Weeks

Time has had a weird feel to it for the past couple weeks. Months ago, time passed slowly; now, weeks fly by and I barely have a glimpse of events that prove to be meaningful and formative. I have trouble existing in the moment because I know that these experiences will impact my future and as the moment develops I think about how this event will change my life.
Two weeks of incredible intensity began with the lead-in to Yom Hashoa. Pardes brought in two survivors to speak to us about their experiences. The first, a woman, survived Auschwitz. She dreamed of coming to Israel but ended up in America. Years after being married and having children, she and her husband finally moved to Israel. She told her heartbreaking story with honesty and passion and emphasized that we should continue to tell survivor's stories and appreciate the beauty of the life we have.
The second survivor who spoke to us survived the concentration camps because of his artistic talents: the nazis commissioned him to make paintings and cards for their families. He too, made aliyah, married, and had children.
Listening to these survivors was incredibly powerful and served as an interesting juxtaposition to the discussions and ceremony at Yad Byad. For the first time in my life, I heard the story of the Holocaust (a simplified version for 1st graders) told in Arabic. When the siren sounded throughout the country for 2 minutes, I stood in silence with Jews, Christians, and Muslims. This integrated environment has very much influenced who I am and how I react to situations of race conflict.
Two days after Yom Hashoa I boarded a bus to Hevron, one of the most conflict ridden and violent cities in Israel. I was traveling there with a program called Breaking the Silence (שוברים שתיקה). Even as I write this, I am hesitant to completely discuss my experience there, why I went there, or my views on the situation. Life in Israel is very polarized. There are more extremes than imaginable ad it is incredibly hard to hold the multitude of complexities that plague this country and make it what it is. I hesitate because I know that some of you who read this will take one extreme position, and others will take the other. I'll attempt to describe the day as accurately as I can.
When we arrived in Hevron, it was immediately apparent that this city was not the way it used to be. Some buildings were in rubble, anti-Arab (and some anti-Jewish) graffiti was rampant, and the streets were empty. We would pass an occasional outpost of soldiers or a group of children who would stop playing and look up at the bus. Before we could get off the bus, we had to wait for two vans of policemen (and women) to arrive. We descended the stairs of the bus and saw that we were to be surrounded by about 40 police escorts. The police were not there to protect us from Palestinians, no--the few present soldiers would take care of any incidents. The police were there to protect us from the settlers. As we walked through the streets of what used to be a lively neighborhood and a bustling market, the "official" spokesperson of the Hevron settlers followed us with a megaphone shouting the following (I've paraphrased):
"You are helping the terrorists. All of you are the same as the Nazis. You walk on the blood of your fellow Jews. Stop consorting with Hamas and Hezbollah. You will be the death of the state of Israel."
It was hard to hear our guide over the shouts into the megaphone. I know that no side is innocent. We walked by sites of terrorist suicide bombings. We heard about bombings and the 1929 massacre. But as I walked through the streets, I wanted the city to disappear. The complete injustice that characterizes this city pained me. Jews have been killed and have killed here. Palestinians have been killed and have killed here. The fact that a piece of land had caused so much death and hatred was painful. If the government didn't have to pay for soldiers to protect the Settlers from the Palestinians and for the police to protect the Palestinians from the Settlers, where could that money be allocated? The problem is more complex and more gigantic than I can even begin to describe or even understand, but ignoring it won't do anything to help.
I arrived back in Jerusalem just a few hours before Shabbat. My brain couldn't really begin to process what I had seen and heard and I took comfort in a sweet and lovely Shabbat dinner with close friends.
The next evening, several friends and I began walking (Shabbat wasn't over yet) toward Malcha Stadium where we were to see a football game (soccer, for we Americans). Beitar Yerushalayim was playing Ashdod. Dressed in yellow and black, we joined in with the (very) enthusiastive cheers. Most cheers were positive cheers (go beitar!), while some ended in anti-Arab slogans. Some chants turned into "milchama! milchama!" (war! war!). It should be noted that Ashdod is not an Arab team. This blatant racism definitely put a damper on the evening. We found out later that Beitar fans are infamous for their vicious cheers. As they chanted these slogans, I thought of the 6 year old Arab children I have been working with for almost 7 months.
These two events were a difficult lead-in to the following week. Yom Hazikaron (Rememberance Day) was immediately follwed by Yom Haatzmaut (Independence Day). I reminded myself that what I had been seeing for the past couple days was one extreme of Israeli society.
Indeed, as I sat in Kikar Rabin and stood with thousands of others while the siren sounded, I felt a deep sadness for those who had died for Israel. The ceremony in Tel Aviv that night was incredibly moving. Mournful songs (to which the audience often softly sang along) were interspersed with stories told by families who had lost a family member: mostly mother's speaking about their sons. As we sang Hatikva at the end, I looked behind me and saw that many people were crying and everyone was singing. (I am always surprised and impressed that it is common practice to sing along to the national anthem here; that is not my experience in the States). The following day I went to Har Herzl (a large military cemetery) to go to the official ceremony and walk among the thousands of graves of fallen soldiers. The sun shone on the white marble and carefully placed flowers and flags. The radio played sad songs and the TV stations broadcast the name, age, and picture of every soldier that had fallen defending Israel. As the sun set on this mournful day, the air changed. My friend and I went to a ceremony to switch between this day of mourning to a day of incredible celebration. We gathered with hundreds of others outside a syngagogue and sang hallel (which one only sings on holidays and festivals). After the service, we headed downtown for fireworks and street parties. I spent about 3 hours in the courtyard outside of the city municipality with about a thousand other people, dancing. This was no ordinary street party; several huge circles danced in unison doing Israeli folkdance. Old songs and newer ones filled the square and Israelis (and a respectable number of Americans) young and old danced. It was a welcome evening of happiness.
The next day we followed with the Israeli tradition of a barbeque in the park.
Wow, I'm looking at the calendar and realizing that I don't have a span of two days where I don't have something to write about.
I'll leave you with this for now.
I'm going home in less than two weeks and will definitely be writing about my attempt to bring this year to a meaningful close.
Shabbat shalom.