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.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Craaaaziness
I sincerely apologize for my lack of blog activity. Life has been so busy that I keep putting off blog-writing until I have more brain energy. Like that will ever happen.
I've been on vacation for almost a week now, and I have about 2.5 more weeks. The time surrounding Pesach is fun, stressful, and exciting. I spent the beginning of this week camping, hiking, and exploring the Golan with my amazing sister. We successfully avoided accidentally entering Syria, Lebanon, and the West Bank (on the way back). It was absolutely stunning. Spring has begun and everything is completely in bloom. Yellow, pink, blue, and red flowers dot expansive fields of greens. Mountains swell up from fields. Even though it seems utterly expansive in comparison to a small insignificant human, the Golan isn't actually that big. We drove all around it and became familiar with the roads, the countryside, the mountains...
At night it was completely silent except for the occasional dog bark or far off gunfire (there were practice firing zones not far away).
One of our hikes was down to the ancient city of Gamla.
The city was stormed by the Romans around 65CE. It is believed that about 9,000 people were killed there. The city was beautiful. Ancient ruins sat rooted in the giant hillside that was flanked on either side by deep valleys. From the peak, one can face one way and see the Kinneret (the Sea of Galilee) and turn the other way and see far off waterfalls in one valley and extensive grass and trees in the other valley. It was quite a steep hike down (and back up) but it was well worth it. I can't even express how beautiful the Golan is at this time of year. We saw cherry blossoms against a background of green hills, a snow capped mountain, and clear blue sky. What an incredible place.
Before and after our camping trip, Maya and I spent time with our "family" (not actually related to us, but who says you can't choose your family?). It's so nice to have a home-y home base here. It makes things very comfortable. I'm going to be sad to leave the life I've made here. I have another 2 months-ish to enjoy! I'll try to be better about posting.
Chag sameach! almost.
I've been on vacation for almost a week now, and I have about 2.5 more weeks. The time surrounding Pesach is fun, stressful, and exciting. I spent the beginning of this week camping, hiking, and exploring the Golan with my amazing sister. We successfully avoided accidentally entering Syria, Lebanon, and the West Bank (on the way back). It was absolutely stunning. Spring has begun and everything is completely in bloom. Yellow, pink, blue, and red flowers dot expansive fields of greens. Mountains swell up from fields. Even though it seems utterly expansive in comparison to a small insignificant human, the Golan isn't actually that big. We drove all around it and became familiar with the roads, the countryside, the mountains...
At night it was completely silent except for the occasional dog bark or far off gunfire (there were practice firing zones not far away).
One of our hikes was down to the ancient city of Gamla.
The city was stormed by the Romans around 65CE. It is believed that about 9,000 people were killed there. The city was beautiful. Ancient ruins sat rooted in the giant hillside that was flanked on either side by deep valleys. From the peak, one can face one way and see the Kinneret (the Sea of Galilee) and turn the other way and see far off waterfalls in one valley and extensive grass and trees in the other valley. It was quite a steep hike down (and back up) but it was well worth it. I can't even express how beautiful the Golan is at this time of year. We saw cherry blossoms against a background of green hills, a snow capped mountain, and clear blue sky. What an incredible place.
Before and after our camping trip, Maya and I spent time with our "family" (not actually related to us, but who says you can't choose your family?). It's so nice to have a home-y home base here. It makes things very comfortable. I'm going to be sad to leave the life I've made here. I have another 2 months-ish to enjoy! I'll try to be better about posting.
Chag sameach! almost.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Shabbat At the Carlebach Moshav
Several weeks ago, a group of Pardesians ventured to Modi'in to spend a Shabbat the Carlebach Moshav (more info on Carlebach: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shlomo_Carlebach_(musician)). We stayed with a very generous family which regularly has 20-30 people for Shabbat dinner and lunch.
The weather was beautiful, the view from their house absolutely stunning, and the generous atmosphere was warm with excitement about Shabbat, music, and community. From the backyard (that looked more like the Garden of Eden than anything else I had every seen...maybe the grass could have been softer), we could see, in the distance, the towers in Tel Aviv, and beyond them the Meditterranean Sea. On a clear day, we could see miles and miles in all four directions. There were beautiful shade trees where we relaxed in the pre-Shabbat warmth. In this one yard, the family had planted and cared for all seven of Israel's national speces (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seven_Species). The land we explored was spotted with ancient ruins: a wine press, and olive press...This felt like a new and old Israel.
Before Shabbat, we set the tables (for 31 people) and relaxed in the backyard, listening to our host play the dulcimer. The sun lowered in the sky and we walked the one-minute walk to the synagogue for a very musical (sans-instruments, of course) Kabbalat Shabbat. The rest of the day was full of Torah, music, beautiful weather, hikes, more song, sleeping, community, and general shabbat beauty. Needless to say, it was hard to go back to "real life" after this Shabbat.
The weather was beautiful, the view from their house absolutely stunning, and the generous atmosphere was warm with excitement about Shabbat, music, and community. From the backyard (that looked more like the Garden of Eden than anything else I had every seen...maybe the grass could have been softer), we could see, in the distance, the towers in Tel Aviv, and beyond them the Meditterranean Sea. On a clear day, we could see miles and miles in all four directions. There were beautiful shade trees where we relaxed in the pre-Shabbat warmth. In this one yard, the family had planted and cared for all seven of Israel's national speces (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seven_Species). The land we explored was spotted with ancient ruins: a wine press, and olive press...This felt like a new and old Israel.
Before Shabbat, we set the tables (for 31 people) and relaxed in the backyard, listening to our host play the dulcimer. The sun lowered in the sky and we walked the one-minute walk to the synagogue for a very musical (sans-instruments, of course) Kabbalat Shabbat. The rest of the day was full of Torah, music, beautiful weather, hikes, more song, sleeping, community, and general shabbat beauty. Needless to say, it was hard to go back to "real life" after this Shabbat.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Things I have yet to share with you...
Shabbat at the Carlebach Moshav (X)
Hamentaschen making
Purim
Shabbat in the Mechina
My daily life
Hachnasat Sefer Torah at Kedem
Potlucks
General thoughts on volunteering
I'm sorry I'm so far behind. I'm so overwhelmed with the amount of information I should share that I can't bring myself to sit down and just write.
It'll happen soon.
Hamentaschen making
Purim
Shabbat in the Mechina
My daily life
Hachnasat Sefer Torah at Kedem
Potlucks
General thoughts on volunteering
I'm sorry I'm so far behind. I'm so overwhelmed with the amount of information I should share that I can't bring myself to sit down and just write.
It'll happen soon.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
So Moved
February was the longest and most transformative transition in my recent memory.
This year has been a year of growth and discovery and spontaneity. However, I've found that such things do not manifest themselves alone. Along with growth, I experience growing pains; with discovery, I lose an element of pure simplicity; with spontaneity, I find limits.
I've spent more time alone this month than I ever have before. I was not lonely, because I always had a purpose. I find that purposeless aloneness causes sadness and insecurity. But my time alone this month allowed me time to reflect and calm down. I listened to NPR while packing and cleaning, I listened to NPR as I ran errands, I listened to NPR while...
Really though, I did spend a lot of time reflecting. I'm ready now to stop reflecting about my reflections and restart having more positive experiences that induce this kind of thought.
Moving out of my apartment was such a relief. The process was painful and I'm still dealing with a crazy landlady, but changing spaces is so important. Removing myself from bad associations will allow me to have a freer mind that is more ready to relate to my community and to my surroundings.
