Where else, other than Israel, does a country take a day off for introspection? And where on this planet does an entire nation stop what they are doing to contemplate their deeds? Which other country asks forgiveness for their wrongdoings, and prepares to make amends?
In this fast-paced world, life has become a complex mesh of bits and bytes. Jumbo TV screens flash megapixels at us 24/7, concrete super highways whip us along, and our PCs twitter away through cyberspace to IPs and ASPs.
Life has become a flash. We drive while we SMS, we walk with cell phones plastered to our ears and we grab a fast food while watching the latest gossip on the most popular talk shows.
So when the whole of Israel takes time out and a day off, it is serious stuff. Imagine. For 25 hours, the country goes on a ‘cleansing.’ Israel literally cuts out all of the junk: broadcast TV is shut down; radio is suspended; buses do not run; airports are closed; schools and universities lock their gates; businesses shut down; and no cars travel the roads.
As soon as we light candles on Yom Kippur eve, a profound silence envelops the hills and muffles the cities. Tranquility. From Metulla to Eilat and from Herzliya to Eli. Quiescence.
As the last cars on the road pull over and park, people leave their homes and walk to synagogue. Old people sidle with walkers and babies are pushed in strollers. We are dressed in white, men with white pants and shirts, and women, their white head scarves long white skirts flow with their steps. This evening marks the start of a fast that will last 25 hours. Everyone over the age of 13 (girls start at12) will refrain from eating, drinking and bathing. These rules help us to focus our thoughts inward and to connect with G-d. It is said that during this time, we are so removed from the everyday world, we are akin to angels.
In Israel, not everyone is religious. But a surprising 71% of Israeli Jews reported that they plan to fast this year. Most of them will go to synagogue. For soldiers who remain on active duty, they will pray at services led by 180 soldier/Torah scholars from the Hesder Yeshivot. Soldiers on bases must be on high alert as one can never forget what happened here on Yom Kippur in 1973.
The Hesder soldiers will also ensure that there are prayers on secular kibbutzim – something that is quite new. And for those Jews who are unfamiliar with the Yom Kippur service, the organization Tzohar holds 170 gatherings across the country where they hand out easy to follow machzorim and inspiring words.
And yet, there are many Jews who cannot connect. For them, Yom Kippur is Yom Ofanaim, ‘the day of bicycles.’ While we prepare for the fast and work on our Cheshbon Hanefesh, those new resolutions that we hope will strengthen us and elevate us in the new year, these people line up at the bike shops, pump up their tires, replenish their water bottles and look at the clock. As soon as we are in shul, they take to the streets and the highways. They ring their bells and fly down the hills with reckless abandon. Most do not wear helmets. And indeed, the ambulances are kept busy looking after their injuries and collisions. This year, some 162 accidents with roller blades, scooters and bikes were reported, including 2 adults who suffered serious injuries – and who were not wearing helmets.
After Kol Nidre, the shuls empty out and people walk right down the centre of the street. Since there is no rush to go home and eat, people mill about. Old men bring out their chairs and sit outside the shul. People congregate in the kikars, the busy traffic circles that now are traffic free. Toddlers run around freely.
When we left shul, there were so many people in the street, it was hard for bikes to navigate. We saw one, then two, then three bikes. My children started counting. We stopped at 67. Yet, I was sure that there were less bikes this year than last year. When I first saw this phenomenon four years ago, I was angry and put out. Now I simply feel sorry for these cyclists.
I saw one little girl learning to ride a bike, her father puffing alongside her. I wondered, ‘When she is grown up, will she remember that she learned to ride her bike on Yom Kippur?’
I passed one kid who was riding one of those battery-powered cars right through the crowd. Bicycles are bad enough, but at least they are not automated. For me, this was sheer chutzpah – something Israelis are known for. I know that if I were secular, I would not parade with a bicycle through a crowd of shul goers, sipping my water bottle in front of those who are fasting, and yelling profanities in front of those who are trying to elevate themselves. I would lay low.
But all in all, people were respectful of each other. Those bikes seemed to weave seamlessly through the crowds of those walking, everyone vying for a spot on the road. Despite the long fast ahead of us, there was a festive air on the streets of Israel. Everyone was out. Each individual was a part of this phenomenon, no matter how they observed it. This gives Israel its inner strength.
The next morning, the streets were quiet - resplendently tranquil. The sun shone with its usual vigor, bright swathes of sunshine coating the hibiscus and bougainvillea. I could hear birds, a quivering of palm fronds…and nothing else.
Everyone was wearing white. And in the intensity of the sun, they all looked brighter and fresher. Most Israelis prayed. They prayed for forgiveness, they prayed for health, and they prayed for peace - not only for Israel, but for peace in the whole world. Some Israelis biked, yet they too enjoyed tranquility and a freedom from the regular toil of life. We were all touched, changed somehow.
During Neilah, the time in the service when the gates of heaven are closing, there was a special intensity in our shul and in synagogues across the country. People were beseeching from the bottoms of their hearts. At this moment, I felt as if I were floating. Yes, I had been fasting and was weak, but I felt an inner strength and I felt pure.
After the fast, as Israelis get back in their cars, start their engines and turn on their cell phones, I know they will have taken something from this day. When those electronic gateways are hushed and the airwaves are lulled, we become much closer to our inner core, to our essence and to our Creator.
May we all merit a year of meaning, spiritual fulfillment, health and peace.
September 30, 2009
September 4, 2009
Under The Weather in Zefat
Yet another ‘moment’ in Israel. I am sick and I need a prescription.
I am not in my familiar home town in Israel, the place where I have a friendly English speaking doctor. She is a former Australian who works out of her house, and who has a large waiting room painted in a calm lilac color, complete with soft classical music and magazines.
Nor am I near my home town’s large, modern Macabi building; a health services place where one swipes a magnetic card in a computer and out a spits a piece of paper with a number on it. This number is then electronically called, giving one access to medical services. There, everyone sits patiently and waits their turn.
I am not in Kansas. I am in Safed, the wild west of Israel. I find the local Macabi offices tucked in behind an old grey building. There is an information desk at the front. People mill around in a herd. There is no line and they have no numbers. They grab a chair in front of the secretary, sit down, wave their arms, scream, chat, gossip and then leave. I do not know what they are saying half of the time. I just know that I am in pain and I need help.
I wait until there is an opening in the crowd and show my Macabi card to the secretary, asking for an appointment. She is Russian. She is either generally a nasty person or is in a foul mood today.
“An appointment? Here? No. You have to call the Macabi number on your card. We don’t give out appointments.”
She throws my card back at me and looks at me in disgust, dismissing me from her sight. I look at her in amazement. I am stunned, speechless, and wonder how many other nicer ways she could have said this to me. If I had the vocabulary to tell her this, I would have, but I am in no condition to think about such things and just stand there, my mouth open in amazement at her absolute lack of manners. She then says to me, if you really need a doctor, go and wait outside door number 8. There is a doctor working there today.
One doctor working? I walk over to this door and see a sheet with several dozen patients’ names listed. I realize that I am to force myself in between patients. The problem is that there are many people already waiting and the doctor is behind schedule. When I arrive, those waiting are already agitated. They are all talking about The List, pointing out their names on the paper and looking at everyone's assigned times.
They look at me darkly. “What appointment time do you have?” they ask, pointing to The List accusingly.
I am about to confess that I have no appointment and am a castaway, a good for nothing, when the woman beside me (whom I have just been met and has already told me much of her life story, with special graphic details abut her health) jumps up to protect me.
“She just needs one minute with the doctor. Please let her squeeze in between patients.”
A burly man, bald head shining and red temples bulging, jumps out of his seat ready to fight. “That’s what they all say. And who do you think you are?”
At that very moment, the door opens and a patient walks out. My new best friend grabs me and forces me inside. The burly man and his wife burst past us and sit down. It is like a nasty case of musical chairs or a kindergarten prank where a kid grabs someone’s toy and shouts, “Na, na, na, na, na.”
The doctor looks at me and at them. She tells me to leave and shuts the door. This happens again and again. At one point, I am positioned by the doorway and am about to enter, when a couple with an old women shuffle right past me and go inside. I wonder in amazement how they could time such an entry into the building and then straight into the office without an appointment and without an explanation to anyone. It is almost as if one has to walk around here like a king.
I have now been here for two hours. I consider going home and dealing with my pain alone. Instead, I sit and philosophize about this, about my personality, and my inability to compete with these people. I realize that I do not want to be a fighter as it just agitates me inside. I do not want to walk around like a king because it is not respectful. I conclude that in my Zen way, I will work on my patience and try to instill calm inside instead of intense anger.
The door opens one more time and I find myself facing the doctor. I tell her that I just need a prescription. I want to come across as if I do not require any effort on her behalf other than a few words on a piece of paper.
This is the wrong approach. She tells me that if I think her job is so easy, I should try to sit in her chair. She gets up and points to her chair as if the threat is real. I almost expect her to walk out of her office and leave me to take care of the patients. She is Russian and she does not mince her words.
She finally asks me about my health. I know what is wrong with me but she does not trust that I know. She scribbles something on a piece of paper and tells me to see the nurse.
The nurses' station looks like a bridge club. People are chatting, joking, coming and going. Someone is being weighed. Someone is having their blood pressure taken - all in full view of everyone. Here, everyone’s health is everyone else’s business. The nurse tells me to grab a plastic cup beside the water cooler and to pee in it. I return with a full cup and wrap it with paper towels to protect my privacy. I wait outside, terrified that my cup will spilleth over.
I walk in and sit down. The nurse confirms what I knew all along, except that my infection is acute. She tries to enter my information into a computer but is having a heated discussion with my new best friend. Every time she tries to press a key, she stops to argue. My ‘friend’ says that illness stems from negative thoughts. The nurse says that this is nonsense. One counters that we if we did not dwell on sickness, we could be healthy. The other says absolutely not. This goes on and on. Zefat is a perfect town to hear such a discussion.
After a while, people gather around and a man asks if anyone wants coffee and cake. Somewhere in the crowd, an Englishman is theorizing about politics. I hear the words Condoleezza Rice, Putin and Siberian labor camp. Perhaps I am in a bridge club.
I am finally given a piece of paper with results from the contents of my plastic cup. Yet again, I find myself face to face with the doctor’s office door. It is shut tight. I wait and I wait. Children race up and down the corridor. Locals drop in for a chat. Everyone knows everyone. I work on my relaxation skills. I have been here for three hours.
I continue to wait for the door to open, and as soon as I spy a crack, I race in, waving the paper to the other patients; this note is my legitimacy, my passport for entry.
I am finally asked to come inside and the doctor hands me a prescription. It takes her one minute to write it. As for me, I have been given an afternoon to think about life, to do a self analysis, make a new friend and experience yet another side of Tzfat; and, yes, the pharmacy is still open - for another ten minutes. Now it is time to rush.
I am not in my familiar home town in Israel, the place where I have a friendly English speaking doctor. She is a former Australian who works out of her house, and who has a large waiting room painted in a calm lilac color, complete with soft classical music and magazines.
Nor am I near my home town’s large, modern Macabi building; a health services place where one swipes a magnetic card in a computer and out a spits a piece of paper with a number on it. This number is then electronically called, giving one access to medical services. There, everyone sits patiently and waits their turn.
I am not in Kansas. I am in Safed, the wild west of Israel. I find the local Macabi offices tucked in behind an old grey building. There is an information desk at the front. People mill around in a herd. There is no line and they have no numbers. They grab a chair in front of the secretary, sit down, wave their arms, scream, chat, gossip and then leave. I do not know what they are saying half of the time. I just know that I am in pain and I need help.
I wait until there is an opening in the crowd and show my Macabi card to the secretary, asking for an appointment. She is Russian. She is either generally a nasty person or is in a foul mood today.
“An appointment? Here? No. You have to call the Macabi number on your card. We don’t give out appointments.”
She throws my card back at me and looks at me in disgust, dismissing me from her sight. I look at her in amazement. I am stunned, speechless, and wonder how many other nicer ways she could have said this to me. If I had the vocabulary to tell her this, I would have, but I am in no condition to think about such things and just stand there, my mouth open in amazement at her absolute lack of manners. She then says to me, if you really need a doctor, go and wait outside door number 8. There is a doctor working there today.
