Wildlife window update

I think the doves are nesting in the wildlife window's nesting space. My key pieces of evidence: 1. Yesterday I saw a "changing of the guard" where one arrived and took the other one's place 2. We've been having (at last) some truly torrential rains here and it seems that at least one of the doves stayed with the nest all through the stormy night. This morning it was clearly occupied by one very very wet bird.

I am sorely tempted to open the window and peek, but I don't want to disturb them. It's a little odd to watch them getting soaked when five inches away, on this side of the glass, everything is (relatively) dry. But, while I might in fact peek in once there are baby birds, I hereby publicly state my commitment to resist the temptation to invite any of them inside.

This is a picture of mama or papa bird's tail with a reflection of my hand in the window glass...not my finest photographic moment.

Oh! And the bulbuls are still here too, but they have never seemed interested in that nesting spot. The two species actually just seem to ignore one another (typical urbanites).

Lost cat

What's the difference between a street cat and a pet cat?

People definitely think of street cats as a mass, a horde. They lump them all together, can't tell them apart, see them as pests. I think the ways we view street animals are windows into the way we view anything and anyone whom we have dismissed as "other." They are also windows into what we fear or despise about ourselves. I am especially intrigued by the sense of street cats as indistinguishable from one another. What makes distinguishing possible? What sets one creature apart from any other?

The fact that people have pet cats here in Jerusalem is for me a fine lesson in the constructedness of social reality. It's the same species, but somehow I designate this one (or ones) "mine"and those others as "nothing." And let me be clear that reality's constructedness doesn't necessarily make it any less real. I certainly feel differently about my own kitties, safe at home in Sag Harbor, than I do about the dozens and dozens of cats I see here everyday.

Which brings me to the sign I saw on a parking meter for a lost cat. When you make a "LOST" sign, it's always good to include the creature's distinguishing characteristics. Let's look at these features one at a time:

"Grey with white paws." Again, while many people tend to claim they can't tell street cats apart, this marker is relatively obvious. None of the five or six cats I saw in the alley where the sign was fit the description.

"Fat." It's not surprising that a pet cat would be fatter than a street cat, though I have to say the cats here cover a pretty normal range of cat size and very few look like they are actually starving.

"Skittish." The Hebrew word here פחדן/pachdan/"fearful one" is actually probably best translated colloquially as "scaredy cat." And really, who wouldn't be?

And then came the most striking descriptor: Clearly the cat's most distinguishing feature as far as the people missing it were concerned and yet an attribute that would be hard to see just by looking. Here in a city (and a world for that matter) teaming with the abandoned, the ignored, the uncared-for, a posted adjective to remind me of what really makes the difference, an attribute that I think we ought to try applying to more and more of those we encounter. This gray and white, fat, scaredy cat was also described as "Loved."

An added note: It sounds like it is mating season for the street cats of Jerusalem. I find myself actually looking forward to seeing lots of kittens. Whether feral, wild or somewhere in between --pigeons, for example...are they the descendants of domesticated birds used in the Temple service?-- the animal life of the city helps me connect with innocence in a place where purity seems in short supply. So even though I know that the streets are full of cats (some people would say "overrun" or "overpopulated" but I would not be those people) and those cats are often in rough shape and seem as if they are not well taken care of, even so I look forward to seeing fresh kittens.

Best part of Purim

As Alan's last post indicated there really has been a lot going on! My family's visit (minus some much-missed key players!) was wonderful. In all of my mixed feelings about being here and its joys and challenges, having family here --with me as the main tour guide-- afforded a wonderful opportunity to figure out what I really wanted to share with them of this strange and beautiful country. One real highlight was visiting Kfar Blum, the kibbutz where my brothers and I each spent our tenth-grade year. Our consensus: everything looked smaller except the cows which somehow looked bigger.

