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.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