One doctor working? I walk over to this door and see a sheet with several dozen patients’ names listed. I realize that I am to force myself in between patients. The problem is that there are many people already waiting and the doctor is behind schedule. When I arrive, those waiting are already agitated. They are all talking about The List, pointing out their names on the paper and looking at everyone's assigned times.
They look at me darkly. “What appointment time do you have?” they ask, pointing to The List accusingly.
I am about to confess that I have no appointment and am a castaway, a good for nothing, when the woman beside me (whom I have just been met and has already told me much of her life story, with special graphic details abut her health) jumps up to protect me.
“She just needs one minute with the doctor. Please let her squeeze in between patients.”
A burly man, bald head shining and red temples bulging, jumps out of his seat ready to fight. “That’s what they all say. And who do you think you are?”
At that very moment, the door opens and a patient walks out. My new best friend grabs me and forces me inside. The burly man and his wife burst past us and sit down. It is like a nasty case of musical chairs or a kindergarten prank where a kid grabs someone’s toy and shouts, “Na, na, na, na, na.”
The doctor looks at me and at them. She tells me to leave and shuts the door. This happens again and again. At one point, I am positioned by the doorway and am about to enter, when a couple with an old women shuffle right past me and go inside. I wonder in amazement how they could time such an entry into the building and then straight into the office without an appointment and without an explanation to anyone. It is almost as if one has to walk around here like a king.
I have now been here for two hours. I consider going home and dealing with my pain alone. Instead, I sit and philosophize about this, about my personality, and my inability to compete with these people. I realize that I do not want to be a fighter as it just agitates me inside. I do not want to walk around like a king because it is not respectful. I conclude that in my Zen way, I will work on my patience and try to instill calm inside instead of intense anger.
The door opens one more time and I find myself facing the doctor. I tell her that I just need a prescription. I want to come across as if I do not require any effort on her behalf other than a few words on a piece of paper.
This is the wrong approach. She tells me that if I think her job is so easy, I should try to sit in her chair. She gets up and points to her chair as if the threat is real. I almost expect her to walk out of her office and leave me to take care of the patients. She is Russian and she does not mince her words.
She finally asks me about my health. I know what is wrong with me but she does not trust that I know. She scribbles something on a piece of paper and tells me to see the nurse.
The nurses' station looks like a bridge club. People are chatting, joking, coming and going. Someone is being weighed. Someone is having their blood pressure taken - all in full view of everyone. Here, everyone’s health is everyone else’s business. The nurse tells me to grab a plastic cup beside the water cooler and to pee in it. I return with a full cup and wrap it with paper towels to protect my privacy. I wait outside, terrified that my cup will spilleth over.
I walk in and sit down. The nurse confirms what I knew all along, except that my infection is acute. She tries to enter my information into a computer but is having a heated discussion with my new best friend. Every time she tries to press a key, she stops to argue. My ‘friend’ says that illness stems from negative thoughts. The nurse says that this is nonsense. One counters that we if we did not dwell on sickness, we could be healthy. The other says absolutely not. This goes on and on. Zefat is a perfect town to hear such a discussion.
After a while, people gather around and a man asks if anyone wants coffee and cake. Somewhere in the crowd, an Englishman is theorizing about politics. I hear the words Condoleezza Rice, Putin and Siberian labor camp. Perhaps I am in a bridge club.
I am finally given a piece of paper with results from the contents of my plastic cup. Yet again, I find myself face to face with the doctor’s office door. It is shut tight. I wait and I wait. Children race up and down the corridor. Locals drop in for a chat. Everyone knows everyone. I work on my relaxation skills. I have been here for three hours.
I continue to wait for the door to open, and as soon as I spy a crack, I race in, waving the paper to the other patients; this note is my legitimacy, my passport for entry.
I am finally asked to come inside and the doctor hands me a prescription. It takes her one minute to write it. As for me, I have been given an afternoon to think about life, to do a self analysis, make a new friend and experience yet another side of Tzfat; and, yes, the pharmacy is still open - for another ten minutes. Now it is time to rush.
September 3, 2009
Lag B’Omer in Meron
What causes 250,000 Jews from all over Israel (and the world) to congregate on the same day in one small moshav outside one ancient cave? What is it that inspires many of them to camp nearby in tents, to stay up all night singing, dancing and learning and to pour out their hearts reciting tehillim (psalms)? Where does this joy come from; this unparalleled exuberance; this unflappable, contagious energy?
This special place is Meron and this propitious time is Lag B’Omer. In Hebrew, lamed gimmel is the number 33 and as an acronym, these letters spell out the word ‘lag.’ This day marks the 33rd day of the counting of the Omer. (Day One was the night after the Pesach Seder and the counting culminates on Day 49, the night before Shavuot.)
The 33rd day signifies the end of mourning for the students of Rabbi Akiva who died from a mysterious plague. In the Gemora, in the tractate of Yevamos 62b, it says that 24,000 of the finest Torah scholars died during this time from a croup-like illness. We are told that they died because they did not have respect for one another and did not treat each other with dignity.
After the tragic death of his students, Rabbi Akiva began to teach again, and one of his foremost students was Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai. Shimon bar Yochai died on the 18th of Iyar, which is Lag BaOmer.
Known as the Rashbi, this mysterious Torah scholar hid from the Romans in a cave for 12 years. He spent these years in hiding with his son, learning and writing the Zohar HaKadosh, a mystical book which is the basis of Kabbalah. On his dying day, he revealed many deep secrets to his students.
Centuries later, this time was also a period of terrible tragedy for Jews in Germany and France. As a result, we treat these 33 days as a period of mourning: we do not listen to live and recorded music; we refrain from getting haircuts; men do not shave; and we do not celebrate weddings.
It was the Arizal who started mass pilgrimages to this burial cave on the yahrzeit, the anniversary of the Rashbi’s death. Over the years, many people who come here on this day have had their prayers answered.
This procession died out over the years but was reinstated by Rav Shmuel Abu in the 1820s. He helped fund the renovations of Shimon bar Yochai’s grave and, as a token of appreciation, he was given a Torah. A lively parade to the Rashbi’s grave began with this very Torah and continues to this day, except the Torah is now driven to Meron. Nonetheless, there is a lot of excitement, live music and dancing as the Torah leaves the Abu home in Safed on the afternoon of Lag B’Omer.
The main street of Zefat closes down and police guard the way while people line the road in anticipation of kissing and dancing with the Torah. As the Torah passes by, women wrap colorful scarves around the scroll, yodel in their distinct Sephardi style and clap their hands. Men hand out sweets and plastic cups of liquor along the way. The procession moves slowly, often stopping for a song and a dance. Every man in town has a chance to dance with the Torah until finally the Torah is placed in a car and chauffeured to Meron.
This past Lag B’Omer, we said our farewell to the Torah and decided that we would follow the steps of the Arizal and walk to Meron. It was already late in the afternoon. We threw our backpacks on our shoulders and walked down to the old cemetery and below to Nahal Amud. We know the trails of the Nachal Amud but had never walked all the way to Meron.
Last year, we took the bus to Meron on Lag B’Omer and after getting stuck in an enormous traffic jam for hours, we decided that it was better to rely on our own two feet this time around.
The late afternoon sun glistened through the trees. We imagined how many great scholars and mystics had taken this same well-worn trail from Safed to Meron over the centuries. Today, trail blazes clearly mark the way. We actually had no idea how long the hike would take, so we decided to pick up the pace – just in case! We had one small flashlight between three of us, cell phones and a determination to make it before the sun set.
We ran into another group who were following the same trail – a family from Gush Etzion. We walked together for a while, following a winding river that glistened between the fig trees.
I suddenly ran into a group of people lying across the trail, looking up into the trees with wonder. They seemed spellbound with life in the forest – or perhaps it was thanks to some other magical substance. One girl handed something to me and told me to hold it up to the trees. I took it and looked through. It was a kaleidoscope. I saw the sun shimmering through the leaves in what looked like a multitude of colored geometric shapes. Yes, it was beautiful, but it was also getting late. I warned the group about the time but they were in no state to feel worry. They were happy to stay put and gaze in surrender at the lush nature around them. The festivities in Meron go all night long, so they felt they had time, even if it meant groping through a dark forest where wild boar prowl.
We picked up the pace and ended up on the famous Shvil Israel, the Israel Trail, hugging the bank of the river. We started to hear music and knew that Meron could not be too far away. As we walked on, the sun started to dip in the sky. The music strengthened and so did our determination. The path ended in a valley, opening up into a clearing. By the time we crossed over the highway, the music was pulsating and the sun had set.
We passed by tents set up amongst the trees and blazing camp fires. We walked past families with babies, young yeshiva students, older couples – all camping nearby so as to get a taste of the energy of Meron.
We walked on through the forest and finally came to the town. It was already thronging with people, loudspeakers screamed out words of Torah, people were handing out food and drinks for free in order to perform a mitzvah, and music was blaring. I was shocked by it all. Having just spent hours in a quiet forest, I felt like I had emerged from the dark into the blazing sun. It was all a little too much for us.
People come here from all over Israel and around the world. We had met someone in Tzfat this afternoon who had just got off a plane from New York and was pulling around a suitcase on wheels. We ran into others who had just flown in from the States, jumped into a rental car and then driven up to Meron.
Buses are chartered from Bnai Brak and Jerusalem. Buses upon buses arrive all night long, depositing people along the road. Young religious mothers get out of the buses, strollers in one arm, baby crooked under the other and a toddler hanging onto the back. How they handle small children in this crowd is beyond my abilities. I see old men with wild white beards, soldiers still in uniform, backpackers with torn jeans and flip flops, giggling high school girls tossing back their long black braids, yeshiva students in crisp white shirts and pressed black pants, secular Israelis with dreadlocks. I detect English, American and Australian accents. I hear French, Spanish, German and Dutch. I see Temani families, Ashkenazi families and Ethiopian Jews.
People were pressing along a fence, all peering in expectation. There were bleechers set up and yeshiva boys were literally hanging off the back, scrambling up the poles, all trying to get a look. The crowd was screaming and the loudspeakers blaring “Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai.” A woman beside me was fervently reading Tehillim, her cheeks streaked with tears.
Suddenly, the many choruses became one loud cry. The men stood up, swaying and clapping, a sea of black hats and black coats. I was too far away to see a thing, but I knew what was happening: the torch was being carried to light the main bonfire. And with this one huge blaze, the festivities officially began.
Everyone started pushing away from this area. I did not know where they were going and am not sure they knew themselves. Many people headed for the kever, the place where the Rashbi is buried, but I am not sure how many get close to it on a night like this.
I was swept up by the crowd and thrown into its crazy ebb and flow. People pushed and I tried to keep my footing, fearful this would turn into a stampede. I prayed that this surge would pass and soon enough, the crowd parted, depositing me on some street corner below a huge picture of the Breslov Rebbe.
I heard “Rabbi Nachman, Nachman m’Uman” being sung to a reggae beat. A group of men danced in frenzied circles, black coat tails flying, dreadlocks bopping, long curled peyes hopping and knit kippot flapping. They flew in circles, arms locked around each others shoulders, all joyful, all celebrating being together.
It is these micro moments that I connect with the most; times when religious and non religious Jews joins arms, their souls uniting as Am Israel Chai. These moments show that we can overcome the mistakes of Rabbi Akiva’s scholars by respecting each other despite our differences. When united we are so strong.
This special place is Meron and this propitious time is Lag B’Omer. In Hebrew, lamed gimmel is the number 33 and as an acronym, these letters spell out the word ‘lag.’ This day marks the 33rd day of the counting of the Omer. (Day One was the night after the Pesach Seder and the counting culminates on Day 49, the night before Shavuot.)
The 33rd day signifies the end of mourning for the students of Rabbi Akiva who died from a mysterious plague. In the Gemora, in the tractate of Yevamos 62b, it says that 24,000 of the finest Torah scholars died during this time from a croup-like illness. We are told that they died because they did not have respect for one another and did not treat each other with dignity.
After the tragic death of his students, Rabbi Akiva began to teach again, and one of his foremost students was Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai. Shimon bar Yochai died on the 18th of Iyar, which is Lag BaOmer.