I'm looking forward to another 3 months of growth and discovery. I don't want my actions for my last months here (and even while I'm home) to be characterized as adult actions or kid actions, but human actions. I've found that I occasionally feel uncomfortable with my own actions or thoughts because they don't fit with the construct I (might be) growing into. That was confusing...I'll keep you updated as my thoughts become more clear.
Shavua tov!
This year has been a year of growth and discovery and spontaneity. However, I've found that such things do not manifest themselves alone. Along with growth, I experience growing pains; with discovery, I lose an element of pure simplicity; with spontaneity, I find limits.
I've spent more time alone this month than I ever have before. I was not lonely, because I always had a purpose. I find that purposeless aloneness causes sadness and insecurity. But my time alone this month allowed me time to reflect and calm down. I listened to NPR while packing and cleaning, I listened to NPR as I ran errands, I listened to NPR while...
Really though, I did spend a lot of time reflecting. I'm ready now to stop reflecting about my reflections and restart having more positive experiences that induce this kind of thought.
Moving out of my apartment was such a relief. The process was painful and I'm still dealing with a crazy landlady, but changing spaces is so important. Removing myself from bad associations will allow me to have a freer mind that is more ready to relate to my community and to my surroundings.
I'm looking forward to another 3 months of growth and discovery. I don't want my actions for my last months here (and even while I'm home) to be characterized as adult actions or kid actions, but human actions. I've found that I occasionally feel uncomfortable with my own actions or thoughts because they don't fit with the construct I (might be) growing into. That was confusing...I'll keep you updated as my thoughts become more clear.
Shavua tov!
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Spiritual Homework
I am fortunate enough to take many interested, inspiring, and difficult classes at Pardes. Two of these classes involve "spiritual homework." Here is a taste of my spiritual homework from Chasidut from the past two weeks:
-Try and think of the central personalities in our lives. Not the people who are distant from us (celebrities, etc.) Think of the concentric circles within our reach. Who are the people who serve as focal points. Who are they? What is their message? How do they relate to us and the world? Shouldn't we be spending more time with these people?
-The רז'נר rebbe knew what his function and role was and how to do it. Do I know what my function is in this world? Do I know how to play that role? Am I moving in that direction? Do I need to refocus? What is my function in this world? What wavelength am I broadcasting on? What are my strengths?
-Sit down and examine our potential. Am I fulfilling my potential? Am I doing everything I can? Learning? Mitzvot? Am i expanding my borders and then filling them? Do I have the spiritual strength to expand my borders? Can I sustain my expansions? If I do have it, or don't have it, am I moving on? Which sorcers of spirituality do I need to tap into? What will be the sources of my spiritual strength next year?
-Look at the two kinds of Chasidic stories. Think about your expereince and discern which stories in your life are like mircale stories and which were more like real stories. Which ones moved us subtlely? Which are the ones that made us who we are?
Come back to the stories: am I walking around with our hands over our eyes? Why don't we take our hands off our eyes? Am I one of the people whose vitality and light disappears when I leave a specific place of spirituality? Can I take that light with me?
It's a lot to think about.
Happy learning.
-Try and think of the central personalities in our lives. Not the people who are distant from us (celebrities, etc.) Think of the concentric circles within our reach. Who are the people who serve as focal points. Who are they? What is their message? How do they relate to us and the world? Shouldn't we be spending more time with these people?
-The רז'נר rebbe knew what his function and role was and how to do it. Do I know what my function is in this world? Do I know how to play that role? Am I moving in that direction? Do I need to refocus? What is my function in this world? What wavelength am I broadcasting on? What are my strengths?
-Sit down and examine our potential. Am I fulfilling my potential? Am I doing everything I can? Learning? Mitzvot? Am i expanding my borders and then filling them? Do I have the spiritual strength to expand my borders? Can I sustain my expansions? If I do have it, or don't have it, am I moving on? Which sorcers of spirituality do I need to tap into? What will be the sources of my spiritual strength next year?
-Look at the two kinds of Chasidic stories. Think about your expereince and discern which stories in your life are like mircale stories and which were more like real stories. Which ones moved us subtlely? Which are the ones that made us who we are?
Come back to the stories: am I walking around with our hands over our eyes? Why don't we take our hands off our eyes? Am I one of the people whose vitality and light disappears when I leave a specific place of spirituality? Can I take that light with me?
It's a lot to think about.
Happy learning.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Change
The irony of my last post is that I no longer go through those motions. My schedule has changed and I no longer find myself passing the mirror man on Monday and Wednesdays. Instead, I now spend 10 hours at Pardes on Monday, and almost 15 hours at Pardes on Wednesday. I think it will take me another month before I find my rhythm again.
This is a time of change. The world watched Barack Hussein Obama become President Barack Hussein Obama; the recent war in Gaza killed many but may have some positive lasting effect; it's starting to feel like spring here (which is bizarre). On a more personal level, my dear roommate is leaving after a crazy and powerful 5 months. I'm going to miss her, and not just because it's been a pain in the butt to find someone to replace her in this apartment. The next four months, I believe, will be just as transformative as the past five. They will be difficult in different ways: I've found a community, but where do I fit in this community? What from all of these experiences will I take home with me? Now that I only have four months left, what do I want to focus on? Am I trying to live life in a "constant climax" )as many people my age are attempting to do)? Or am I trying to find a rhythm, a pattern, that allows me to experience a solidity that I've created? I want to think more about these questions; first, I must find a roommate. (If you know anyone who is looking for an apartment in J-lem, let me know!)
I've made friends with the new guard at Yad Byad (the bilingual school). Every morning I walk through the gate and smile at him (I learned today that his name is Guy). He asks me, "ma nishma?" (how are you?) and I respond appropriately, though I am occasionally caught off guard by his friendliness. Small talk isn't really an Israeli thing. Today I passed through the gate 6 times (the teachers at Yad Byad needed some things at the convenience store, "let's send the friar volunteer!" (trans. friar: a sucker)). Every time I walked by Guy, he was doing something different: smoking a pipe, playing saxophone, fixing a radio... The friendliness at Yad Byad is refreshing because it seems to radiate from every face and every classroom. I'm grateful to have such places in my life, even if they do send me on errands.
I started a new class this semester called "Spiritual Texts and Practices." Just so you know, if you rolled your eyes or giggled, I'm expecting that. I'm aware of the "granola crunchy" nature of my activities. Every week, we learn about, discuss and participate in a different Jewish spiritual practice. Last week, we began with quieting. One focuses on his or her breathing, attempting to clear the mind of any thought. During this stage of mental quietness, one begins to focus on a holy verse ("God is truth," or something of the kind). After binding the mind to this holy thought, one makes a bakasha, or request for some kind of character perfection. This request must be positive, not negative ("Let me have more energy" not "Make me not lazy"). After this request, one utters a holy phrase and end in singing the phrase: "הורני ה דרכיך," "Show me, Oh Gd, Your path."
After attempting this practice several times, I found that I was completely unable to focused. I was so unfocused, that I even forgot that I was meditating. I forgot the process and I could not, in any way, control my thoughts. I couldn't even sit still. I was encouraged by the fact that my mind began to clear when we began singing. Too bad the music ends the practice.
This week we are discussing love and spirituality in the community. We read Kabbalistic texts and the "Beit El Contract," both relating to the value of communal love. For our prayers to ascend to Heaven, says R. Hayyim Vital, we must concentrate on loving all of the members of our community so that our prayers "ascend, bound up with all the prayers of Israel. By this means his soul will be able to rise above and effect tikkun" (tikkun: repairing of the relationship between the lower realm and the upper realm). We refer to this communal love as "havurah," or fellowship. Reading these texts is both inspring and grounding: the beautiful words of the strong connection between a coherent and loving community and spirituality are a welcome reminder of my strongest core values and essentially why I continue to be a passionate Jew. Our homework this week is to try to incorporate the phrase "love they neighbor as yourself" "ואהבת לרעך כמוך" into our morning ritual as a reminder that we should try to love and appreciate all members of our community.