Both there and throughout our trip it was amazing to hear Isaac speaking Hebrew!!! That he is as comfortable as he is with the language after relatively little contact with it for over 15 years drove home to me the idea that the true key to speaking a second language is not the size of your vocabulary or the precision of your grammar, but your willingness to engage in the act of opening up your mouth and trying to communicate. And hearing their papa speaking Hebrew definitely sparked Daia and Sadie's interest, at one point leading them to ask, "Papa, how old were you when you started to learn Hebrew?"

So very much more to tell about their visit (and kudus to each one of them for making the journey!) but no sooner had they left than I got on a plane for a quick trip to visit Alan! If a major theme of this year is retracing my steps from 10th grade and healing/fixing various things along the way then indulging in a quick trip back to the States was a big big healing. Left over from that year was the sense that I was somehow "trapped" here and just had to "stick it out." No, the adult me happily remembered, I can come and go as I please (credit card in hand). This has the added benefit of getting a sense of Israel as more accessible: It's not some far off alien territory; it's really just a plane ride away.

I flew back to Israel late Sunday night and would have forgotten that Monday was Ta'anit Esther/the Fast of Esther had I not been reminded of it by a snippet of liturgy that I heard as the Orthodox men began praying all around me on the plane. It's a dawn to dusk fast and, because of the hours lost in flying was a very short "day" indeed. By the time I got home from the airport it was already dark.

Purim was starting to be in evidence on the ride home: here and there a pedestrian in a tiara or a crazy clown wig. But Purim in Jerusalem started a day later (walled city, long story) so I've been in a sort of jet-lag and Purim fog for the last 48 hours or so.

Hands down best part of Purim this year: The משלוח מנות/mishloach manot (customary gifts sent to friends and neighbors on Purim) from Jacob and Tamar. When I finally left the apartment today I found on my doorstep a Roll-Your-Own sushi gift basket complete with bamboo sushi roller, prepared rice, nori, veggies, and --most important of all-- instructions! As you can see from the pictures, my technique will take a lot of work but it was delicious! Definitely the most creative משלוח מנות I've ever heard of. Ingenious! Thoughtful! Yummy!

What's going on

Well, you might think from seeing the lack of posts on this blog that not much has been going on, lately. Nothing could be further from the truth!

The truth, I guess, is that I've been living my life Stateside these days and Minna, still in Israel, has been very busy! She's got a "full house" going right now -- not just her parents visiting (and staying in the apartment at 3 Mivtza Kadesh), but also her brother, her sister-in-law and two young nieces! Just since the younger visitors' arrival on Friday, they've been to the Jerusalem Zoo, the Old City (including the Kotel) and Gilo (where they visited with a friend who is on the Jersualem police force and her family). . . And that's just what I remember!!! (From what Minna has told me.) . . . Tomorrow they're going to visit the Supreme Court (especially exciting for Minna's lawyer dad)!

Meanwhile, the one "Israel-related" thing I've been doing here is continuing to train for the Hazon ride in the Spring (we're going to ride from Tel-Aviv to Eilat, 300 miles!). Today I got back from a two-day training tour of about 85 miles total. It was fun, but _very_ challenging. It's winter here in Pennsylvania. Happily, there was no snow or anything else falling from the sky, but sub-freezing tempatures kept me dreaming about spring in the Negev!

Minna Got a Brand New Bag*

Shabbat is rushing toward me, but I had such a lovely morning that I wanted to share. Not surprisingly, small town girl that I am, what I love most about being here is having mornings like this:
Got up, put tiny computer and a few re-usable shopping bags into my new big red purse,* grabbed the compost and headed out the door. I dumped the compost and went to Duvshanit, my "local." Duvshanit is a family-owned coffeeshop and bakery and they make my favorite challah in town. I have more than once arrived after the last of the challot sold out and have since tried to make a practice of getting there early (8:30 at the very very latest). I got challot and rolls and ordered myself two little cheese bourekas (baked in the kitchen in the back) and a large low-fat cafe hafuch/קפה הפוך which literally means "upside down coffee." If there is a distinction between this and a cappuccino, I don't know what it is.