Known as the Rashbi, this mysterious Torah scholar hid from the Romans in a cave for 12 years. He spent these years in hiding with his son, learning and writing the Zohar HaKadosh, a mystical book which is the basis of Kabbalah. On his dying day, he revealed many deep secrets to his students.
Centuries later, this time was also a period of terrible tragedy for Jews in Germany and France. As a result, we treat these 33 days as a period of mourning: we do not listen to live and recorded music; we refrain from getting haircuts; men do not shave; and we do not celebrate weddings.
It was the Arizal who started mass pilgrimages to this burial cave on the yahrzeit, the anniversary of the Rashbi’s death. Over the years, many people who come here on this day have had their prayers answered.
This procession died out over the years but was reinstated by Rav Shmuel Abu in the 1820s. He helped fund the renovations of Shimon bar Yochai’s grave and, as a token of appreciation, he was given a Torah. A lively parade to the Rashbi’s grave began with this very Torah and continues to this day, except the Torah is now driven to Meron. Nonetheless, there is a lot of excitement, live music and dancing as the Torah leaves the Abu home in Safed on the afternoon of Lag B’Omer.
The main street of Zefat closes down and police guard the way while people line the road in anticipation of kissing and dancing with the Torah. As the Torah passes by, women wrap colorful scarves around the scroll, yodel in their distinct Sephardi style and clap their hands. Men hand out sweets and plastic cups of liquor along the way. The procession moves slowly, often stopping for a song and a dance. Every man in town has a chance to dance with the Torah until finally the Torah is placed in a car and chauffeured to Meron.
This past Lag B’Omer, we said our farewell to the Torah and decided that we would follow the steps of the Arizal and walk to Meron. It was already late in the afternoon. We threw our backpacks on our shoulders and walked down to the old cemetery and below to Nahal Amud. We know the trails of the Nachal Amud but had never walked all the way to Meron.
Last year, we took the bus to Meron on Lag B’Omer and after getting stuck in an enormous traffic jam for hours, we decided that it was better to rely on our own two feet this time around.
The late afternoon sun glistened through the trees. We imagined how many great scholars and mystics had taken this same well-worn trail from Safed to Meron over the centuries. Today, trail blazes clearly mark the way. We actually had no idea how long the hike would take, so we decided to pick up the pace – just in case! We had one small flashlight between three of us, cell phones and a determination to make it before the sun set.
We ran into another group who were following the same trail – a family from Gush Etzion. We walked together for a while, following a winding river that glistened between the fig trees.
I suddenly ran into a group of people lying across the trail, looking up into the trees with wonder. They seemed spellbound with life in the forest – or perhaps it was thanks to some other magical substance. One girl handed something to me and told me to hold it up to the trees. I took it and looked through. It was a kaleidoscope. I saw the sun shimmering through the leaves in what looked like a multitude of colored geometric shapes. Yes, it was beautiful, but it was also getting late. I warned the group about the time but they were in no state to feel worry. They were happy to stay put and gaze in surrender at the lush nature around them. The festivities in Meron go all night long, so they felt they had time, even if it meant groping through a dark forest where wild boar prowl.
We picked up the pace and ended up on the famous Shvil Israel, the Israel Trail, hugging the bank of the river. We started to hear music and knew that Meron could not be too far away. As we walked on, the sun started to dip in the sky. The music strengthened and so did our determination. The path ended in a valley, opening up into a clearing. By the time we crossed over the highway, the music was pulsating and the sun had set.
We passed by tents set up amongst the trees and blazing camp fires. We walked past families with babies, young yeshiva students, older couples – all camping nearby so as to get a taste of the energy of Meron.
We walked on through the forest and finally came to the town. It was already thronging with people, loudspeakers screamed out words of Torah, people were handing out food and drinks for free in order to perform a mitzvah, and music was blaring. I was shocked by it all. Having just spent hours in a quiet forest, I felt like I had emerged from the dark into the blazing sun. It was all a little too much for us.
People come here from all over Israel and around the world. We had met someone in Tzfat this afternoon who had just got off a plane from New York and was pulling around a suitcase on wheels. We ran into others who had just flown in from the States, jumped into a rental car and then driven up to Meron.
Buses are chartered from Bnai Brak and Jerusalem. Buses upon buses arrive all night long, depositing people along the road. Young religious mothers get out of the buses, strollers in one arm, baby crooked under the other and a toddler hanging onto the back. How they handle small children in this crowd is beyond my abilities. I see old men with wild white beards, soldiers still in uniform, backpackers with torn jeans and flip flops, giggling high school girls tossing back their long black braids, yeshiva students in crisp white shirts and pressed black pants, secular Israelis with dreadlocks. I detect English, American and Australian accents. I hear French, Spanish, German and Dutch. I see Temani families, Ashkenazi families and Ethiopian Jews.
People were pressing along a fence, all peering in expectation. There were bleechers set up and yeshiva boys were literally hanging off the back, scrambling up the poles, all trying to get a look. The crowd was screaming and the loudspeakers blaring “Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai.” A woman beside me was fervently reading Tehillim, her cheeks streaked with tears.
Suddenly, the many choruses became one loud cry. The men stood up, swaying and clapping, a sea of black hats and black coats. I was too far away to see a thing, but I knew what was happening: the torch was being carried to light the main bonfire. And with this one huge blaze, the festivities officially began.
Everyone started pushing away from this area. I did not know where they were going and am not sure they knew themselves. Many people headed for the kever, the place where the Rashbi is buried, but I am not sure how many get close to it on a night like this.
I was swept up by the crowd and thrown into its crazy ebb and flow. People pushed and I tried to keep my footing, fearful this would turn into a stampede. I prayed that this surge would pass and soon enough, the crowd parted, depositing me on some street corner below a huge picture of the Breslov Rebbe.
I heard “Rabbi Nachman, Nachman m’Uman” being sung to a reggae beat. A group of men danced in frenzied circles, black coat tails flying, dreadlocks bopping, long curled peyes hopping and knit kippot flapping. They flew in circles, arms locked around each others shoulders, all joyful, all celebrating being together.
It is these micro moments that I connect with the most; times when religious and non religious Jews joins arms, their souls uniting as Am Israel Chai. These moments show that we can overcome the mistakes of Rabbi Akiva’s scholars by respecting each other despite our differences. When united we are so strong.
May 1, 2009
Yom Haatzmaut in Nahal Oz
Wednesday April 29
It was hard to wake up early on Yom Haatzmaut day, but the sweet wafting of Amir’s pancakes always does wonders for the kids. By 9:30 we were on the road, our picnic hamper strapped to the roof of our car. This time, we were not heading to Israel’s Vegas (Eilat), or to Israel’s Sierra Nevada (Upper Galil). We were driving towards Gaza.
I gulped when I looked at my map. Yes, I recovered our lost map, but had I studied our destination before we were on the highway, I would have had some apprehension about this trip. But here we were, on our way to spend a very meaningful Yom Haatzmaut.
Our destination: the army base of Nahal Oz.
Our purpose: to barbecue lunch for the soldiers on the base.
This event was organized by StandTogether. We were happy to do this as we wanted soldiers to know how much we care and how much we value what they do. We wanted the soldiers who, on this special holiday, had to stay at base and had work to protect our country. If it were not for them, we would not be here celebrating.
So we drove past Ashdod, past Ashkelon, past Sderot, closer and closer to Gaza. We passed places that I only recognized from the news. Places where rockets had been falling daily over the years: Netivot, Kibbutz Nahal Oz, Sderot. It looked quiet. The fields were brimming with crops. People were cycling along the smooth paved roads. Small moshavim, their red clay roofs set along prim rows, peeked out across the fertile fields. A woman was strolling down the road as if she had not a care in the world.
We stopped at a gas station and I went in to get an espresso. The gas station stood alone surrounded by open fields with Gaza nearby. Thinking of all those gas tanks, I figured that this was not a grat spot to be working. I went inside. Soft Israeli music was playing. There were plush seats. Someone sat with a laptop surfing the net. Bright paintings adorned the walls. A woman in shorts walked in and ordered an ice coffee. I realized that one’s perspective is so relative. Here I am, used to my seemingly more comfortable Raanana reality and feeling a bit fearful of being so close to Gaza. Yet there are many people, including friends of mine, who would never even set foot in Israel due to their own fears. However, for people who live right here, those who order ice coffees, farm these fields, go biking and fill up people’s cars with gas, life is completely normal. I started to relax.
My feeling of ease was short lived. Soon after, I saw a sign that said ‘Gaza’ and 'Karni Crossing.’ Once again, I remembered the news headlines. Most recently, just last week, the crossings were reopened after being closed for Pesach. All looked quiet today.
The road was barred. No entry today. To the right was the Nahal Oz army base. In front of us were a dozen or so mini vans filled with children, picnics and great ruach. We parked in line and waited. It was baking hot and we got out of the car. The group organizer, David, explained that we had to get permission to enter the base. So we waited.
The situation was unreal. Kids got out of the cars and started throwing around Frisbees and baseballs. Parents started to chat. People put on sunscreen. With all these kids and minivans, it looked as if we were waiting to get into an amusement park. Of course my imagination went wild. The situation was really quite unsafe. Here we are, dozens of Orthodox families, ardent supporters of Israel, standing outside cars that were plastered with Israeli flags to salute Yom Haatzmaut. Here we were, all sitting on the Gaza border, squished together like sitting ducks. There was no cover, no shelter. Not even a shady tree in sight. Just the barbed wire fence of the army base.
We were finally given permission to enter the base. The soldiers greeted us with smiles and a happy ‘Chag Sameach.’ We all parked and unloaded the food onto a large basketball court. Walking past a huge concrete wall, I finally felt more secure. Behind that wall was Gaza. We were so close, we could see the windows of their apartment buildings.
The food had all been bought with money donated by a synagogue in Beit Shemesh. Many of the people from this shul were here to help cook and serve the food. The reality was that there were far more volunteers than necessary and there were not enough jobs for everyone. But the sheer number of volunteers made the soldiers feel that much more special.
When we all arrived, the army commander asked for our attention. He then brought reality back to this surreal party. He thanked us for coming and said that we were all brave, explaining that we were just 700 metres from Gaza. He said that ‘they’ were watching us and that ‘we’ were watching them. Although it has been quiet here for a month, in case we hear a Tzeva Adom, the siren, we should run for shelter. He pointed out a few high concrete walls that were shelters. But he did not faze us at all. We all chose to be here and were happy to be at this base.
Within minutes, the barbeques were smoking, the burgers and hot dogs were sizzling. Tables were set up along the periphery of the court and soldiers started to walk in. We must have been a sight. A New Orleans style Wash Board Band arrived with their striped vests, shiny tubas and kazoos. They started to play festive music from the deep south US and they marched around the court. Kids were playing ball. We were all speaking English, serving hot dogs and passing around the ketchup. It looked more like a fourth of July parade. But we far from Centerville, Fairfield, or Pleasant Valley with their well-manicured lawns and local high school bands. This was the Middle East and this was the heart of the conflict. Just past the trumpet player was a knoll. Not a grassy knoll. It was a sand dune with sand bags atop. Soldiers sat on that hill with guns, always watching. Someone brought them a bottle of coke. Then the kids ran up there, wanting to see, explore, tumbling back down the hill. They were politely told to leave.
The soldiers came and the soldiers left. Some grabbed a burger and then ran into an armoured vehicle to do a patrol. The truck honked outside and they all ran in as if it were nothing but a bus to go to school. I was more afraid than they were and I so admire them with their nerves of steel.
The soldiers who could relax a while sat chatting. The highlight for them were the twenty something year old American girls who spoke to them admiringly in English. The soldiers were flattered by all of this attention. One rather precocious little girl started to play ball with them. She spoke only English and chased a group of soldiers, shouting after them “Chicken Man.” The soldiers could not speak back to her so they made a face at her, sticking their thumbs to their ears, then grabbed her and ran across the raced across the court with her. She squealed with joy. At one point the men spontaneously grabbed hands and danced a hora together, soldiers, small boys with peyes flying, older men. Standing Together, Omdim B’Yachad.