I am also taking a class on Hasidut. We learn about the great Hasidic masters and their teachings. Our spiritual homework this week: "The רג'נר rebbe knew what his function was in life and he knew how to do it. Do I know what my function is in this world? Do I know how to play that role? Am I working in that direction? Do I need to refocus? What is my function in this world? What wavelength am I broadcasting on (this is a Kabbalistic question, crazily enough)? What are my strenghts?
I hope I made you think a little bit. Or I gave you a way to clear your mind.
חודש טוב
This is a time of change. The world watched Barack Hussein Obama become President Barack Hussein Obama; the recent war in Gaza killed many but may have some positive lasting effect; it's starting to feel like spring here (which is bizarre). On a more personal level, my dear roommate is leaving after a crazy and powerful 5 months. I'm going to miss her, and not just because it's been a pain in the butt to find someone to replace her in this apartment. The next four months, I believe, will be just as transformative as the past five. They will be difficult in different ways: I've found a community, but where do I fit in this community? What from all of these experiences will I take home with me? Now that I only have four months left, what do I want to focus on? Am I trying to live life in a "constant climax" )as many people my age are attempting to do)? Or am I trying to find a rhythm, a pattern, that allows me to experience a solidity that I've created? I want to think more about these questions; first, I must find a roommate. (If you know anyone who is looking for an apartment in J-lem, let me know!)
I've made friends with the new guard at Yad Byad (the bilingual school). Every morning I walk through the gate and smile at him (I learned today that his name is Guy). He asks me, "ma nishma?" (how are you?) and I respond appropriately, though I am occasionally caught off guard by his friendliness. Small talk isn't really an Israeli thing. Today I passed through the gate 6 times (the teachers at Yad Byad needed some things at the convenience store, "let's send the friar volunteer!" (trans. friar: a sucker)). Every time I walked by Guy, he was doing something different: smoking a pipe, playing saxophone, fixing a radio... The friendliness at Yad Byad is refreshing because it seems to radiate from every face and every classroom. I'm grateful to have such places in my life, even if they do send me on errands.
I started a new class this semester called "Spiritual Texts and Practices." Just so you know, if you rolled your eyes or giggled, I'm expecting that. I'm aware of the "granola crunchy" nature of my activities. Every week, we learn about, discuss and participate in a different Jewish spiritual practice. Last week, we began with quieting. One focuses on his or her breathing, attempting to clear the mind of any thought. During this stage of mental quietness, one begins to focus on a holy verse ("God is truth," or something of the kind). After binding the mind to this holy thought, one makes a bakasha, or request for some kind of character perfection. This request must be positive, not negative ("Let me have more energy" not "Make me not lazy"). After this request, one utters a holy phrase and end in singing the phrase: "הורני ה דרכיך," "Show me, Oh Gd, Your path."
After attempting this practice several times, I found that I was completely unable to focused. I was so unfocused, that I even forgot that I was meditating. I forgot the process and I could not, in any way, control my thoughts. I couldn't even sit still. I was encouraged by the fact that my mind began to clear when we began singing. Too bad the music ends the practice.
This week we are discussing love and spirituality in the community. We read Kabbalistic texts and the "Beit El Contract," both relating to the value of communal love. For our prayers to ascend to Heaven, says R. Hayyim Vital, we must concentrate on loving all of the members of our community so that our prayers "ascend, bound up with all the prayers of Israel. By this means his soul will be able to rise above and effect tikkun" (tikkun: repairing of the relationship between the lower realm and the upper realm). We refer to this communal love as "havurah," or fellowship. Reading these texts is both inspring and grounding: the beautiful words of the strong connection between a coherent and loving community and spirituality are a welcome reminder of my strongest core values and essentially why I continue to be a passionate Jew. Our homework this week is to try to incorporate the phrase "love they neighbor as yourself" "ואהבת לרעך כמוך" into our morning ritual as a reminder that we should try to love and appreciate all members of our community.
I am also taking a class on Hasidut. We learn about the great Hasidic masters and their teachings. Our spiritual homework this week: "The רג'נר rebbe knew what his function was in life and he knew how to do it. Do I know what my function is in this world? Do I know how to play that role? Am I working in that direction? Do I need to refocus? What is my function in this world? What wavelength am I broadcasting on (this is a Kabbalistic question, crazily enough)? What are my strenghts?
I hope I made you think a little bit. Or I gave you a way to clear your mind.
חודש טוב
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Mirrors
I live so deeply in my life rhythm that I have begun to develop muscle memory.
This dent in the curb is where I jump onto the sidewalk after avoiding the ubiquitous dog poop.
This is where I duck to avoid the not-so-carefully trimmed bushes that slowly creep over the walls and into my path.
This is where I turn my head and make eye contact with the bald man who works in the mirror shop.
Every Monday and Wednesday, I walk up the hill towards the prematurely setting sun, squinting my eyes and hearing my feet clap solidly, rhythmically with the stone sidewalks.
I duck under overhung bushes here, too. The Jerusalem stone apartments on my left end, and I reach a small store.
In the beginning, I turned my head to look at the seemingly precariously hung full-length mirrors that adorned the storefront. Now, my neck knows as the green fence ends that it must turn my head to the left. Mirror, door, mirror. My eyes dart twice. From my own eyes, reflected in the glass, to the eyes of the bald man, back to my own eyes. And then forward again. Every Monday and Wednesday for three months I have made eye contact with the man who hangs these mirrors.
I have had no other interaction with him other than our twice-weekly glance. Does he wonder who I am, too? Or does my face, often flushed from the cold, blur in with the school girls, the dog walkers, the yeshiva boys, the tired mothers, the hurried fathers…
I walk through the streets, absorbed in the rhythm of my steps synched with the beat of my music and I notice, only vaguely, the people who pass me; eyes peaking out over scarves, or staring ahead, intent but unfocused, leave only a small impression in my brain. But I’m starting to recognize, now. Six minutes away from school, the man on his bike weaves to the right to avoid me. Five minutes away, the girl with the shiny black hair looks up at me from her phone. Four minutes away, three, two…I arrive at a place I recognize. Eye contact here leads to conversation. There are smiles here, too.
Every brief connection I have with a person adds a small pebble onto the pile of memories that shape who I am. As I pass the mirrors, I have a tiny moment’s glance of how I appear to the people whose eyes I meet. They are all mirrors to me now. I am conscious of my body, my posture, my pace, and their eyes reflect my own expression. Hidden interest. We’ll keep walking. Every day I’ll pass them in the street.
It is odd to me that my daily rhythm, which stays the same, changes me with every step.
This dent in the curb is where I jump onto the sidewalk after avoiding the ubiquitous dog poop.
This is where I duck to avoid the not-so-carefully trimmed bushes that slowly creep over the walls and into my path.
This is where I turn my head and make eye contact with the bald man who works in the mirror shop.
Every Monday and Wednesday, I walk up the hill towards the prematurely setting sun, squinting my eyes and hearing my feet clap solidly, rhythmically with the stone sidewalks.
I duck under overhung bushes here, too. The Jerusalem stone apartments on my left end, and I reach a small store.
In the beginning, I turned my head to look at the seemingly precariously hung full-length mirrors that adorned the storefront. Now, my neck knows as the green fence ends that it must turn my head to the left. Mirror, door, mirror. My eyes dart twice. From my own eyes, reflected in the glass, to the eyes of the bald man, back to my own eyes. And then forward again. Every Monday and Wednesday for three months I have made eye contact with the man who hangs these mirrors.
