciably longer than a snowfall in Jerusalem. Really, the biggest difference between us is that, as people, we can make our worldly impact permanent, for good or for evil. This week at Pardes, we remembered two students who, though they were taken far before their time, didn't just melt away but rather left legacies that continue to positively impact Pardes, the Jewish People, and the world. Marla Bennett and Ben Blutstein were alumni of the Year Program and current students in the Pardes Educators Program studying to be Jewish day school teachers when they were murdered in the terrorist bombing in the cafeteria of Hebrew University July 31, 2002 during the Second Intifada. Each year since then, Pardes has sponsored a Yom Iyun shel Chesed (a day focused on kindness) in their memory, a day when we take a break from our normal class schedules to go out in the world and do good.
This year's Yom Iyun began with abridged morning classes themed around Chesed, חסד, translated by Rabbi Shai Held of Machon Hadar in New York, not as “lovingkindness,” a meaningless word often found in Bibles and prayer books, but rather more accurately as “acts of kindness done in love.” During the large brunch following morning classes, it became obvious just how much Marla and Ben exemplified this trait. While eating the big country breakfast: biscuits with butter, eggs and cheese with “sausage,” grits, home fries, “bacon” salad, and maybe the best peach cobbler I've ever had, I and most of the other Americans in the room were downright giddy. But once the presentation started, everything changed—the girl with the infectious smile who made a trip to the airport just so a friend could arrive in Israel to a friendly face, who regularly kept Rav Landes after school to ask questions; the tzitzit-wearing DJ and musician who never backed away from an intellectual challenge, both aspiring Jewish educators. The more I learned about them, the more I admired them, and the more I admired them, the more painful it became that they were stolen away. After only a few minutes, I felt like I've known them all year. They were are Pardes.
I have rarely been so motivated to go out in the world and do good as a Jew as I was following that presentation. Luckily for me, we all got that chance directly afterward. This year's Yom Iyun featured three chesed projects: The first stayed in Jerusalem to prepare lunches for hospital visitors. The second and third went to Tel Aviv to either paint walls at a center for the children of Darfuri refugees, or to volunteer with the Jaffa Institute, an organization that runs various programs in the area to help impoverished children and their families. I chose to volunteer with the Jaffa Institute.
We began in their conference room with a presentation about the horrifying scale of poverty in Tel Aviv, then immediately got to go downstairs to the warehouse and do something about it. We split into two groups, one would pack boxes with food for the poor, the other envelopes with petitions for the rich. I opted for the boxes, but my group threw back 20 boxes so fast (thanks in no small part to my rugged brawniness) that we got to do both. Following this, we took a short bus ride to one of their after school centers to play with the kids. As much fun as stuffing stuff is, this was what we really came to do. All week we had been told to find a friend and plan getting-to-know you and English-learning games for groups of kids. When we finally got there, our plans for pedagogical versions of duck-duck-goose and rock-paper-scissors at the ready, the kids were so engrossed in their computer and video game screens that they hardly noticed us. Some people found some loose kids started trying to play with them, others found craft materials and began making things, hoping that some kid would see them out of his peripheral and decide he'd rather make stuff out of paper with white strangers than continue to shoot at bad guys, others just tried to look busy. A friend an I found a small group of boys playing FIFA soccer on a PlayStation 3 in the back and went to cheer them on.
Sometime while they were in the middle of their game, a woman came out of nowhere and started hugging and kissing the boy sitting next to me. When she got off him, she turned to me and said something like, “You see this kid here? He's the best in the class at math! The best! He's going to be a math professor someday, aren't you?” The boy had just scored the first goal of the game maybe a minute before this and paid little attention. I assumed she was his mother, but then she turned to the boy on the couch opposite him who was definitely not his brother and began hugging and kissing him in the same way, then went on her way. I like to think she works there. But even if she doesn't, her enthusiastic encouragement really drove home just how important this work is more than any formal presentation on poverty could have—it reminded me not only of how many of these kids probably don't eat meals regularly outside of Jaffa Institute programs but also of how many of their parents probably work nearly all day every day and have little time or energy left to give them once the day's through. As someone who's never lived without every advantage in the world and then some, I can't even imagine what this woman's encouragement, the Jaffa Institute in general, and potentially even our being there, must mean for them.
After a few minutes of trying to play FIFA with them himself, my friend went to the shelf of games and got out Memory. No one seemed interested at first, but we eventually managed to cajole one boy into leaving the PlayStation to play with us instead. We soon had a group of four: Three Pardesians and him. We started a system where, after a card is flipped over, we say what the object it depicts is in English, and he tells us it in Hebrew. It was a ton of fun and we all learned a lot.
The belief that rain in Israel is determined by the Jews' righteousness dates back at least as far as the Book of Deuteronomy. After seven years of drought, this winter has been one of the wettest in Israel's recorded history. The water level of the Kinneret (Sea of Galilee) is at a four-year high, but still at least 3.5 meters short of its optimal amount. I want to leave a lasting impact. I say we make it overflow.
Quote of the Week: “'Love your neighbor as yourself' is not a Commandment, it's a fact.” - James
Hebrew Word of the Week: שלג (“sheleg”) - snow