Yom Haatzmaut 2009
Tuesday April 28
Happy 61st Israel! We go from the sadness of a remembrance day for our fallen soldiers to the exuberance of Independence Day. In Ra'anana, people throng to Park Ra’anana in the tens of thousands. Three stages were set up in the park with non-stop entertainment. Vendors were selling flashing, glow-in-the-dark trinkets, and, of course, food. israelis eat at all hours of the day. Young couples were pushing strollers. No one here seems to use babysitters; parents choose to introduce their babies to the fun at a young age. And, of course, the preening teenage girls were there, acting as if it were their own personal coming out party.
We arrived around midnight and everyone we knew was there, with throngs of people just arriving, despite the late hour. The eenagers have some strange tradition of staying up the whole night so for them, the night was very young.
At one stage, a religious band was playing. Respecting the laws of modesty, girls and boys intuitively separated, dancing their own horas, clapping, singing along and stamping in unison. Young toddlers were propped up on their fathers’ shoulders, twirling in circles as the men danced and spun around. I even saw the mayor being swept into the fray and dancing a few horas!
On another stage, young girls performed flamenco dancing, swishing their black skirts with a flick of the wrist and a quick turn of the shoulder. Due to the thick crowds, I did not make it to the last stage but heard that Israeli superstar Idan Reichel was performing there.
I may be biased, but I felt that the real ruach was at the first stage. Here, people young and old, religious and non-religious, listened and moved to the music with heart and soul. This place represented the energy, spirit and achdut (unity) of Israel, whereas the other stages merely portrayed talent.
Happy 61st Israel! We go from the sadness of a remembrance day for our fallen soldiers to the exuberance of Independence Day. In Ra'anana, people throng to Park Ra’anana in the tens of thousands. Three stages were set up in the park with non-stop entertainment. Vendors were selling flashing, glow-in-the-dark trinkets, and, of course, food. israelis eat at all hours of the day. Young couples were pushing strollers. No one here seems to use babysitters; parents choose to introduce their babies to the fun at a young age. And, of course, the preening teenage girls were there, acting as if it were their own personal coming out party.
We arrived around midnight and everyone we knew was there, with throngs of people just arriving, despite the late hour. The eenagers have some strange tradition of staying up the whole night so for them, the night was very young.
At one stage, a religious band was playing. Respecting the laws of modesty, girls and boys intuitively separated, dancing their own horas, clapping, singing along and stamping in unison. Young toddlers were propped up on their fathers’ shoulders, twirling in circles as the men danced and spun around. I even saw the mayor being swept into the fray and dancing a few horas!
On another stage, young girls performed flamenco dancing, swishing their black skirts with a flick of the wrist and a quick turn of the shoulder. Due to the thick crowds, I did not make it to the last stage but heard that Israeli superstar Idan Reichel was performing there.
I may be biased, but I felt that the real ruach was at the first stage. Here, people young and old, religious and non-religious, listened and moved to the music with heart and soul. This place represented the energy, spirit and achdut (unity) of Israel, whereas the other stages merely portrayed talent.
From Mountains to Sea- Our Last Day In Eilat
April 20 - Hiking Har Shlomo
What is a trip to Eilat without a hike in the mountains? Amir and I had regained our strength, bought a hiking map and some seriously large water bottles. We asked Donna and Alan to join us, and by 5:00 the next morning, we were ready to go.
We drove out in two cars towards the Eilat mountains and dropped our two oldest children in one spot on the Har Shlmo trail. The two cars then continued up the mountain road for miles until we found the other end of this trail. We dropped one car off and headed back in the first car. I am sure Alan and Donna were wondering what they had got themselves into.
We started our hike in early dawn, hoping to see the sunrise from the summit. We climbed and climbed, having to use our hands and feet as if we were ibex. It was craggy, it was high and a little scary at times. But we kept to the trail and the scenery was spectacular. The silence was deafening.
At one point, I saw three people hiking across the top with a large Israeli flag billowing in the wind. The sight was so majestic. We later ran into them; three Israelis who had just finished the army and who were determined to walk the length of the country from south to north on the ‘shvil Israel,’ a path that criss crosses the entire country. They had camped overnight and had just started out.
The woman with the flag told us that she takes her flag everywhere with her when she travels and that this flag had even been to Poland with her. We wished them well and continued on. The sun rose milky and soft, revealing overcast skies. Perhaps a sandstorm was brewing in some corner of the desert.
We finally made it back to our cars and headed to the hotel district, where people sat caressing cappuccinos. I wonder how many tourists in Eilat get up at 4:30 and experience the rugged hiking side of this place.
Swimming With Dolphins
From desert mountains to a sparkling sea reef - how many places in the world offer such an array of scenery? We ended the trip with our dolphin swim.
Scuba gear on our backs, we entered the cove where eight dolphins live and play. There as also a coral reef there complete with black urchins, fat sea cucumbers, a large sea turtle and beautiful coral fanning in the sea.
My daughter, who somehow decided she had dolphin phobia (is there a word for this?), overcame her fears, and to her amazement, dolphins gently brushed up against her. They must have sensed her apprehension.
As for me, who has no dolphin phobia, but a general all-encompassing fear of scuba diving, I only saw two dolphins who swam past me quickly. Guess they had better things to do. But it was still a spectacular experience. And yes, I would do it again.
Our Encore In Eilat
April 17
“I want to swim with the dolphins!”
Pesach ended with yet more feasting. And then it was time to turn our kitchen over and return to our chametzy lives, having hopefully changed in some way. I always find it hard to bite into that first piece of bread after spending so much time diligently trying to rid ourselves of each chametz crumb. But we succumb to our puffy bread, our egos, and go back to how things were; those new insights buried by pizza crusts and fast-paced lives.
We also found it very difficult to face returning to that normal routine. School was starting. Work. Bills to be paid. Donna and Alan and family from Toronto just met us in Sfat for dinner and the next morning took off for Eilat. It was as if a fluorescent bulb appeared above Amir’s head, shining brightly. “Ding!” Amir loudly announced, “I want to swim with the dolphins!” Of course he said this in front of the children. They all jumped up and down and shouted back, “So do we!” My daughter, who had a history test coming up that she wanted to miss, was ecstatic.
With all those positive votes, I was the only nay sayer. I am our family's consummate party pooper, the negative mom, the downer who likes to do everything by the book and always says 'no.' I had such a great Pesach, I reasoned that it was time to return to reality. I felt that Eilat should be another trip, something planned in advance. We did not even have a hotel reservation.
Amir philosophized that he wanted to live life as if each day were his last. This is hard to argue against, especially living here in the Middle East. I agreed to go but was too embarrassed to mention this plan to anyone, as I knew this would further confirm that we were complete lunatics.
We had a great Shabbat. We did havdalah, cleaned up and I threw some things in a few suitcases. We did not have bathing suits, sunscreen or flip flops. Tzfat is still in winter mode. I was wearing winter boots and a warm woolen shawl. We threw some pillows in the car and the kids jumped in wearing their pyjamas.
At 11:45 we left Sfat, heading down to highway 4. Soon after, I realized that our map book was in a friend’s car. Here we were, hurtling south on the deepest dark highways, and we had no map. We had no hotel reservations. We had no common sense. I had made us some strong Turkish coffee to keep us awake, but the sheer fear of travelling on these roads in the middle of the night was enough to keep my adrenalin pulsing. After 10 minutes of driving, Amir said he felt tired. I, who does not like to drive at night without street lights, could not take up the wheel. I reacted by simply biting my nails.
No gas stations were open, save for the self-serve kind. That meant no coffee and no map. Luckily, before Beer Sheva, we saw a sign for Eilat. I was elated. But this feeling did not last for long. We left the lights and civilization of BeerSheva behind and drove into the dark, lonely desert.
We had no water, no food, no map (think I already mentioned this). My imagination went wild. Of course I had to pee. But any thoughts of stopping beside the road were quickly dispelled. I imagined scorpions in the sand, yellow eyes of wolves, old Bedouin men hiding behind rocks.
To stir things up and make this trip even more exciting, Amir decided to pull over and turn out the headlights. He got out of the car and asked us all to gaze up at the stars. I craned my neck for a millisecond but could not get into the mood of looking for new galaxies. I was probably hyperventilating. I looked out the window and saw a pair of yellow eyes glaring at me. “Wolf!” I screamed. Everyone looked up and we saw a do like thing looking in at us. Not very menacing, but it was still wildlife.
Amir stretched, looked longingly at his favorite constellation and got back in behind the wheel. The road descended and twisted, turned and contorted. It is a hard enough drive in the day, when you can see for miles. But at night, when one is tired and one has no map (did I mention this?!) and no water, it is a different story. I watched the minutes on the car clock go by. It was 1:18, 2:36, 3:48, then 4:02. I waited for the sun to rise as if the night were some wicked spell. By 4:30, we actually arrived in Eilat.
Thankfully, the road was signposted the whole way. We drove to our favorite hotel and Amir found us a room. It would not be available until 10 am. No problem. I felt safe. I was in a parking back in civilization. I was relieved and thankful for arriving safely. By 6 pm, we went to the pool and lay on beach chairs until the sun’s rays reached us. I was cranky and felt hung over.
We heard the first birds squawking in the palms. We watched the life guards scrub the walls of the pool, and saw the the towel guys set up their kiosk, taking warm fluffy towels off carts. The hotel slowly come to life. We saw the first guests wake and deftly save a row of seats, placing sun screen and draping novels across the chairs. They were wearing sandals and bathing suits. They were on a beach vacation.
I was a refugee from the depths of the desert, still wearing my winter clothes from Sfat. Luckily I had a toothbrush and toothpaste in my purse. I went into the lobby to find the rest room and ran into Donna and Alan. Donna looked as if she had seen a ghost – I probably looked like one. She was shocked and, yes, she probably felt confirmed that we were lunatics.
By nine am, the hotel gave us our room. Amir and I wanted to sleep. The kids wanted to go to the pool. They wanted to buy bathing suits, they wanted candy, they wanted goggles, they wanted flip flops; in short, they wanted to be on vacation. Despite their pleas, I still wanted to sleep.
By noon, Amir and I felt like we could face the world and we had a real vacation-like day: swimming in the pool, a bit of shopping, and dinner out with our friends.
“I want to swim with the dolphins!”
Pesach ended with yet more feasting. And then it was time to turn our kitchen over and return to our chametzy lives, having hopefully changed in some way. I always find it hard to bite into that first piece of bread after spending so much time diligently trying to rid ourselves of each chametz crumb. But we succumb to our puffy bread, our egos, and go back to how things were; those new insights buried by pizza crusts and fast-paced lives.
We also found it very difficult to face returning to that normal routine. School was starting. Work. Bills to be paid. Donna and Alan and family from Toronto just met us in Sfat for dinner and the next morning took off for Eilat. It was as if a fluorescent bulb appeared above Amir’s head, shining brightly. “Ding!” Amir loudly announced, “I want to swim with the dolphins!” Of course he said this in front of the children. They all jumped up and down and shouted back, “So do we!” My daughter, who had a history test coming up that she wanted to miss, was ecstatic.
With all those positive votes, I was the only nay sayer. I am our family's consummate party pooper, the negative mom, the downer who likes to do everything by the book and always says 'no.' I had such a great Pesach, I reasoned that it was time to return to reality. I felt that Eilat should be another trip, something planned in advance. We did not even have a hotel reservation.
Amir philosophized that he wanted to live life as if each day were his last. This is hard to argue against, especially living here in the Middle East. I agreed to go but was too embarrassed to mention this plan to anyone, as I knew this would further confirm that we were complete lunatics.
We had a great Shabbat. We did havdalah, cleaned up and I threw some things in a few suitcases. We did not have bathing suits, sunscreen or flip flops. Tzfat is still in winter mode. I was wearing winter boots and a warm woolen shawl. We threw some pillows in the car and the kids jumped in wearing their pyjamas.
At 11:45 we left Sfat, heading down to highway 4. Soon after, I realized that our map book was in a friend’s car. Here we were, hurtling south on the deepest dark highways, and we had no map. We had no hotel reservations. We had no common sense. I had made us some strong Turkish coffee to keep us awake, but the sheer fear of travelling on these roads in the middle of the night was enough to keep my adrenalin pulsing. After 10 minutes of driving, Amir said he felt tired. I, who does not like to drive at night without street lights, could not take up the wheel. I reacted by simply biting my nails.