I have had no other interaction with him other than our twice-weekly glance. Does he wonder who I am, too? Or does my face, often flushed from the cold, blur in with the school girls, the dog walkers, the yeshiva boys, the tired mothers, the hurried fathers…
I walk through the streets, absorbed in the rhythm of my steps synched with the beat of my music and I notice, only vaguely, the people who pass me; eyes peaking out over scarves, or staring ahead, intent but unfocused, leave only a small impression in my brain. But I’m starting to recognize, now. Six minutes away from school, the man on his bike weaves to the right to avoid me. Five minutes away, the girl with the shiny black hair looks up at me from her phone. Four minutes away, three, two…I arrive at a place I recognize. Eye contact here leads to conversation. There are smiles here, too.
Every brief connection I have with a person adds a small pebble onto the pile of memories that shape who I am. As I pass the mirrors, I have a tiny moment’s glance of how I appear to the people whose eyes I meet. They are all mirrors to me now. I am conscious of my body, my posture, my pace, and their eyes reflect my own expression. Hidden interest. We’ll keep walking. Every day I’ll pass them in the street.
It is odd to me that my daily rhythm, which stays the same, changes me with every step.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
מי שברך לחילי צה''ל
Israel is once again at war. In this incredibly difficult time, I'd like to post this prayer for the soldiers of the IDF. I'm not usually one to post prayers on the internet, but I believe that it is important for the soldiers to know that people are thinking about them as human beings. People are dying on both sides.
At the same time that I am struggling with Israel's actions, I am living under the relative security that is protected for me and for everyone else living in these borders. I hope no one reads any politics into what I have written. I am writing out of concern and appreciation.
Below is the prayer for the soldiers of the IDF.
I hope everyone has a peaceful and happy new year.
At the same time that I am struggling with Israel's actions, I am living under the relative security that is protected for me and for everyone else living in these borders. I hope no one reads any politics into what I have written. I am writing out of concern and appreciation.
Below is the prayer for the soldiers of the IDF.
I hope everyone has a peaceful and happy new year.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Encounter
As I'm writing this, a crisis is escalating in Gaza. Reading about barrages of rockets and deadly air strikes, my thoughts go back a week when I spent two days in the West Bank. There are times in life when we must speak, and there are times when we must remain silent and listen to our fellow human beings. Even though I've spent almost four months listening (to teachers, students, children, adults, rabbis, myself etc.), I felt the listening I did during my two days in Bethlehem was different.
We began the program with a communication contract: we will listen respectfully, we will only ask questions that pertain to the expertise of the speaker...From the beginning, it was very clear that this experience would be about listening. We were about to hear personal narratives (and political narratives) from people we had only encountered through small words in newspapers and whispers brushed aside to avoid controversy and tension. I wanted to go to Bethlehem so I could begin an attempt to feel the situation, and not sit (literally) on the other side of a wall, fruitlessly trying to understand a massive and seemingly unresolvable conflict. My goal was to see a different way, not to change my mind.
We arrived in Bethlehem on a beautiful Thursday morning. Our first stop was to the Hope Flowers School, where Ibrahim Issa spoke to us about his personal story and the goals of the school. With the philosophy that "violence only yields more violence," Ibrahim's father (also named Ibrahim Issa) founded the Hope Flowers School on values of peace, democracy, and equality. His land confiscated, his home demolished, Ibrahim made a decision to focus on amal, hope. He wanted to raise a generation of Palestinians and Israelis who wanted to devote themselves to making peace. The school uses a "peace curriculum," to instill peaceful and democratic values in the students and the community.
Someone asked Ibrahim about his personal attitude toward the conflict and how he maintains hope. Ibrahim answered: "we are all one color; our color is humanity."
After our visit to the school, we took a brief driving tour of Bethlehem. We walked along the separation wall and saw graffiti left by internationals who had come to show solidarity or leave their mark on controversial landmark. "Freedom for Everyone." "Here is a wall at which to weep." "All kids deserve peace, safety, health, security, and life." "Justice is a collective effort, not a gift." Inspiring and angering slogans marked the walls, covered partially by advertisements for nearby restaurants, and great deals at the gas station across the street. It was bizarre to walk along the gray line I had seen from a distance, and see splashes of angry color.
We re-boarded the bus, drove past a 5 star hotel and refugee camps, and arrived at our home base for the trip, the Bethlehem Hotel. We heard from the Deputy Mayor of Bethlehem whose daughter was killed accidentally in an ambush by Israeli soldiers. He organized a group called "Bereaved Families" for families (Palestinians and Israelis, I believe) who had lost a loved one due to the conflict. "We are human beings like everyone else," he said. Faith, he emphasized, helps him through difficult times. He doesn't hate anyone, he believes in everyone's humanity and wants to work for justice and peace. While it was incredibly inspiring to hear him speak, we had to remember that he is one man, and was not speaking for his entire community. We had to remember this for every speaker we heard: left wing and right wing.
After several more eloquent and passionate speakers, we began a more informal part of the program. We played games to break tension and lighten the mood. After several silly games, we formed a circle. The group leaders would read a statement, and everyone who it applied to would step into the circle without speaking. Statements included: "I am wearing blue jeans," "I have family in Jordan," "I have family in Israel," "I need a permit to visit my family," "I am an only child" (no one stepped in for this), "I sometimes feel afraid when I hear Arabic," "I sometimes feel afraid when I hear Hebrew," etc. The game was eye opening and conversation sparking.
With our minds whirring, we headed to dinner at the Tent Restaurant where we ate Mujadra and met our host families for the evening. A delicious meal ended, and dancing began. 11 year old Agnes showed us some moves, and then two young men stepped in to perform two folk dances. We finally headed home with our host families.
"These are my daughters!" And so Saud welcomed us into her home, her family, and her Palestine. She patted my back and held my hand and made sure I had ample time to talk to her 17 year old grandson. As we drove home, teenage boys (her grandson's friends) jumped on the car, racing us home. Saud guided us to couches, where she introduced us to her entire family: fifteen people total. They sat with us on the couches (and on each other), taught us words, and talked about their daily lives. They value education, respect, family...Their generosity and hospitality was incredibly moving.
I left Palestine in a bizarre state. I didn't know if I was depressed or inspired. A beautiful and relaxing shabbat gave way to a busy week and I have not had time to reflect on these powerful days until now. I don't expect revleations, but I'm grateful for new insights.
We began the program with a communication contract: we will listen respectfully, we will only ask questions that pertain to the expertise of the speaker...From the beginning, it was very clear that this experience would be about listening. We were about to hear personal narratives (and political narratives) from people we had only encountered through small words in newspapers and whispers brushed aside to avoid controversy and tension. I wanted to go to Bethlehem so I could begin an attempt to feel the situation, and not sit (literally) on the other side of a wall, fruitlessly trying to understand a massive and seemingly unresolvable conflict. My goal was to see a different way, not to change my mind.
We arrived in Bethlehem on a beautiful Thursday morning. Our first stop was to the Hope Flowers School, where Ibrahim Issa spoke to us about his personal story and the goals of the school. With the philosophy that "violence only yields more violence," Ibrahim's father (also named Ibrahim Issa) founded the Hope Flowers School on values of peace, democracy, and equality. His land confiscated, his home demolished, Ibrahim made a decision to focus on amal, hope. He wanted to raise a generation of Palestinians and Israelis who wanted to devote themselves to making peace. The school uses a "peace curriculum," to instill peaceful and democratic values in the students and the community.
Someone asked Ibrahim about his personal attitude toward the conflict and how he maintains hope. Ibrahim answered: "we are all one color; our color is humanity."