Then I sat and mostly answered emails and very gratefully wrote thank you notes to folks who had made donations to our Hazon Israel Ride (if you want to give and haven't yet, you can do so by clicking here). I've been enjoying the aspect of fund-raising that involves getting in touch with people I might not otherwise get around to contacting.

After lazily typing away and watching the pre-shabbos crowds rush in and out, I walked back toward my house and went food shopping at Mister Zol.

Now the chicken is in the oven and shabbat is very close! I love being able to walk everywhere and living in a neighborhood where the things I need most (besides Alan and the rest of my family, none of whom are things) are right here.

*This bag was hand-picked with the very able assistance of Jen Klein who is an expert in such matters. I have never developed a purse habit, but with a bag like this, which is not done justice in these pics, I think I could get used to it.

Wildlife update

Thursday evening, walking home from a my Children's Literature class at Machon Schechter, I saw a porcupine! I was walking down the steep hill that leads between some scrubby areas when I heard a rustling in the bushes. When I looked, I saw that one of the bushes was walking! I waited and sure enough, a very large porcupine ambled its way across the road about fifteen feet away from me.

I had recently been thinking about how much I missed seeing skunks in my neighborhood in Boston, and this critter had a similar air about it that said: my apparent cluelessness is simply a measure of my confidence that you, human, have no real interest in getting any closer to me. It was gigantic though! Maybe two and a half feet long!

A woman was walking her dog nearby and after the porcupine was gone I asked her, "What is that called?" and she told me the name in Hebrew: דרבן/Dorban. Then she asked what it was called in English (so much for the "perfect accent" people claim I have).

A little bit of internet research revealed that this was an Indian Crested Porcupine and that they are pretty common here. They are the largest rodent on the Asian continent and can grow up to 3 feet long and weigh up to 35 pounds. The joke/question about how porcupines mate is answered in interesting detail here, but --with apologies to most of our readers-- the entry is in Hebrew only. One tidbit: porcupines are usually monogamous.

Fear -- and awe -- with Women of the Wall

Monday morning I woke up at 5:30am and walked to meet my friend and classmate Emma. Together we walked to the Old City, up the rocky path to the Zion Gate and down to the Western Wall. It's Rosh Hodesh, the new moon marking the beginning of the Hebrew month of Shevat. Every Rosh Hodesh, the Women of the Wall meet to pray together.

A Rosh Hodesh service would typically include morning psalms and prayers, the Hallel service (a set of celebratory psalms used on new moons and festivals), and reading from the Torah. For women praying at the Western Wall, this last part is actually illegal under Israeli law.

It turns out that wearing my tallit was also illegal. I didn't know that it was illegal, but I did know that it felt scary. There were nine of us there, huddled in the back of the women's side of the space in front of the Kotel. I wasn't sure what to expect of this whole experience, so I found myself watching the other women closely for social cues. Emma took out her tallis so I took out mine. And then it hit me: the other women had tallitot that could easily have passed for a scarf or shawl that happened to have fringes on its corners; my tallis is a large rainbow tallis designed by Zalman Schachter-Shalomi. It more or less shouts: "Hello, everybody, I'm wearing a tallis!!!"
I felt fear and hesitation and then I realized that this fear and hesitation is one I have been walking around with since I got off the plane last summer: fear of the scrutiny of my Haredi/ultra-Orthodox brothers and sisters. And, in this context, not only fear of their disapproval, but fear of their violent attack.

This garment that I wear as a reminder of the mitzvot, that I wear to wrap myself in Divine light and love, was now turned into a marker that I could be attacked for wearing. Suddenly not wearing it did not feel like an option. I wrapped myself up and took a moment to let the space underneath its folds be the only space, to let this place itself --regarded as Jews by holy and yet governed by laws which strike me as deeply unholy, as simply wrong-- to let this place itself disappear. To remember that, more that I am subject to Haredi scrutiny, I am also subject to ultimate scrutiny. I chose which master to serve, I tried to let fear melt into awe. And then we prayed.