No gas stations were open, save for the self-serve kind. That meant no coffee and no map. Luckily, before Beer Sheva, we saw a sign for Eilat. I was elated. But this feeling did not last for long. We left the lights and civilization of BeerSheva behind and drove into the dark, lonely desert.
We had no water, no food, no map (think I already mentioned this). My imagination went wild. Of course I had to pee. But any thoughts of stopping beside the road were quickly dispelled. I imagined scorpions in the sand, yellow eyes of wolves, old Bedouin men hiding behind rocks.
To stir things up and make this trip even more exciting, Amir decided to pull over and turn out the headlights. He got out of the car and asked us all to gaze up at the stars. I craned my neck for a millisecond but could not get into the mood of looking for new galaxies. I was probably hyperventilating. I looked out the window and saw a pair of yellow eyes glaring at me. “Wolf!” I screamed. Everyone looked up and we saw a do like thing looking in at us. Not very menacing, but it was still wildlife.
Amir stretched, looked longingly at his favorite constellation and got back in behind the wheel. The road descended and twisted, turned and contorted. It is a hard enough drive in the day, when you can see for miles. But at night, when one is tired and one has no map (did I mention this?!) and no water, it is a different story. I watched the minutes on the car clock go by. It was 1:18, 2:36, 3:48, then 4:02. I waited for the sun to rise as if the night were some wicked spell. By 4:30, we actually arrived in Eilat.
Thankfully, the road was signposted the whole way. We drove to our favorite hotel and Amir found us a room. It would not be available until 10 am. No problem. I felt safe. I was in a parking back in civilization. I was relieved and thankful for arriving safely. By 6 pm, we went to the pool and lay on beach chairs until the sun’s rays reached us. I was cranky and felt hung over.
We heard the first birds squawking in the palms. We watched the life guards scrub the walls of the pool, and saw the the towel guys set up their kiosk, taking warm fluffy towels off carts. The hotel slowly come to life. We saw the first guests wake and deftly save a row of seats, placing sun screen and draping novels across the chairs. They were wearing sandals and bathing suits. They were on a beach vacation.
I was a refugee from the depths of the desert, still wearing my winter clothes from Sfat. Luckily I had a toothbrush and toothpaste in my purse. I went into the lobby to find the rest room and ran into Donna and Alan. Donna looked as if she had seen a ghost – I probably looked like one. She was shocked and, yes, she probably felt confirmed that we were lunatics.
By nine am, the hotel gave us our room. Amir and I wanted to sleep. The kids wanted to go to the pool. They wanted to buy bathing suits, they wanted candy, they wanted goggles, they wanted flip flops; in short, they wanted to be on vacation. Despite their pleas, I still wanted to sleep.
By noon, Amir and I felt like we could face the world and we had a real vacation-like day: swimming in the pool, a bit of shopping, and dinner out with our friends.
Splitting of the Sea
April 15 - Splitting of the Sea
The downside of chol hamoed: you finally get a taste of sunshine and freedom and then it’s back to the kitchen, cooking for yet another yom tov!
This Pesach, we were a team of many cooks, so we got the job done fast. The Yom Tov that marks the seventh day of Pesach signifies the time when the Jews reached the Sea of Reeds and when it miraculously split, allowing them to cross safely. We are told that this happened around midnight.
After dinner that night, we gathered for a Torah shiur given by Mordechai Zeller in the Sarraya. It started around 9:30 and despite the late starting time, many people were there, eager to learn. We were all tired, but the class was fascinating. Just before midnight, Mordechai asked us all to go outside. The wind was blowing. It was stormy and cold. There had been some lightning earlier on. The weather was very fitting as the Torah tells us that before the splitting of the sea, the wind raged and raged.
We huddled outside in the wind. Mordechai asked us to form two lines, one of men and one of women. We must have been close to fifty people, all miraculously awake in the depths of the night. We linked arms and he told us to imagine that each line was either side of the split sea, a sort of supporting wall. We were to individually pass through this line, thinking about how we want to be transformed. Just as the Jews left Egypt and a life of slavery, we too must leave behind those things that keep us in a sort of personal bondage. The journey through the sea and to the other side, he explained, was a trip across the subconscious, a kind of rebirth.
We were all silent as each person took their journey. It was an amazing opportunity, a markedly Tsfat moment, although I found it to be a bit intimidating. If only self-growth could be so easy!
The downside of chol hamoed: you finally get a taste of sunshine and freedom and then it’s back to the kitchen, cooking for yet another yom tov!
This Pesach, we were a team of many cooks, so we got the job done fast. The Yom Tov that marks the seventh day of Pesach signifies the time when the Jews reached the Sea of Reeds and when it miraculously split, allowing them to cross safely. We are told that this happened around midnight.
After dinner that night, we gathered for a Torah shiur given by Mordechai Zeller in the Sarraya. It started around 9:30 and despite the late starting time, many people were there, eager to learn. We were all tired, but the class was fascinating. Just before midnight, Mordechai asked us all to go outside. The wind was blowing. It was stormy and cold. There had been some lightning earlier on. The weather was very fitting as the Torah tells us that before the splitting of the sea, the wind raged and raged.
We huddled outside in the wind. Mordechai asked us to form two lines, one of men and one of women. We must have been close to fifty people, all miraculously awake in the depths of the night. We linked arms and he told us to imagine that each line was either side of the split sea, a sort of supporting wall. We were to individually pass through this line, thinking about how we want to be transformed. Just as the Jews left Egypt and a life of slavery, we too must leave behind those things that keep us in a sort of personal bondage. The journey through the sea and to the other side, he explained, was a trip across the subconscious, a kind of rebirth.
We were all silent as each person took their journey. It was an amazing opportunity, a markedly Tsfat moment, although I found it to be a bit intimidating. If only self-growth could be so easy!
Hiking Nahal Amud
April 14 - Hiking Nahal Amud
One day during chol hamoed we hiked Nachal Amud with the thousands. We usually have these beautiful trails to ourselves but chol hamoed Pesach is prime hiking time for Israelis.
They turn out with their babies wrapped in bundles or peeking out of back packs, teetering toddlers who have just learned to walk, elderly parents and even very pregnant women. They walk in crocs, sandals and high heels. They come with matzoh sandwiches, matzoh pizza and matzoh brie. And all they come with a matzav ruach, a happy spirit. Israelis are simply happy to be out in nature, to be together, to be walking this land in the beautiful spring season.
One of my favorite moments, which made me smile during a rather challenging uphill trek, was hearing a young girl skipping downhill, reciting verses from ‘Echad mi Yodea.’ Only in Israel.
Chol Hamoed and Etti Ankri
April 13 - Etti Ankri On Stage
The first evening of Chol Hamoed, we went to the Yigal Alon Centre for a women’s only concert. I love events for women as I find them very empowering. The centre holds around 700 people and I think they crammed in many more than this.
I had never been in a place with so many religious women before. Some wore hats and some wore head scarves tied in the most creative ways. There was a certain beauty and dignity to these women. By the time the concert started, people were standing in the aisles, sitting on the stairs and even sitting cross-legged on the stage. There is no way any Canadian theatre would have permitted such a thing. But this is Israel and these women travelled far to be here.
Many looked at if they had once come from Gush Katif. They were wearing colourful headdresses, long flowing skirts and sandals and looked like they were around eighteen, all moms, with babies either strapped to their backs or to their fronts. They glowed with youth, beauty and strength.
I remember how paranoid I was when my babies were small and how I would never take them anywhere for fear that they would cry or would want to feed. One woman actually sat on the stage the whole time, clapping to the music while nursing her baby under a shawl. There is a zest for life and an endurance in this country like no other place on earth.
We all said the sephirat ha'omer blessing together and then a woman came on stage with a large tambourine, holding it gently against her pregnant tummy. Her voice was loud. Pure. Strong. She started to sway gracefully. It was mesmerizing. She looked like Miriam who sang after the splitting of the sea. The women went wild. They sang along. They stood up and danced. I was so honored to be a witness to this.
A rebbetzin named Yemima Mizrachi then stood up and gave a Torah shiur that had a touch of stand-up comedy - although I think I missed every punch line due to my inept Hebrew. The women laughed along with her non-stop yet came away with new depths of understanding about the sephirat ha’omer.
And then the main act: Etti Ankri. She was once a double platinum award winning singer and actress who turned religious eight years ago. Now she can only perform in front of women. Her band, a male guitarist and a drummer, were hidden behind a mechitza (screen) so that women could feel free to dance. She came on stage with a headscarf wrapped and tied up and wearing a gold shimmery dress that covered her from head to toe. She looked like some exotic queen.
I think about how women singers in popular culture try to aspire to having thin bodies just to show them off. They then perform wearing as little as possible. The audience becomes more glued to the women’s bodies than to listening to the music. It is almost as if these fans come to idolize and worship only the physical aspect of the performance. I have no idea how a semi-naked woman can enhance music.
Etti Ankri looked dignified, soulful and strong. Her songs were meaningful, deep, emotional. They were about the spiritual world and about striving to be more connected. She also told a few beautiful religious stories. The evening was transformative. I was fascinated by her songs and by her own journey of transformation from the world of rock to this deeper place.
The first evening of Chol Hamoed, we went to the Yigal Alon Centre for a women’s only concert. I love events for women as I find them very empowering. The centre holds around 700 people and I think they crammed in many more than this.
I had never been in a place with so many religious women before. Some wore hats and some wore head scarves tied in the most creative ways. There was a certain beauty and dignity to these women. By the time the concert started, people were standing in the aisles, sitting on the stairs and even sitting cross-legged on the stage. There is no way any Canadian theatre would have permitted such a thing. But this is Israel and these women travelled far to be here.
Many looked at if they had once come from Gush Katif. They were wearing colourful headdresses, long flowing skirts and sandals and looked like they were around eighteen, all moms, with babies either strapped to their backs or to their fronts. They glowed with youth, beauty and strength.
I remember how paranoid I was when my babies were small and how I would never take them anywhere for fear that they would cry or would want to feed. One woman actually sat on the stage the whole time, clapping to the music while nursing her baby under a shawl. There is a zest for life and an endurance in this country like no other place on earth.
We all said the sephirat ha'omer blessing together and then a woman came on stage with a large tambourine, holding it gently against her pregnant tummy. Her voice was loud. Pure. Strong. She started to sway gracefully. It was mesmerizing. She looked like Miriam who sang after the splitting of the sea. The women went wild. They sang along. They stood up and danced. I was so honored to be a witness to this.
A rebbetzin named Yemima Mizrachi then stood up and gave a Torah shiur that had a touch of stand-up comedy - although I think I missed every punch line due to my inept Hebrew. The women laughed along with her non-stop yet came away with new depths of understanding about the sephirat ha’omer.
And then the main act: Etti Ankri. She was once a double platinum award winning singer and actress who turned religious eight years ago. Now she can only perform in front of women. Her band, a male guitarist and a drummer, were hidden behind a mechitza (screen) so that women could feel free to dance. She came on stage with a headscarf wrapped and tied up and wearing a gold shimmery dress that covered her from head to toe. She looked like some exotic queen.
I think about how women singers in popular culture try to aspire to having thin bodies just to show them off. They then perform wearing as little as possible. The audience becomes more glued to the women’s bodies than to listening to the music. It is almost as if these fans come to idolize and worship only the physical aspect of the performance. I have no idea how a semi-naked woman can enhance music.
Etti Ankri looked dignified, soulful and strong. Her songs were meaningful, deep, emotional. They were about the spiritual world and about striving to be more connected. She also told a few beautiful religious stories. The evening was transformative. I was fascinated by her songs and by her own journey of transformation from the world of rock to this deeper place.
Hallel During Chol Hamoed
April 12 - Chol Hamoed
With the combination of the special Birkat Hachama festival, the spring weather and the incredible choices of tiyulim in the north, there was too much choice of things to do during chol hamoed! We wanted to do everything, yet we only had a few days to fit it all in.
Each morning of chol hamoed, the Beirav shul was doing a special hallel service outdoors in the courtyard of the Sarraya. Chairs were arranged outside in the old courtyard, a place that once the headquarters of the Turks and Brits. Now it was peaceful with flourishing palms, the fronds simmering in the sunshine. A few lofty pine trees towered overhead, the needles shusshing in the cool spring wind.