After our visit to the school, we took a brief driving tour of Bethlehem. We walked along the separation wall and saw graffiti left by internationals who had come to show solidarity or leave their mark on controversial landmark. "Freedom for Everyone." "Here is a wall at which to weep." "All kids deserve peace, safety, health, security, and life." "Justice is a collective effort, not a gift." Inspiring and angering slogans marked the walls, covered partially by advertisements for nearby restaurants, and great deals at the gas station across the street. It was bizarre to walk along the gray line I had seen from a distance, and see splashes of angry color.
We re-boarded the bus, drove past a 5 star hotel and refugee camps, and arrived at our home base for the trip, the Bethlehem Hotel. We heard from the Deputy Mayor of Bethlehem whose daughter was killed accidentally in an ambush by Israeli soldiers. He organized a group called "Bereaved Families" for families (Palestinians and Israelis, I believe) who had lost a loved one due to the conflict. "We are human beings like everyone else," he said. Faith, he emphasized, helps him through difficult times. He doesn't hate anyone, he believes in everyone's humanity and wants to work for justice and peace. While it was incredibly inspiring to hear him speak, we had to remember that he is one man, and was not speaking for his entire community. We had to remember this for every speaker we heard: left wing and right wing.
After several more eloquent and passionate speakers, we began a more informal part of the program. We played games to break tension and lighten the mood. After several silly games, we formed a circle. The group leaders would read a statement, and everyone who it applied to would step into the circle without speaking. Statements included: "I am wearing blue jeans," "I have family in Jordan," "I have family in Israel," "I need a permit to visit my family," "I am an only child" (no one stepped in for this), "I sometimes feel afraid when I hear Arabic," "I sometimes feel afraid when I hear Hebrew," etc. The game was eye opening and conversation sparking.
With our minds whirring, we headed to dinner at the Tent Restaurant where we ate Mujadra and met our host families for the evening. A delicious meal ended, and dancing began. 11 year old Agnes showed us some moves, and then two young men stepped in to perform two folk dances. We finally headed home with our host families.
"These are my daughters!" And so Saud welcomed us into her home, her family, and her Palestine. She patted my back and held my hand and made sure I had ample time to talk to her 17 year old grandson. As we drove home, teenage boys (her grandson's friends) jumped on the car, racing us home. Saud guided us to couches, where she introduced us to her entire family: fifteen people total. They sat with us on the couches (and on each other), taught us words, and talked about their daily lives. They value education, respect, family...Their generosity and hospitality was incredibly moving.
I left Palestine in a bizarre state. I didn't know if I was depressed or inspired. A beautiful and relaxing shabbat gave way to a busy week and I have not had time to reflect on these powerful days until now. I don't expect revleations, but I'm grateful for new insights.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Brain overload
I feel like my brain has reached capacity. I look at my notes and the words dance around the page almost as happily as Jews do on simchat Torah. Yet even as my brain aches and the שכל (knowledge/wisdom/intellect) pushes against the limits of my capacity to hold it, I thirst for more. About a year ago, I read a beautiful passage in an equally beautiful book. The next day, as we discussed the poetic language, I had a sudden desire to feel the words. I hoped that some sort of synesthesia would allow me to physically experience the power of the language that my brain was processing.
I feel this longing so profoundly, so often, that my brain is exhausted. I read Rav Kook, Heschel, Soleveitchik, and I feel a collection of energy inside me that is both excitement and an unfulfillable craving for a more physical and clear experience of these words and ideas.
How wonderful that I have an exhausted and overstimulated brain as opposed to a bored and frustrated one.
I promise there will be some exciting posts to come:
Stay tuned for:
Thoughts on Existence
Beit Lechem
Turkey
I feel this longing so profoundly, so often, that my brain is exhausted. I read Rav Kook, Heschel, Soleveitchik, and I feel a collection of energy inside me that is both excitement and an unfulfillable craving for a more physical and clear experience of these words and ideas.
How wonderful that I have an exhausted and overstimulated brain as opposed to a bored and frustrated one.
I promise there will be some exciting posts to come:
Stay tuned for:
Thoughts on Existence
Beit Lechem
Turkey
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Cultural Consciounsess
Last week, a very dynamic and well spoken Australian woman came to lead a workshop on cross-cultural interactions.
After shoving falafel into our mouths, we cleared the tables in the dining area to make room for a large circle of chairs. My first (subconscious) observation started when everyone sat down: deciding where to sit has always been a conscious and thought-out decision. I noticed this as I sat down in a chair that was pushed back a little, between two people who I did not know well.
We started with a game called, "As the Wind Blows," a criteria game:
"Everyone who has knit a hat!"
"Jewish women!"
"Everyone who likes snow!"
"Everyone who skis!"
"Everyone wearing jeans!"
As each statement was called, the people to whom it applied would jump up and frantically search for an open chair to sit in. After several rounds of this game, our facilitator called attention to the criteria we had invoked, and how each was indicative of how and where we grew up, and where we feel comfortable.
Throughout our activities, we talked a lot about judgment; how do we immediately judge people upon first impressions: friend or threat? We discussed the phenomenon in the context of being Anglos living in a balagan (crazy mess)(even using this word is a judgment...) of a Middle Eastern/Westernized culture. The facilitator divided the world into two kinds of cultures: warm climate cultures and coled climate cultures. As Anglos living in a warm-climate culture, we often notice (or feel uncomfortable with) the lack of a notion of personal space. To get on buses, no one waits in line; on buses, people smush together with no qualms; politeness or etiquitte seem to have little or no place in this culture (language implying judgment?); when having conversations, Israelis stand much closer than Americans do, etc. Our faciliator called attention to these things not to separate ourselves from Israelis, but to make us more conscious of our interactions. While we may feel bothered by a lack of respect for personal space, the people we interact with my feel disrespected by coldness or aloofness.
After shoving falafel into our mouths, we cleared the tables in the dining area to make room for a large circle of chairs. My first (subconscious) observation started when everyone sat down: deciding where to sit has always been a conscious and thought-out decision. I noticed this as I sat down in a chair that was pushed back a little, between two people who I did not know well.
We started with a game called, "As the Wind Blows," a criteria game:
"Everyone who has knit a hat!"
"Jewish women!"
"Everyone who likes snow!"
"Everyone who skis!"
"Everyone wearing jeans!"
As each statement was called, the people to whom it applied would jump up and frantically search for an open chair to sit in. After several rounds of this game, our facilitator called attention to the criteria we had invoked, and how each was indicative of how and where we grew up, and where we feel comfortable.
Throughout our activities, we talked a lot about judgment; how do we immediately judge people upon first impressions: friend or threat? We discussed the phenomenon in the context of being Anglos living in a balagan (crazy mess)(even using this word is a judgment...) of a Middle Eastern/Westernized culture. The facilitator divided the world into two kinds of cultures: warm climate cultures and coled climate cultures. As Anglos living in a warm-climate culture, we often notice (or feel uncomfortable with) the lack of a notion of personal space. To get on buses, no one waits in line; on buses, people smush together with no qualms; politeness or etiquitte seem to have little or no place in this culture (language implying judgment?); when having conversations, Israelis stand much closer than Americans do, etc. Our faciliator called attention to these things not to separate ourselves from Israelis, but to make us more conscious of our interactions. While we may feel bothered by a lack of respect for personal space, the people we interact with my feel disrespected by coldness or aloofness.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
The Negev November 25-27
The Negev is a place of beauty and desolation, grandeur and silence, death and life. Three days walking the ridges of a crater, the valleys of rock, and ancient sea beds turned abstract sculpture garden, gave me a welcomed joi-de-vivre. Hiking through this desolate and beautiful expanse made me feel so human and so connected to nature.