No one threw anything at us or attacked us physically (though there have certainly been attacks in WoW's 20 year history). Mostly the worst we were subject to was dirty looks. I was reminded of the college course I took on deviance. Jim Monsonis, a favorite professor of mine, had us do a project where we were instructed to "do something mildly deviant and write about it."

When it was time for the Torah reading, we trucked all the way over to Robinson's Arch, a site further south on the wall where men and women can pray together, where women can form a minyan, a site which is freed from the clutches of state-backed ultra-Orthodox control. When I asked why we were moving, one of the women said simply, "Because if we tried to read Torah here, we would be lynched."

I have too many mixed emotions and thoughts to describe here and now but I am very glad that I went.

Meanwhile, back in the States . . .

. . . I went for a (cold!) bike ride, today! (Training for Hazon Spring Israel ride.)

Composting Kavod

This community compost bin is in a little park down the street from my house and directly on my way to Machon Schechter. When Alan found out about it, he was somewhat incredulous that I wasn't taking my compostables there. Turns out that a partner's incredulity can sometimes be a decent motivating tool: I have been bringing my scraps and peels and whatnot to the bin ever since. This morning I combined a trip to the compost bin with my stop at the cafe for challah and coffee (my favorite challah here comes from the bakery/coffeeshop around the corner from me where I am something of a regular).

As I walked into the little park, I noticed an older gentleman seemingly hanging around by the compost bin. He was all bundled up and looked as if he might be...loitering. I realized that I was feeling somewhat unsafe. While street crime, in the sense of muggings and the like, is all but unheard of in Jerusalem, verbal sexual harrassment is much much more common than anywhere else I've ever lived. I haven't encountered anything truly horrendous; it's more of a constant quiet buzz of comments which distracts me from going about my business.

Because of this, I was none too pleased about moving toward the compost bin with my little plastic bag, but I didn't want to throw it in the regular trash or bring its steamy organic contents into the coffee shop. So, I kept going toward the bin and when I passed the bundled-up man he nodded and said slowly, "כל הכבוד/kol ha'kavod" (Literally "all the honor," this phrase is used to mean "Good job" or "Good for you!").

It was deeply refreshing!

On what you can build, not what you destroy

"Know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy." These are the words that (now) President Barack Obama uttered today in a part of his inaugural speech that addressed the Muslim world and critics of the West.

I don't know if Obama had the people of Gaza in mind when he spoke these words, but they certainly came to my mind as I listened to him. The people of America are not the only people who stand at a crossroads. As Israeli troops withdraw from Gaza and its residents start the task of sorting through the rubble, the people of Gaza stand at a crossroads. Which way do they want to go? Do they want to build? Do they want to focus their energies on creating the institutions -- and the economy -- that a successful nation needs? Or do they want to remain focused on destruction and hate? Do they want to continue devoting their energies to following Hamas' professed goal of the destruction of the State of Israel? Do they want to keep on supporting people who use courtyards and alleys right beside their homes and mosques to fire deadly missiles at Israeli civilians? Or are they ready to throw off Hamas' rule (or, alternatively, force Hamas to change its program -- to focus its energies on building Gaza instead of destroying Israel).

______________

I found tears in my eyes throughout Obama's speech and in the moments I saw his face on the television screen beforehand. The tears came from many places, but one was of fear. I looked at Obama's head -- hatless despite the cold, as JFK was hatless at his inauguration -- and thought of what a fragile thing the human body is. So much hope put in that person. And it could all be taken away with a single bullet. I was afraid for Obama and for us. I thought of Martin and Bobby. . . . and of the Russian civil rights lawyer killed just, yesterday. I thought of the courage it takes to work for freedom and change in the face of the possibility of violence. I thought of the courage it takes to choose life, to choose to build, instead of destroy.

It is this courage that I see when I think of the people and nation of Israel; they are very much on my mind these days, especially when I have a loved one there who I left behind just a couple of weeks ago. It pains me so much to know that the impression many have of the State of Israel now -- an impression left by the television images of destruction in Gaza -- is of a state dedicated to destruction. I wish people could see the miracle that is the building of what is now a modern state with an advanced, high-tech economy from what was largely a poor, agricultural nation not so long ago. A building that has been accomplished against so many odds. A building that has happened despite the hate of so many for the Jews and for the state they formed. A building that happened despite so many acts of violence against it. This is a people that long ago chose building over destruction and that would gladly keep its tanks and planes in their sheds if only they could.