We all stood silently through the shemonah esrei, heads bowed. Then a violin bow was smoothed, guitars were tuned and a trumpet gleamed in the sun. Hallel became a symphony. We had the honor of hearing a professional violinist, a trumpeter complete with streimel and capote who sounded like a frum mariachi. A few guitarists were hooked up to a sound system, adding richness to the Carlebach tunes. We could not sit still with such glorious song abounding.
We all started to sway, clap and eventually we broke loose into dance. Every moment was so special, so joyous, so rich and so Tzfat. I did not want it to end. It was a brilliant, inspiring start to the day. I only wish everyone could have experienced this beautiful, soulful connection of music and prayer. And, of course, I forgot to bring my camera!
With the combination of the special Birkat Hachama festival, the spring weather and the incredible choices of tiyulim in the north, there was too much choice of things to do during chol hamoed! We wanted to do everything, yet we only had a few days to fit it all in.
Each morning of chol hamoed, the Beirav shul was doing a special hallel service outdoors in the courtyard of the Sarraya. Chairs were arranged outside in the old courtyard, a place that once the headquarters of the Turks and Brits. Now it was peaceful with flourishing palms, the fronds simmering in the sunshine. A few lofty pine trees towered overhead, the needles shusshing in the cool spring wind.
We all stood silently through the shemonah esrei, heads bowed. Then a violin bow was smoothed, guitars were tuned and a trumpet gleamed in the sun. Hallel became a symphony. We had the honor of hearing a professional violinist, a trumpeter complete with streimel and capote who sounded like a frum mariachi. A few guitarists were hooked up to a sound system, adding richness to the Carlebach tunes. We could not sit still with such glorious song abounding.
We all started to sway, clap and eventually we broke loose into dance. Every moment was so special, so joyous, so rich and so Tzfat. I did not want it to end. It was a brilliant, inspiring start to the day. I only wish everyone could have experienced this beautiful, soulful connection of music and prayer. And, of course, I forgot to bring my camera!
Erev Pesach
Erev Pesach - April 8
My mid morning, our kitchen was full of energetic cooks. We had a team of champion gefilte fish makers chopping up mounds of onions and reviving an ancient family secret in a huge pot. Our daughters were chopping vegetables and baking delicious cakes and squares. Soup was simmering, vegetables were roasting, and dozens of eggs were boiling. The dining room table was set, complete with seder plate and name cards. And our prize table for best questions and answers was on display. This created lots of interest from the children, who became instantly motivated to participate in the upcoming seder.
We all lit candles, welcoming Pesach; this wonderful festival spent in our new home in Sfat, ushered in with the beautiful birchat hachama from this very morning.
My mid morning, our kitchen was full of energetic cooks. We had a team of champion gefilte fish makers chopping up mounds of onions and reviving an ancient family secret in a huge pot. Our daughters were chopping vegetables and baking delicious cakes and squares. Soup was simmering, vegetables were roasting, and dozens of eggs were boiling. The dining room table was set, complete with seder plate and name cards. And our prize table for best questions and answers was on display. This created lots of interest from the children, who became instantly motivated to participate in the upcoming seder.
We all lit candles, welcoming Pesach; this wonderful festival spent in our new home in Sfat, ushered in with the beautiful birchat hachama from this very morning.
The Power of Bircat Hachama
April 8 - The Power of Bircat Hachama
This special blessing is recited once every 28 years, when the sun completes a cycle and returns to the same position as it was on the day of creation. And this year, it fell on erev Pesach. This day is very significant as historically, the sun was in this very position on two other days in Jewish history: Yitziat Mizraim (the day the Jews departed Egypt) and just following the redemption of the Jews in Persia as we are told in the story in Megillat Esther.
As you can imagine, this event was anticipated for close to a year by many. People attended classes on the phenomenon, movies were shown, books were sold. There was a excitement leading up to this day that almost took on a messianic fervour in some circles. In Tfsat, a week-long sun festival was held, starting with this very blessing atop the metsuda, the old fort. The highest point in Sfat was once an old fortress castle. It is in ruins as are many fortresses, but the views are magnificent. On a clear day, I can make out the monastery sitting atop the peak of Har Tavor. The heart-shaped Kinnereth is in view as is the town of Tiberias.
That morning, we set our alarms for 5 am, made a strong Turkish coffee and walked up to the metsuda for 6 am, the start of Shacharit. Buses lined the road, having brought passengers and tourists from all around. I couldn’t imagine what time they had to wake up to see this sunrise – but I could imagine many weary people falling asleep in their soup bowls at the seder that night.
There were chairs set up, a microphone and a mechitza. Aviva and I preferred the hillside with a few rocks for our seats and grass and wildflowers for our feet. We sat quietly and gazed across the mountains, waiting for the sun to peak over. Many others chose to be alone and sat davening, meditating and singing in the early morning light. It was promising to be another clear day. We saw tour a religious your guide speaking to a group of non-religious Israelis, explaining the significance of this moment to them and saying the blessing with them. The group was focused and excited, holding onto his every word.
And then the moment came. I think it was 6:17. We saw a glint come over the mountain top in front of us. We said: "Blessed are You, LORD, our God, King of the Universe who makes the works of Creation."
This is the same blessing that we use when we see lightning, comets and all other natural wonders. I did not know what to expect at this moment, but I feel that the invested energy of all Jews greeting the sun the world over on this day must raise the level of God consciousness. There was great joy and unity atop our metsuda in Sfat. People hugged. They danced and they sang. Some planted trees as a symbol of the unity of the twelve tribes. We then all made our way home to prepare for the seder. I felt energized and elated but, yes, I still needed another Turkish coffee.
This special blessing is recited once every 28 years, when the sun completes a cycle and returns to the same position as it was on the day of creation. And this year, it fell on erev Pesach. This day is very significant as historically, the sun was in this very position on two other days in Jewish history: Yitziat Mizraim (the day the Jews departed Egypt) and just following the redemption of the Jews in Persia as we are told in the story in Megillat Esther.
As you can imagine, this event was anticipated for close to a year by many. People attended classes on the phenomenon, movies were shown, books were sold. There was a excitement leading up to this day that almost took on a messianic fervour in some circles. In Tfsat, a week-long sun festival was held, starting with this very blessing atop the metsuda, the old fort. The highest point in Sfat was once an old fortress castle. It is in ruins as are many fortresses, but the views are magnificent. On a clear day, I can make out the monastery sitting atop the peak of Har Tavor. The heart-shaped Kinnereth is in view as is the town of Tiberias.
That morning, we set our alarms for 5 am, made a strong Turkish coffee and walked up to the metsuda for 6 am, the start of Shacharit. Buses lined the road, having brought passengers and tourists from all around. I couldn’t imagine what time they had to wake up to see this sunrise – but I could imagine many weary people falling asleep in their soup bowls at the seder that night.
There were chairs set up, a microphone and a mechitza. Aviva and I preferred the hillside with a few rocks for our seats and grass and wildflowers for our feet. We sat quietly and gazed across the mountains, waiting for the sun to peak over. Many others chose to be alone and sat davening, meditating and singing in the early morning light. It was promising to be another clear day. We saw tour a religious your guide speaking to a group of non-religious Israelis, explaining the significance of this moment to them and saying the blessing with them. The group was focused and excited, holding onto his every word.
And then the moment came. I think it was 6:17. We saw a glint come over the mountain top in front of us. We said: "Blessed are You, LORD, our God, King of the Universe who makes the works of Creation."
This is the same blessing that we use when we see lightning, comets and all other natural wonders. I did not know what to expect at this moment, but I feel that the invested energy of all Jews greeting the sun the world over on this day must raise the level of God consciousness. There was great joy and unity atop our metsuda in Sfat. People hugged. They danced and they sang. Some planted trees as a symbol of the unity of the twelve tribes. We then all made our way home to prepare for the seder. I felt energized and elated but, yes, I still needed another Turkish coffee.
Pesach In Tzfat
I’m just trying to get back to earth after experiencing an incredible Pesach. The day to day life is so ‘normal’ and strange after our wildly busy but fulfilling Pesach vacation. It all started with the regular pre-Pesach preparations, but this time with a twist. We were spending our first Passover in our home in Tsfat. We really felt Pesach was in the air in a very intense way.
In Tzfat, it feels like spring is in the air. The skies are a fresh deep blue and a breeze is blowing strong, helping with the cleaning in its own way, drying off the drapes, tablecloths, bedding. The grape vines are bursting forth, shooting out a collection of fresh leaves each day, and twisting along banisters, rocky walls and up posts. I was able to harness some new shoots just in time, trying to redirect them in a horizontal line. Last year, our grapes grew straight down – not a bad position if one is lying prone and wants to much on a bunch with the twist of a wrist.
April 1 – Pesach Preparations
As each day passed, bringing the holiday that much closer, the cleaning in the neighboring homes picked up with a frenzy. In the old city, homes are very close together, windows are wide open and soapy water is spilled onto the cobbled sidewalks. There is a pervasive smell of bleach in the alleys. Every visible surface is scrubbed and then covered in either plastic or foil.
Young children were out of school and playing outside, throwing around a ball, scooting on their bikes and dearly chewing pieces of pita from small plastic bags, banished from bringing the chametz inside. The kids are all excited, practicing their Pesach songs with each other. The older ones are busy helping the moms, sweeping out the courtyards, hanging up the laundry, hauling out the boxes of Passover dishes and polishing the silver. One day, I saw four baby strollers scrubbed shining in the sun, drying off on a rooftop. People also use this time to get rid off garbage, old clothing, broken shelves, chairs - even couches. Luckily the new mayor is on top of garbage in Sfat these days. And the trucks come around daily in the early morning hours, picking up everyone’s discarded junk.
The regular Wednesday morning market became a twice a week affair and was so crowded it was almost impossible to pull my granny like shopping cart through. My kids keep telling me how uncool I am bumping over the cobbled streets with my yucky green plaid cart. But I feel like I am part of the scenery – except fort those totally cool Ethiopian women who place all of the bags and bundles atop their heads and then march uphill without missing a beat.
Market vendors were aggressively selling their wares and buyers were scrutinizing every agura they spent. Our list was long and detailed and we basically bought everything in this one outdoor market: vegetables, nuts, silver foil, pans, glass cups, garlic press, scrubbers, needles and thread, Passover afikoman prizes, and a large, very daunting piece of horseradish for the seder plate. We even picked up some clothes for the children – paying 10 shekels for shirts and skirts!
As we returned home with the masses of other shoppers, I noticed that the midrechov, the main street was bustling. Stores were so full, their wares spilled onto the streets. The most conspicuous item was shelf paper. Large rolls of plastic in all colors and designs sat in huge rolls on the sidewalk. A man with a pair of scissors stood by the rolls and took people’s orders. Plastic containers in all shapes and sizes were another big seller. And as Shabbat Hagadol passed and kitchens were koshered, the smells of brisket and chicken soup wafted into the streets. Families all went out to dinner, grabbing pizza and falafel as if it were the last bit of dough they would ever eat.
We too did our part, dividing and conquering till the house was gleaming. Scrubbing floors, wiping windows, boiling water to kasher the counters, cleaning the fridge and ovens and stove top, taking things apart till the point where we didn’t think we could reassemble them. And when we were too exhausted to move, we still did not stop. Now it was time to cook for the Yom Tov in our ‘brand-new’ kitchen. We also had guests arriving and who would be helping in the cooking and festivities. They arrived the day before Pesach, arriving with matzoh, grape juice, more veggies and fish. The momentum was building in this sleepy town. But we still had to reserve our energy – we had to be up erev pesach at 5 am to greet the sun.
April 30, 2009
Preparing for Pesach Tzfati-style
In Tzfat, it feels like spring is in the air. The skies are a fresh deep blue and a breeze is blowing strong, helping with the cleaning in its own way, drying off the drapes, tablecoths, bedding. The grape vines are bursting forth, shooting out a collection of fresh leaves each day, and twisting along banisters, rocky walls and up posts. I was able to harness some new shoots just in time, trying to redirect them in a horizontal line. Last year, our grapes grew straight down – not a bad position if one is lying prone and wants to much on a bunch with the twist of a wrist.