I apologize for not having posted for a while. My schedule has filled up like I fill my bowl with delicious soup. I haven't had time to focus on telling all of you what I am learning! I hope to find some time later this week and give a complete update.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
A constructive crisis
This week, I had a conversation that has put me back at the beginning of a religious and spiritual journey that I began many years ago. A discussion with a feminist, non-egalitarian Jew just isn't so common for me.
This conversation blew my mind because it forced to me examine my core values. I know that I am a feminist, egalitarian, an observant Jew, and a humanist. Reconciling conflicts between ideals is incredibly difficult because these conflicts manifest themselves in my daily life. Do I want to pray everyday? I feel a sense of religious obligation, but how do I observe this in a meaningful way? The discussion earlier this week made me feel that I need to make a conscious decision to live based on a solid, core belief.
Judaism and its traditions are INCREDIBLY important to me, but when they conflict with values that I hold just as close (ie egalitarianism) I feel that I can’t change my secular values to fit a lifestyle that was constructed by human beings centuries ago. I believe that I don't need to.
Earlier this year, I decided that the existence of G-d or one Truth is irrelevant and that my life is all about my community and what I perceive as righteous and good, and for me, that is Judaism. Be’emet, lo tov hayot adam lvado. Davening in a crowded synagogue is so much more meaningful to me than davening by myself in a cold (literally and spiritually) room in my apartment.
The only time I start to question this stance is when I read things by Heschel, or Kook, or Soleveitchik and I realize how much I identify with this longing to be a part of G-d. We read this passage by Rav Kook (called “The Need for Prayer”) in class yesterday: “All beings long for the very source of their origin. Every plant, every grain of sand, every lump of earth, small creatures and big ones, the heavens above and the angels, every substance together with its particles—all of them are longing, yearning, panting to attain the state of holy perfection. Man suffers all the time from this homesickness of the soul and it is in prayer that he cures it. When praying, man feels at one with the whole creation and he raises it to the very source of blessing and life.” Maybe its just that I am so touched by such beautiful images and language, but there is a part of me that identifies with this feeling, especially now that I live every day now in a very Jewish context (Hebrew, studying Tanach…etc.)
On that note, shavua tov.
This conversation blew my mind because it forced to me examine my core values. I know that I am a feminist, egalitarian, an observant Jew, and a humanist. Reconciling conflicts between ideals is incredibly difficult because these conflicts manifest themselves in my daily life. Do I want to pray everyday? I feel a sense of religious obligation, but how do I observe this in a meaningful way? The discussion earlier this week made me feel that I need to make a conscious decision to live based on a solid, core belief.
Judaism and its traditions are INCREDIBLY important to me, but when they conflict with values that I hold just as close (ie egalitarianism) I feel that I can’t change my secular values to fit a lifestyle that was constructed by human beings centuries ago. I believe that I don't need to.
Earlier this year, I decided that the existence of G-d or one Truth is irrelevant and that my life is all about my community and what I perceive as righteous and good, and for me, that is Judaism. Be’emet, lo tov hayot adam lvado. Davening in a crowded synagogue is so much more meaningful to me than davening by myself in a cold (literally and spiritually) room in my apartment.
The only time I start to question this stance is when I read things by Heschel, or Kook, or Soleveitchik and I realize how much I identify with this longing to be a part of G-d. We read this passage by Rav Kook (called “The Need for Prayer”) in class yesterday: “All beings long for the very source of their origin. Every plant, every grain of sand, every lump of earth, small creatures and big ones, the heavens above and the angels, every substance together with its particles—all of them are longing, yearning, panting to attain the state of holy perfection. Man suffers all the time from this homesickness of the soul and it is in prayer that he cures it. When praying, man feels at one with the whole creation and he raises it to the very source of blessing and life.” Maybe its just that I am so touched by such beautiful images and language, but there is a part of me that identifies with this feeling, especially now that I live every day now in a very Jewish context (Hebrew, studying Tanach…etc.)
On that note, shavua tov.
Assembling, Generally
This week, I attended the UJC General Assembly. (See program here: http://www.ujc.org/page.aspx?id=175943)
We began the week with the "NextGen" day, sponsored by the Samuel Bronfman Foundation. Festivities opened at Yad Vashem, the national Holocaust memorial museum. If this sounds weird to you, believe me, it felt weird. Speakers emphasized that this "new" generation gains knowledge and responsibility from our roots. Over 800 young people ranging from university students in Israel to teenagers on gap-years gathered to inspire an older generation. Throughout the week, young people mingled with the generation that came before us. The message seemed to be: you are the inspiration, they are the money. A day-long bus tour of Social Justice opportunties in Israel turned out to be a 10 hour Masa promotion, complete with Masa participants, and Masa funders. (Not all was lost that day; we visited an ecological farm where the farmers live in domes and work the fields, living on what they grow. I will definitely be going back to visit.)
The highlight of the week (by far) was a lecture/conversation led my Gidi Grinstein and Gadi Taub. In this session (titled "Israel Today"), we discussed zionism in the 21st century. Gidi eloquently described Zionism as a balancing act: strength comes from felixibility. He divided the Zionist agenda into three parts: national security, Jewishness of the state of Israel, and social and and economic development. Israel is, in fact, a state for all its citizens, and every day it works toward peace. (Interestingly, after this bold statement, he then drew lines. Israel, inside the '67 borders, is a Jewish democratic state. Venturing beyond those borders, one arrives in a militarily ruled area populated by disenfranchised people). Gadi discussed the wellbeing of the Jewish people, arguing that Israel is necessary to combat negativity toward nations-without-a-homeland. He stated firmly that Israel can be (and is) a democratic, Jewish state. Both discussed the role of world Jewry in the Zionist agenda, saying that our primary goal was to dismantle the double standard that torments Israel. "A vibrant diaspora is a Jewish imperitive," they said. It was refreshing to hear these words coming from Israelis. So many meetings begin with "who are you where do you live when are you making aliyah?" that a sense of guilt has begun to permeate my being. At this point in my life, I don't want to make aliyah, I value the diaspora, and I have found such love and support in American Jewish communities that I feel that moving to Israel would be a vote of no confidence.
Every day, I interact with a wide range of people. I go from volunteering at a school for Jews and Arabs, to a yeshiva full of Americans, to an afterschool program for 11 year old Israelis. Every transition between worlds catches me off guard. I am constantly reminded of my comfort zones, my age, my gender, my nationality, my native language, my religion, and my desire to find a purpose and unified goal.
We began the week with the "NextGen" day, sponsored by the Samuel Bronfman Foundation. Festivities opened at Yad Vashem, the national Holocaust memorial museum. If this sounds weird to you, believe me, it felt weird. Speakers emphasized that this "new" generation gains knowledge and responsibility from our roots. Over 800 young people ranging from university students in Israel to teenagers on gap-years gathered to inspire an older generation. Throughout the week, young people mingled with the generation that came before us. The message seemed to be: you are the inspiration, they are the money. A day-long bus tour of Social Justice opportunties in Israel turned out to be a 10 hour Masa promotion, complete with Masa participants, and Masa funders. (Not all was lost that day; we visited an ecological farm where the farmers live in domes and work the fields, living on what they grow. I will definitely be going back to visit.)