______________

After Obama spoke, Elizabeth Alexander delivered a poem that near its end featured a repetition of the word "love" again and again. And then the 87-year old Rev. Joseph Lowery delivered his benediction. His words will probably be most well-remembered for the rhyming he used at the end in depicting a vision of a world where race is no longer an obstacle. But I was most touched a few sentences earlier when he quoted the vision of Isaiah that "nation would not lift sword against nation" and modernized Isaiah's "they shall beat their swords into plowshares" to add a hope that tanks would be made into tractors.

Then he quoted one of Martin Luthur King's most favorite biblical verses (Amos 5:24) -- "let justice roll down like waters And righteousness like an ever-flowing stream."

May it indeed be the Holy One's will.

[X-posted to abayye]

Not to worry

I just met my neighbor for the first time. We had two conversations in the space of five minutes. The first was prompted when we both walked out of our apartments with cell phones in hand trying to figure out why there were warning/air raid sirens going off.

When I heard the sirens I thought, "OK, let me look outside and see what the locals are doing." So, I poked my head out the window and then realized that was useless and potentially stupid. As I opened my apartment door to see if anyone was heading down to the מקלט/miklat/bomb shelter, I met a neighbor I had never seen before. She had clearly just thrown her coat on over her house clothes; she had two phones and her wallet. She asked me if I knew what was happening and I asked her the same and my immediate thought was, "I don't remember how to say, 'siren!!!'" But we communicated. The sirens stopped while we were wondering what to do. She headed back to her apartment and said, "Good, I hope I don't see you again in a little bit." I agreed but asked that if she figured something out, to please tell me.

I came inside, looked up "siren" and found the local radio news online. They said that sirens had been heard in many neighborhoods in Jerusalem (the word they used for "siren" was not any of the five options the dictionary had given me) and that they did not yet know what was happening but they would tell us as soon as they knew. Then, after the rest of the news (the dead in Gaza, rockets in Ashkelon, and more rockets from Lebanon) they said that we should all relax in Jerusalem and return to our routine because it was just a תקלה/takala/a mishap, a fault, a hitch in the system's giddy-up, nothing was going wrong in Jeruaslem.

And then my nieghbor knocked on my door to tell me the same news. Not to worry.

Empty Classroom

I went to my "Streams in Modern Judaism" class today to find that there was only one other student there. This is one of my two classes that I take with Israeli grad students and usually there are six of us in the class. Where was everybody?
-Two apparently have long commutes which may be complicated by military stuff going on (this was unclear to me; are they from the South such that their kids are not in school because of threat of Hamas rocket fire? Is traffic weird in other parts of the country? I couldn't quite understand what was being said about them).
-One has been putting together packages to deliver to IDF soldiers and was busy with that.
-One is a reservist who has been called up.

So that left just me and J. J's son is serving in Gaza and she said she hasn't been able to get anything done because she just sits by the phone and watches the TV all the time.
Our teacher was saying that it was good that we were there because too many people were reacting to the war by being glued to their televisions and that, as much as possible it would be good for us to try to go about our daily lives normally.

While we were in the middle of reading Ismar Schorsch's "The Sacred Cluster: The Core Values of Conservative Judaism", J's phone rang and she ran out of the room. The text was discussing the Conservative view that peoplehood and religion have never been separate for Jews and --thinking that J had just gotten some update about her son-- our teacher said sadly, "Another aspect of peoplehood in action."

It turned out that at the same time that her son is in Gaza, her elderly mother's health is failing. J's predicament was very poignant for me: this odd combination of "normal" sadness and difficulty layered on top of wartime concerns. That "life goes on" for those of us (relatively) far from the front means that life goes on in all its complexities and all its challenges. This call that J got was telling her that her mother was not doing well and that she needed to come be with her right away. I found myself feeling relieved that it was her mother who was dying and not her son and then feeling that this relief was somehow absurd.