April 1 – Pesach Preparations
As each day passed, bringing the holiday that much closer, the cleaning in the neighboring homes picked up with a frenzy. In the old city, homes are very close together, windows are wide open and soapy water is spilled onto the cobbled sidewalks. There is a pervasive smell of bleach in the alleys. Every visible surface is scrubbed and then covered in either plastic or foil.
Young children were out of school and playing outside, throwing around a ball, scooting on their bikes and dearly chewing pieces of pita from small plastic bags, banished from bringing the chametz inside. The kids are all excited, practicing their Pesach songs with each other. The older ones are busy helping the moms, sweeping out the courtyards, hanging up the laundry, hauling out the boxes of Passover dishes and polishing the silver. One day, I saw four baby strollers scrubbed shining in the sun, drying off on a rooftop. People also use this time to get rid off garbage, old clothing, broken shelves, chairs - even couches. Lukily the new mayor is on top of garbage in Sfat these days. And the trucks come around daily in the early morning hours, picking up everyone’s discarded junk.
The regular Wednesday morning market became a twice a week affair and was so crowded it was almost impossible to pull my granny like shopping cart through. My kids keep telling me how uncool I am bumping over the cobbled streets with my yucky green plaid cart. But I feel like I am part of the scenery – except fort those totally cool Ethiopian women who place all of the bags and bundles atop their heads and then march uphill without missing a beat.
Market vendors were aggressively selling their wares and buyers were scrutinizing every agura they spent. Our list was long and detailed and we basically bought everything in this one outdoor market: vegetables, nuts, silver foil, pans, glass cups, garlic press, scrubbers, needles and thread, Passover afikoman prizes, and a large, very daunting piece of horseradish for the seder plate. We even picked up some clothes for the children – paying 10 shekels for shirts and skirts!
As we returned home with the masses of other shoppers, I noticed that the midrechov, the main street was bustling. Stores were so full, their wares spilled onto the streets. The most conspicuous item was shelf paper. Large rolls of plastic in all colors and designs sat in huge rolls on the sidewalk. A man with a pair of scissors stood by the rolls and took people’s orders. Plastic containers in all shapes and sizes were another big seller. And as Shabbat Hagadol passed and kitchens were kashered, the smells of brisket and chicken soup wafted into the streets. Families all went out to dinner, grabbing pizza and falafel as if it were the last bit of dough they would ever eat.
We too did our part, dividing and conquering till the house was gleaming. Scrubbing floors, wiping windows, boiling water to kasher the counters, cleaning the fridge and ovens and stove top, taking things apart till the point where we didn’t think we could reassemble them. And when we were too exhausted to move, we still did not stop. Now it was time to cook for the Yom Tov in our ‘brand-new’ kitchen. We also had guests arriving and who would be helping in the cooking and festivities. They arrived the day before Pesach, arriving with matzoh, grape juice, more veggies and fish. The momentum was building in this sleepy town. But we still had to reserve our energy – we had to be up erev pesach at 5 am to greet the sun.
Purim has come and gone.
Purim has come and gone. It budded just after Tu B’Shvat in February with the appearance of costumes and candy, then sent out tendrils that quickly gathered momentum, smothering everything in site.
Candy baskets spilled from stores out onto the streets, children started celebrating in school, all day, every day. And Purim was still one week away. Kids had days when they became the principals and teachers, meting out creative punishments to the students. The schools held fairs, music blasting onto the streets. They held carnivals and made haunted houses. They went on field trips and baked hamentaschen. They had fun and, yet again, they did not learn.
Finally, the day before Purim, all kids from kita aleph to yud bet (grades 1-12) came to school in costume with one special mishloach manot to give to a class mate. I happened to be out walking my dog that morning and I saw it all; the kindergarten Spidermen and Batmen, their capes flying through the air; the little princesses and ladybugs; the primary school pirates and sailors; and then the high school pornographic display. I am still shocked by what I saw parading along the streets: spiked spray painted hair; shirtless boys covered in black body paint, girls with skirts hiked high and shirts pulled down low. One girl was wearing a costume of breasts with one complete plastic breast hanging out for display. She was dropped off by a parent driving an SUV and then shamelessly walked into the school. A teacher who was waiting outside laughed along with the girl.
But let me go back a few days to the Purim Parade. The Friday before Purim, many cities in Israel host a huge parade. School kids practice for this for months. They rehearse dances, music and make costumes and floats - and no, they are not in class learning. In Ra'anana, each school is represented in the parade, as well as bands and music schools. Flags are draped everywhere. The main street is then closed off to traffic, loudspeakers are placed above, and police stand on every corner.
The first year I was here, I was very excited and watched with enthusiasm. Wow. A parade for Purim. Not the Santa Claus Parade but a real parade celebrating a Jewish Holiday. I was enthralled. The second year, I saw it a bit differently. I watched the spectators from a café. I saw young girls dressed as provocative angels (what an oxymoron), their short fluffy skirts bopping in tandem with their fluffy halos. There were girls dressed up as nurses, once again in short, short skirts and high heels. I saw how they were walking and acting and I knew they were not out on the street to celebrate Purim; instead, they were out feasting their hormones. And then I looked at the floats. Not one float had any connection with Purim. There was no Esther, no Mordechai, not even a hamentaschen. It was a celebration of talent.
I also noticed that my kids’ Hareidi-style school was not in the parade. By the third Purim here, I knew what to expect. And so did the school. The school planned a field trip outside the city. The busses whisked the kids away before the parade began and they returned only to see the street cleaners sweeping up the tinsel. As for me, I stayed far from the madding crowd.
The irony here is that the scene on the street is perhaps akin to the party that Achasverosh held in Shushan. In the Purim story, Jews were not supposed to be celebrating in such a way, but they wanted to And so they went. And they ate be a part of it and wanted to be like everyone else.and drank, forgetting who they really are.
And then I began to wonder how many Jews at these parades really remember what they are celebrating – and whether they understand the significance of it today. Do they realize that we have a modern Haman living in what was then Persia, who again wants to destroy our nation? Do they know what saved the Jews then from impending destruction? Do they understand the modesty and dignity of Esther? Do they look for the hidden miracles in their lives and see the workings of G-d in the world? Do they really value their heritage? Or, do they prefer to be like every other Western nation?
February 26, 2009
Hiking the Golan and the Talmudic Town of Devorah
Even though this was written during Pesach, 2007, the trails are still there, beckoning hikers.
Chol HaMoed Pesach is a special time for all Israelis. The children are off school and most parents take time off work to be with their families and to tour this magnificent country.
We headed to the Golan. After a rather late start, we drove north, eventually arriving at Gan Hashlosha, also known as Sachne. Set in the Beit Shean Valley, these natural pools and waterfalls look like a tropical oasis. And the water was surprisingly warm. Apparently, it stays at 28 degrees C year-round. Needless to say, every one of our kids had a totally amazing time. When the swimming became boring, they decided to jump off a cliff into the crystal-clear water. And yes, Shaya had to take the plunge after he saw Ariel and Aviva do it. Amir was encouraging while I held my breath and bit my knuckles, wondering how Shaya could be so brave at such a young age. Then they swam to the next pool and submerging under a waterfall – it was sheer fun.
Next we headed to the Golan, arriving at the base of Highway 98. We ascended the Golan Heights, going up and around hairpin turns, and feeling dizzier by the minute. We passed cyclists who seemed exhilarated by this challenging climb. Appreciating their agony, although we don’t think we could ever do such a thing ourselves, Amir gave them a thumbs up as he passed them. We finally made it to the top and the road flattened out smooth as a table top. There we passed deep green fields, ripe with produce. And where the land was not farmed, the fields were filled with wild flowers – a natural paradise.
We found the community of Chispin and our hotel. We had no idea that we had come across a hiker’s paradise until Amir spied a desk in the lobby. Here experts sat, armed with information on trails, flowers, waterfalls and archeological sites. They suggested we hike through Gilaboun and the Devorah Waterfall.
Fully aware that every time we say the word ‘hike’ to our kids, they grunt and roll their eyes, we decided to do it alone. This meant a 5 am wake up so we could be back in time for breakfast with our children.
We were up to it. Amir and I have trekked though India, Nepal, Sulawesi and Guatemala and were itching for some adventure. With four kids, we figured that this was the best we could do.
Up and out by 5 am, I was astounded by how freezing cold it was. The car registered 8 degrees C outside - and I couldn’t even have a hot coffee! We drove in the dark past Katzrin, down a dusty dirt road. On the sides of the road were fences with the words “Danger. Do not enter – land mines.”
We found a parking lot. Amir got out to daven as the sun was just coming up. I was frozen and refused to budge from the car, hoping for the sun would soon thaw me out with its warmth. Ahead, I could see snowy Mount Hermon looming. All around us were abandoned buildings with pock-marked walls. They was once a Syrian army base. I could not figure out why it had not been torn down. The place was eerie but it was a chilling reminder that not so long ago, this was not a very friendly place to be – certainly not a nature reserve.
Amir packed up his tallis and we left our car to look for the trail blazes. The blazes were right there, beckoning for us to follow. We scampered over boulders and back and forth across a river. Rocks and tree branches helped us over the cold water. We climbed until we could get a view of the Devorah Waterfall plunging down a cliff. We then walked up to a plateau filled with ancient stone buildings. This must have been from the times of the Romans. There had been no excavations done here and it was amazing how these houses had stayed in such good form for close to 2,000 years.
Devorah was once a substantial town from the days of the Talmud. We touch the tough walls of the homes, feeling the warmth of the morning sun on our hands. We wander inside a few houses and think about what life must have been like for the Jews here a few thousand years ago, living atop this beautiful plain with views of Hermon and the Galil. Today, it appears to be forgotten. Overgrown. Inhabited by lone cats.
But we are back. We have returned from a long absence and are once again living in and thriving in this special land. We are so fortunate to be here, walking in the very steps of our ancestors.
Chol HaMoed Pesach is a special time for all Israelis. The children are off school and most parents take time off work to be with their families and to tour this magnificent country.
We headed to the Golan. After a rather late start, we drove north, eventually arriving at Gan Hashlosha, also known as Sachne. Set in the Beit Shean Valley, these natural pools and waterfalls look like a tropical oasis. And the water was surprisingly warm. Apparently, it stays at 28 degrees C year-round. Needless to say, every one of our kids had a totally amazing time. When the swimming became boring, they decided to jump off a cliff into the crystal-clear water. And yes, Shaya had to take the plunge after he saw Ariel and Aviva do it. Amir was encouraging while I held my breath and bit my knuckles, wondering how Shaya could be so brave at such a young age. Then they swam to the next pool and submerging under a waterfall – it was sheer fun.
Next we headed to the Golan, arriving at the base of Highway 98. We ascended the Golan Heights, going up and around hairpin turns, and feeling dizzier by the minute. We passed cyclists who seemed exhilarated by this challenging climb. Appreciating their agony, although we don’t think we could ever do such a thing ourselves, Amir gave them a thumbs up as he passed them. We finally made it to the top and the road flattened out smooth as a table top. There we passed deep green fields, ripe with produce. And where the land was not farmed, the fields were filled with wild flowers – a natural paradise.
We found the community of Chispin and our hotel. We had no idea that we had come across a hiker’s paradise until Amir spied a desk in the lobby. Here experts sat, armed with information on trails, flowers, waterfalls and archeological sites. They suggested we hike through Gilaboun and the Devorah Waterfall.
Fully aware that every time we say the word ‘hike’ to our kids, they grunt and roll their eyes, we decided to do it alone. This meant a 5 am wake up so we could be back in time for breakfast with our children.
We were up to it. Amir and I have trekked though India, Nepal, Sulawesi and Guatemala and were itching for some adventure. With four kids, we figured that this was the best we could do.
Up and out by 5 am, I was astounded by how freezing cold it was. The car registered 8 degrees C outside - and I couldn’t even have a hot coffee! We drove in the dark past Katzrin, down a dusty dirt road. On the sides of the road were fences with the words “Danger. Do not enter – land mines.”