The highlight of the week (by far) was a lecture/conversation led my Gidi Grinstein and Gadi Taub. In this session (titled "Israel Today"), we discussed zionism in the 21st century. Gidi eloquently described Zionism as a balancing act: strength comes from felixibility. He divided the Zionist agenda into three parts: national security, Jewishness of the state of Israel, and social and and economic development. Israel is, in fact, a state for all its citizens, and every day it works toward peace. (Interestingly, after this bold statement, he then drew lines. Israel, inside the '67 borders, is a Jewish democratic state. Venturing beyond those borders, one arrives in a militarily ruled area populated by disenfranchised people). Gadi discussed the wellbeing of the Jewish people, arguing that Israel is necessary to combat negativity toward nations-without-a-homeland. He stated firmly that Israel can be (and is) a democratic, Jewish state. Both discussed the role of world Jewry in the Zionist agenda, saying that our primary goal was to dismantle the double standard that torments Israel. "A vibrant diaspora is a Jewish imperitive," they said. It was refreshing to hear these words coming from Israelis. So many meetings begin with "who are you where do you live when are you making aliyah?" that a sense of guilt has begun to permeate my being. At this point in my life, I don't want to make aliyah, I value the diaspora, and I have found such love and support in American Jewish communities that I feel that moving to Israel would be a vote of no confidence.
Every day, I interact with a wide range of people. I go from volunteering at a school for Jews and Arabs, to a yeshiva full of Americans, to an afterschool program for 11 year old Israelis. Every transition between worlds catches me off guard. I am constantly reminded of my comfort zones, my age, my gender, my nationality, my native language, my religion, and my desire to find a purpose and unified goal.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Yitzchak Rabin
Yitzchak Rabin was murdered 13 years ago. This national hero has become a national symbol. "Peace." "Peace Now." At the memorial (Tel Aviv, November 9, 2008) that was really more like a rally than anything, politicians spoke, singers performed, and thousands of young people packed close into a square named after a murdered hero. I have mixed feelings. First, I have never seen such a huge rally focused on peace. The whole crowd sang shir l'shalom, jumping, dancing, clapping...But there was a sense of insincerity. As I listened to Tzipi Livni elegantly speak about a peaceful Israel, teenagers all around me joked with their friends, pushed each other around, and giggled. On the other hand, everyone participated in the rally: they SANG Hatkiva.
When Avigal's mechina spoke about it afterwards, they seemed more frustrated than moved. "It was just a political rally! People were chanting silly empty phrases, and American kids were jumping around...Where was the meaning? People spoke about Rabin and what a good man he was and how nice it is that we all came to the rally, but no one spoke about the meaning of this day. What is the significance??"
As I sang Hatikva, I was distracted. I had always sang Hatkiva and felt moved to be a part of this country, its culture, its future... But as I said it this time, I questioned my connection to Israel. Spending significant time here, I feel more separate from this country that I have before. I don't feel comfortable (at least now) with the possibility of making Aliyah. My soul is with these people as a whole, but sadly, not with the land, not with the modern culture. It is my hope that all Jews have a safe place to live, but I fail, unfortunately, to see the holiness of this land. As I had this realization, I felt some sadness.
When Avigal's mechina spoke about it afterwards, they seemed more frustrated than moved. "It was just a political rally! People were chanting silly empty phrases, and American kids were jumping around...Where was the meaning? People spoke about Rabin and what a good man he was and how nice it is that we all came to the rally, but no one spoke about the meaning of this day. What is the significance??"
As I sang Hatikva, I was distracted. I had always sang Hatkiva and felt moved to be a part of this country, its culture, its future... But as I said it this time, I questioned my connection to Israel. Spending significant time here, I feel more separate from this country that I have before. I don't feel comfortable (at least now) with the possibility of making Aliyah. My soul is with these people as a whole, but sadly, not with the land, not with the modern culture. It is my hope that all Jews have a safe place to live, but I fail, unfortunately, to see the holiness of this land. As I had this realization, I felt some sadness.
Pontificating
At this point, I think the world is tired of hearing about how proud many Americans are about having elected Barack Obama. However, I feel that I have not adequately expressed my feelings, so I shall. The following are selections from my journal entries over the past week.
The United States of America has elected a black man to be their President. I have pride in my country stronger than I have ever felt before. Obama has inspired and motivated masses of people to care about their country, their futures, and their world. Inspiration. With this new face comes a new attitude. Frustration, anger, and lack of respect has turned into pride, inspiration, activism, and I daresay respect for a government that has gained only scorn for the past 8 years. Obama said in a speech that would even make Toby proud, "this victory alone is not the change we seek." This warning is key. We stand at the beginning of a long and possibly perilous era. We have not changed the world merely by electing Obama, but we have given ourselves the opportunity to. I am so proud to be an American. I really wish I could be with my country to celebrate this historic moment...
...At times I feel a bit "lost" in the poetic sense. An Israeli asked me what I was doing this year. I told him that I was volunteering in elementary schools and a non-profit, and learning at a Jewish organization. He said, "Oh! I understand, שרות לאומי (national service)." That is what I am doing, but at times, I feel like I am doing national service in a country that does not belong to me. Who am I to try to shape a small part of the national future? I don't fully understand the politics, the situations, and the emotions that are entrenched in this country and its culture. I feel constantly like an outsider. These feelings are even more difficult for me because they are connected with regret. I feel like I am obligated to be a part of this nation, and through this connection, I have a responsibility to Israel. I regret that I am unable to fully connect with Israeli culture and people-hood. On the other hand, I would not feel so strongly about this matter if I did not have some desire to be a part of it. It is, I feel, a timeless struggle.
...Back to Obama
"We done overcame."
Even days after the election, I still feel shivers and an excited warmth in my heart. THis triumph belongs to so many people, to so much time and dedication, I find it hard to believe that life continues as usual. It is easy for us to forget that we live in the midst of multiple crises. My excitement and joy comes from the fact that Obama has empowered a people. He has instilled a feeling and culture of activism that can not and will not die. The government is for our people, for the people of the US. We have a terrifyingly long way to go: fix health care, grant gays civil rights, allow all children to be educated...but we have put a man in the White House who understands the gravity of the situation and the difficulty of the years ahead. I am inspired because we are uniting. For the first time in a long while, people are excited about politics and about the prospect of a better future. Change comes when despair is replaced with hope. That, so far, is Obama's greatest accomplishment.
Shira Chadasha
An unusual but powerful feeling of joy enveloped the sancutary at Shira Chadasha. The energy was high, niguns went twice as long, and people's faces were lit up with an elation I had not seen at a regular Friday night service. I could hardly contain myself as we sang ana bkoach, thinking that I have such a concrete thing to pray for: strength for the repairing of our world. I'm still amazed that an election can cause so much excitement. Many people I've seen are still cynical and mock Obama's "yes we can," and his optimism. They don't understand that we aren't just changing national politics, we are changing the national culture. That, to me, is the energy that will sustain us through the next years. I am so proud to be a part of this generation.
At Friday night dinner this past week, I heard a midrash that is relevant to my life. Pliya's father discussed the parsha, lech lcha, and the reason G-d spoke to Abraham and told him to leave his home. Abraham, he said, is like a bottle of perfume. When the bottle is stationary and closed, no one can smell the beauty within. But when the bottle moves around, the particles of perfume spread around, mingling with the air, bringing something beautiful. I hope to be like Abraham. Moving around, I spread my knowledge, awareness, and hope. I wish that my time in Israel benefits more than just one person.
The United States of America has elected a black man to be their President. I have pride in my country stronger than I have ever felt before. Obama has inspired and motivated masses of people to care about their country, their futures, and their world. Inspiration. With this new face comes a new attitude. Frustration, anger, and lack of respect has turned into pride, inspiration, activism, and I daresay respect for a government that has gained only scorn for the past 8 years. Obama said in a speech that would even make Toby proud, "this victory alone is not the change we seek." This warning is key. We stand at the beginning of a long and possibly perilous era. We have not changed the world merely by electing Obama, but we have given ourselves the opportunity to. I am so proud to be an American. I really wish I could be with my country to celebrate this historic moment...