We found a parking lot. Amir got out to daven as the sun was just coming up. I was frozen and refused to budge from the car, hoping for the sun would soon thaw me out with its warmth. Ahead, I could see snowy Mount Hermon looming. All around us were abandoned buildings with pock-marked walls. They was once a Syrian army base. I could not figure out why it had not been torn down. The place was eerie but it was a chilling reminder that not so long ago, this was not a very friendly place to be – certainly not a nature reserve.
Amir packed up his tallis and we left our car to look for the trail blazes. The blazes were right there, beckoning for us to follow. We scampered over boulders and back and forth across a river. Rocks and tree branches helped us over the cold water. We climbed until we could get a view of the Devorah Waterfall plunging down a cliff. We then walked up to a plateau filled with ancient stone buildings. This must have been from the times of the Romans. There had been no excavations done here and it was amazing how these houses had stayed in such good form for close to 2,000 years.
Devorah was once a substantial town from the days of the Talmud. We touch the tough walls of the homes, feeling the warmth of the morning sun on our hands. We wander inside a few houses and think about what life must have been like for the Jews here a few thousand years ago, living atop this beautiful plain with views of Hermon and the Galil. Today, it appears to be forgotten. Overgrown. Inhabited by lone cats.
But we are back. We have returned from a long absence and are once again living in and thriving in this special land. We are so fortunate to be here, walking in the very steps of our ancestors.
Small Signs of Having Arrived
Just found this little piece from way back and had to post it.
I know that we have arrived. Every so often I get a sign. Just last Shabbat, as we were walking home from shul, Shaya took my hand in his and announced, “Ima, after Shabbat, I want to write my name in the earth.”
I was surprised to hear this and after some thought, I realized where this came from. He was reading a book for English class by Sara MacLachlan. The book was about an independent woman called Sarah who is from the east coast who moves to the harsh, arid prairies to be a farmer’s wife. She struggles but cannot commit herself to this hard life. Yet one day, she takes a stick and scrawls the letters S-A-R-A-H into the land. At this moment, she has arrived and she knows that she wants to stay.
As for my little philosopher Shaya, he must be telling me that he feels Israel is his home. I am so touched by his thoughts and his ways of expression.
In fact, just a few days ago, I heard him having a talk with his little sister, Talya. Talya was saying, “Israel is my best country in the whole world.”
“No, Tilly,” Shaya replied in a voice of authority. “Israel is my favourite country in the whole wide world.” And he opened his arms as wide as wide can be.
I know that we have arrived. Every so often I get a sign. Just last Shabbat, as we were walking home from shul, Shaya took my hand in his and announced, “Ima, after Shabbat, I want to write my name in the earth.”
I was surprised to hear this and after some thought, I realized where this came from. He was reading a book for English class by Sara MacLachlan. The book was about an independent woman called Sarah who is from the east coast who moves to the harsh, arid prairies to be a farmer’s wife. She struggles but cannot commit herself to this hard life. Yet one day, she takes a stick and scrawls the letters S-A-R-A-H into the land. At this moment, she has arrived and she knows that she wants to stay.
As for my little philosopher Shaya, he must be telling me that he feels Israel is his home. I am so touched by his thoughts and his ways of expression.
In fact, just a few days ago, I heard him having a talk with his little sister, Talya. Talya was saying, “Israel is my best country in the whole world.”
Classic Israel Moments
“From the sublime to the caw blimey,” is that how it goes?
We are in the car turning onto a highway. We stop at a red light. It is a beautiful evening. The sun is setting and the sky is a mix of purples and pinks. We are all in a thoughtful kind of mood. The car next to us rolls down the window and the guy in the passenger seat yells out something. Two guys are in the back seat and everyone is in hysterics.
We roll down our window and stare at him: maybe he needs directions. He makes these choking sounds and yells out to the world. “Ho Hiflotz!” I recognize this word. Hmm. It takes a minute for me to find the root of this verb and then to conjugate it. Translation: He farted! Only in Israel would one not be too coy to publicize this. And these were not young teenagers – oy va voy.
Now we are biking. Just love to be out on my bike on those warm February days. We bike through some citrus groves and then across a field. We cross a gully and then connect with the road. A car was waiting to pass us just outside a farm. We pass the car and wend our way down a bumpy, dusty dirt road that is closed to traffic. Ten minutes later, we appear on the northwest side of Raanana, close to the park. We keep on biking.
A car pulls up beside Amir and drives alongside him, trying to get his attention. Amir stops and the driver hands him something. It is his bicycle pouch. In it are his house keys, car keys, office keys and his palm pilot, a record of pretty well every important phone number and contact we have.
He realizes that this pouch must have fallen off when he went down the gulley. Now for the driver to actually find this pouch on the ground and then to catch up with us was a feat – we had gone down a road that was not traversable to cars. So for this guy to get back in his car, assume the direction we were taking and then try a longer route to meet up with us is really quite something.
People here will really go out of their way to help. These are moments when we realize that we are all one big family and deep down, people really care. And since we are one big family, perhaps this is the reason there are so few cultural boundaries in Israel: case in point is the flotz scene above, performed unabashedly as if the guy were in his own house.
Postscript: Amir actually lost his phone again later on that day. We were in a store and quite a while after we had left, he realized that his phone was gone. He retraced his steps and they handed it back to us at the counter. Phew!
We are in the car turning onto a highway. We stop at a red light. It is a beautiful evening. The sun is setting and the sky is a mix of purples and pinks. We are all in a thoughtful kind of mood. The car next to us rolls down the window and the guy in the passenger seat yells out something. Two guys are in the back seat and everyone is in hysterics.
We roll down our window and stare at him: maybe he needs directions. He makes these choking sounds and yells out to the world. “Ho Hiflotz!” I recognize this word. Hmm. It takes a minute for me to find the root of this verb and then to conjugate it. Translation: He farted! Only in Israel would one not be too coy to publicize this. And these were not young teenagers – oy va voy.
Now we are biking. Just love to be out on my bike on those warm February days. We bike through some citrus groves and then across a field. We cross a gully and then connect with the road. A car was waiting to pass us just outside a farm. We pass the car and wend our way down a bumpy, dusty dirt road that is closed to traffic. Ten minutes later, we appear on the northwest side of Raanana, close to the park. We keep on biking.
A car pulls up beside Amir and drives alongside him, trying to get his attention. Amir stops and the driver hands him something. It is his bicycle pouch. In it are his house keys, car keys, office keys and his palm pilot, a record of pretty well every important phone number and contact we have.
He realizes that this pouch must have fallen off when he went down the gulley. Now for the driver to actually find this pouch on the ground and then to catch up with us was a feat – we had gone down a road that was not traversable to cars. So for this guy to get back in his car, assume the direction we were taking and then try a longer route to meet up with us is really quite something.
People here will really go out of their way to help. These are moments when we realize that we are all one big family and deep down, people really care. And since we are one big family, perhaps this is the reason there are so few cultural boundaries in Israel: case in point is the flotz scene above, performed unabashedly as if the guy were in his own house.
Postscript: Amir actually lost his phone again later on that day. We were in a store and quite a while after we had left, he realized that his phone was gone. He retraced his steps and they handed it back to us at the counter. Phew!
February 19, 2009
Dog Walking – A Perilous Pursuit
The newest addition to my morning routine: walking the children to school and taking along the dog. This sounds like a wonderful, relaxing family outing and a healthy start to one’s day - especially when the weather is ideal. Crisp sunny mornings are a February specialty here in Israel.
But first let me define the terms.
Morning
Every school day, we wake up early. But no matter how early we get up, the clock seems to race faster than us. I am always scrambling to find socks, shoes, put lunches in school bags, find the house key and Shaya is somehow always finishing his homework (a real stress additive). By the time I look at my watch, it is actually time to be at school and not to be leaving for school.
Dog
I look at our dog happily sleeping on the couch, his head propped on a pillow, his legs sprawled open. I think to myself, do I really want to wake him from his blissful morning nap? Do I really want the added time he will take away from our race to school when he has to lift his leg on every tree and bush he sees? But of course I give in; what’s a walk without the dog? It’s like going to the beach and not eating an ice cream.
Today I jingle the leash and he flies off the couch, gallops across the room and practically flings his neck into the contraption. This is actually his second walk of the day and he can’t believe his luck. We all squeeze out the door at once: children, huge backpacks on wheels, myself and a hyperventilating 60 pound golden retriever.
We live on the first floor of an apartment building, one steep set of stairs from the ground floor. TJ is strong enough to drag a sled across the Arctic Circle so we are careful to pull on his leash and hope he does not make a mad dash down. Otherwise we would start our day in a big tangled heap at the foot of the stairs. TJ starts to pant but stays with the program. Yet once outside, he makes a mad dash for the first peeing apparatus he can see.
Dog Walking
Since our family is far from normal and we like to live on the wild side, we have made dog walking an extreme sport. Holding a leash on one’s side is far too boring for us. We place the leash around the kids’ waist and then they use their body weight to control the dog. It feels a bit like water skiing without the waves.
This morning, Shaya is at the helm. I fasten the leash around his waist and off he goes, flying ahead of us. We catch up at the next pee stop and then off he goes, flying down the sidewalk. Tilly finds this very amusing and laughs the whole way to school, her sky blue Skeechers trotting along in tandem. All is well, although we are now painfully late. I try to run faster than the dog so he will overtake me and thus place Shaya back up front. (Shaya must be part turtle-part Rastafarian as he is not naturally inclined to rush anywhere, no matter how pressing.)
We get to a busy road with a pedestrian crossing, one of the main intersections in our town. It is eight o’çlock and peak traffic time. This intersection is quite beautiful with a palm-lined median separating the two lanes. It is bursting in color with freshly planted purple and pink cyclamen.
Pedestrian CrossingsNow pedestrian crossings are a tricky business in Israel. Drivers do not stop for pedestrians no matter how thick the white lines on the road. They do not discriminate between age, size or height. Most walkers are resigned to simply wait at pedestrian crossings until the traffic clears.
I actually find this behaviour to be very strange. Israel is a country where people are generally assertive and where everyone wants to go first. Why don’t Israeli pedestrians take back the pedestrian crossings for themselves? I guess a few tons of hurtling metal will put down any form of rebellion.
Emigrating from a country where people uphold the laws of the road and respect pedestrians, I am the decidedly assertive pedestrian. Each time we approach a crossing, I give my kids a play by play. “Put your foot out and make eye contact with the driver. Wait until the car stops and then go!”
On this particular morning, I bark out my commands. A woman driver stops. I shout, “Go.” I herd my troupe across the intersection. We make it half way across – to the botanical oasis in the centre. I face a second lane of traffic and a car stops for us. Tilly comes across with me and I look back only to see the dog is running in circles, madly doing his pre-poo dance, chasing his tail and doing aerobatics with his snout. Meanwhile, the traffic is piled up and honking. Tilly is across the road, I am now in the middle, shouting at Shaya. And Shaya is attached to a dog that is trying to find the most perfect cyclamen to dump on. The horns are honking.
I quickly realize that the dogs wins and I return to his paradisiacal toilet of choice, poop bag in hand, waiting for his highness to finish up. Cars are filing by slowly, watching my dog desecrate their gardens. In Israel, everyone has to give you their opinion, especially when you don’t ask for it. And of course, an old man honks his horn at me and shakes his head in disgust. If he had the time, I am sure he would have stopped traffic to get out of his car and lecture me about how vile animals are.
In fact, I have a nasty neighbour who one night passed my and my dog on the street. TJ was having a harmless yet good old sniff in the plants. The neighbour slowed down, rolled down her window and told me that my dog should not pee in the street because his urine poisons the plants. Once I realized the insanity of her comment, I did not act in a composed way. I ran after her car, waving my poop bag at her and calling her crazy. She delighted in the fact that she infuriated me. She simply rolled up her window and sped away. I must have made her day.
I am seriously working hard on being more composed but life’s events happen so quickly, they often take my by surprise.
With composure I tried to clean up after my dog,shuffling the dirt around to look like a good citizen. Why my dog should choose such a place and time is beyond reason. He had his choice of gardens and flowering bushes, all down a quiet, private street. But no, it had to be here – in the centre of town.
Needless to say, we were late for school. We were flustered and sweaty. Shaya was all tied up in the leash and Tilly was tired of laughing. As for TJ, he was grinning from floppy ear to floppy ear.
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