...At times I feel a bit "lost" in the poetic sense. An Israeli asked me what I was doing this year. I told him that I was volunteering in elementary schools and a non-profit, and learning at a Jewish organization. He said, "Oh! I understand, שרות לאומי (national service)." That is what I am doing, but at times, I feel like I am doing national service in a country that does not belong to me. Who am I to try to shape a small part of the national future? I don't fully understand the politics, the situations, and the emotions that are entrenched in this country and its culture. I feel constantly like an outsider. These feelings are even more difficult for me because they are connected with regret. I feel like I am obligated to be a part of this nation, and through this connection, I have a responsibility to Israel. I regret that I am unable to fully connect with Israeli culture and people-hood. On the other hand, I would not feel so strongly about this matter if I did not have some desire to be a part of it. It is, I feel, a timeless struggle.
...Back to Obama
"We done overcame."
Even days after the election, I still feel shivers and an excited warmth in my heart. THis triumph belongs to so many people, to so much time and dedication, I find it hard to believe that life continues as usual. It is easy for us to forget that we live in the midst of multiple crises. My excitement and joy comes from the fact that Obama has empowered a people. He has instilled a feeling and culture of activism that can not and will not die. The government is for our people, for the people of the US. We have a terrifyingly long way to go: fix health care, grant gays civil rights, allow all children to be educated...but we have put a man in the White House who understands the gravity of the situation and the difficulty of the years ahead. I am inspired because we are uniting. For the first time in a long while, people are excited about politics and about the prospect of a better future. Change comes when despair is replaced with hope. That, so far, is Obama's greatest accomplishment.
Shira Chadasha
An unusual but powerful feeling of joy enveloped the sancutary at Shira Chadasha. The energy was high, niguns went twice as long, and people's faces were lit up with an elation I had not seen at a regular Friday night service. I could hardly contain myself as we sang ana bkoach, thinking that I have such a concrete thing to pray for: strength for the repairing of our world. I'm still amazed that an election can cause so much excitement. Many people I've seen are still cynical and mock Obama's "yes we can," and his optimism. They don't understand that we aren't just changing national politics, we are changing the national culture. That, to me, is the energy that will sustain us through the next years. I am so proud to be a part of this generation.
At Friday night dinner this past week, I heard a midrash that is relevant to my life. Pliya's father discussed the parsha, lech lcha, and the reason G-d spoke to Abraham and told him to leave his home. Abraham, he said, is like a bottle of perfume. When the bottle is stationary and closed, no one can smell the beauty within. But when the bottle moves around, the particles of perfume spread around, mingling with the air, bringing something beautiful. I hope to be like Abraham. Moving around, I spread my knowledge, awareness, and hope. I wish that my time in Israel benefits more than just one person.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Election Night
I'm watching Fox news, which is unfortunate. Sadly, it is the only new station available to us right now. Exit polls are starting to come out, and we are excited.
Apparently 21-23% of people will be "scared" if Obama wins. Wisdom from Fox.
Apparently 21-23% of people will be "scared" if Obama wins. Wisdom from Fox.
Creation!
Chumash class Monday, November 3
Differences between Perek (chapter) 1 and 2
Chapter 1
G-d/cosmos centered
Creation by fiat
Generic characters
Chronological-
Literally and in reality (connected to theme)
G-d is “outside” (distant)
Structured procreation
Anthropomorphic G-d
Man has domination in Eden
Creating life
Chapter 2
Man/Earth centered
Hands-on creation
Characters particularized
Jumps around (more chaotic world)
G-d is responsive
Gender!
Interaction is more dynamic
Man has responsibilities and limitations
Death (contrast to life creation)
Eden מקדם
-Eden in the east? East in the garden of Eden?
-עדנה- used in context of Sarah having Yitzchak at 90 years old: she will become
refreshed (also related to word for enjoyment)
-Related to waters in Eden: source of water and life
Water plays an important role in this perek. Water existed before "Creation" and plays an integral role in the creation of everything else to come after it. According to Rashi, everything was created on the first day in potential. The seeds and potential of everything existed, but the world lacked rain. The cycle of life and nature as we know it could not start without rain, and the rain would not come until Man was created. Man is necessary for the tilling and caring of the soil: to start the cycle without man would be dangerous.
There are two types of water in this perek. There is the water that wells up from the ground אד and the water that falls from the sky מטיר. According to Rashi, the water in the ground came up to water the dust of the earth so that G-d could mold man from the clay.* After this creation, Man could pray for rain, and it would fall, nourishing the soil. According to Ramban, the water under the ground existed to sustain the potential plants until man could be created because until Man was created, no rain would fall.
Before the rain and Man, land was called aretz ארץ; after these two catalysts, the land becomes adama אדמה, which comes from the same root as the name for man, adam אדם. (Interestingly, once woman is created, Man becomes איש, as there is now an אישה.) In the same way that the land changes name, the water that sustains it changes its name/essence, going from אד to מטיר.
Water catalyzes and determines the essence of all things.
I wish I could go into everything we discuss, but putting a 3.25 hour course into a blog is tough.
*This is one example of the extensive anthropomorphizing that happens in this chapter. The word that is used for G-d's "forming" is יצר, which is the word for sculpting. צור, meaning "rock," is a name for G-d: "צור העולמים'', Rock of the Worlds.
Differences between Perek (chapter) 1 and 2
Chapter 1
G-d/cosmos centered
Creation by fiat
Generic characters
Chronological-
Literally and in reality (connected to theme)
G-d is “outside” (distant)
Structured procreation
Anthropomorphic G-d
Man has domination in Eden
Creating life
Chapter 2
Man/Earth centered
Hands-on creation
Characters particularized
Jumps around (more chaotic world)
G-d is responsive
Gender!
Interaction is more dynamic
Man has responsibilities and limitations
Death (contrast to life creation)
Eden מקדם
-Eden in the east? East in the garden of Eden?
-עדנה- used in context of Sarah having Yitzchak at 90 years old: she will become
refreshed (also related to word for enjoyment)
-Related to waters in Eden: source of water and life
Water plays an important role in this perek. Water existed before "Creation" and plays an integral role in the creation of everything else to come after it. According to Rashi, everything was created on the first day in potential. The seeds and potential of everything existed, but the world lacked rain. The cycle of life and nature as we know it could not start without rain, and the rain would not come until Man was created. Man is necessary for the tilling and caring of the soil: to start the cycle without man would be dangerous.
There are two types of water in this perek. There is the water that wells up from the ground אד and the water that falls from the sky מטיר. According to Rashi, the water in the ground came up to water the dust of the earth so that G-d could mold man from the clay.* After this creation, Man could pray for rain, and it would fall, nourishing the soil. According to Ramban, the water under the ground existed to sustain the potential plants until man could be created because until Man was created, no rain would fall.
Before the rain and Man, land was called aretz ארץ; after these two catalysts, the land becomes adama אדמה, which comes from the same root as the name for man, adam אדם. (Interestingly, once woman is created, Man becomes איש, as there is now an אישה.) In the same way that the land changes name, the water that sustains it changes its name/essence, going from אד to מטיר.
Water catalyzes and determines the essence of all things.
I wish I could go into everything we discuss, but putting a 3.25 hour course into a blog is tough.
*This is one example of the extensive anthropomorphizing that happens in this chapter. The word that is used for G-d's "forming" is יצר, which is the word for sculpting. צור, meaning "rock," is a name for G-d: "צור העולמים'', Rock of the Worlds.
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