I was the only student left in class; we went back to discussing The Sacred Cluster.

The real Israel

Israel has certainly been much in the news, lately, which has led many people to think again about what Israel means to them and what the still-young nation's nature truly is.

I thought about this on Sunday as I looked out on the Jerusalem view above. At that moment, I felt filled with a love for Israel and for Jerusalem. It's a challenge for me to understand what this love is really all about. After all, this view is not one of Jerusalem's famous ones. It does not have the Old City, the Western Wall or the Mount of Olives in it. And, yet this fairly ordinary view of west Jerusalem -- from a park hillside not far from the Israel Museum and which I have walked across many times on my daily business -- speaks to me deeply.

My thoughts brought me to the Pesach seder meal – our yearly “Feast of Freedom”. We conclude with the words, “לשנה הבאה ביושלים/l-shanah haBa b-yerushalayim” -- next year in Jerusalem. Since the time – since the formation of the State of Israel in 1948 – that Jews in large numbers have come to be able to live in Jerusalem, some have changed those words slightly -- “לשנה הבאה ביושלים הבנויה/l-shanah haBa b-yerushalayim haBenuyah” -- next year in the [re]constructed Jerusalem.

It never leaves my thoughts when I'm in Israel that the very existence of this State – and the very fact that I, a Jewish person, am able to get on a plane and freely go there to visit – is a miracle. It is a miracle built on the incredible sweat, spirit and courage of the Israeli people over the decades of the 20^th and now the 21^st century.

Yesterday, I spent much of the day going through various airport security stations on my way back to the United States via London Heathrow. All of us who have gotten on an airplane since September 11, 2001 have gotten used to these kind of intense security procedures, procedures that are based on the fact that there are people out there who would just like to murder us, just because of who we are. Just to make a political point.

But, when we leave the airport here in the States, we leave all that behind – including that strange feeling that comes with the realization that some people want us dead. In Israel, however, that sense never leaves. For all the decades of its existence – and even for the Jews who lived in that land well before the State was formed – it has lived like the inside of an airline terminal. When school kids go out on trips, it is never without someone with a gun. To enter a shopping mall – or even to go into many cafes – you must pass a security checkpoint and have your bag examined.

To build and maintain a country like Israel takes incredible spirit, vigilance and courage. That is what I see when I look across that park valley at the hills of the neighborhoods beyond – I see the built Jerusalem. I see the evidence of all the blood, toil and sweat that the Israeli people have devoted to the project we call the State of Israel. And it is that which I feel the most love for and awe of – much more than for any of the great holy sites the city is famous for.

With a war in Gaza and with Hamas rockets falling daily on the cities of Israel, now is a particularly poignant time to reflect on the sacrifices it takes to maintain this State. I was very sad to have to leave Israel at such a time of crisis. As small a thing as it is compared to the sacrifices that Israel's soldiers and their families are making, just being there as a tourist or student is still an important way of showing support – of showing a willingness to join in the dangers and struggles that come from being a people that some would just like to murder, whether it be with rockets fired at random places in residential neighborhoods or with suicide bombers getting on a random rush hour bus. I will miss Israel, and especially Minna, who I left behind there to continue her studies in that Holy city.

___________________________

I had ridden on Sunday by bicycle up to that hillside to meet Minna who was finishing up a class at Machon Schechter near the hilltop. We walked down a bit into the park and took pictures of each other on bicycles for our Hazon ride web page. This coming Spring Minna and I will be showing our support for Israel by participating in a charity ride to raise money for two organizations particularly dedicated to the task of maintaining Israel's threatened environment. You can help us by donating on my Hazon Irsrael ride page here! (http://arava.kintera.org/2009springride/abayye)

In the above pic, you can see a bit of an olive tree in the foreground on a right – olive groves are one of the most famous and beautiful parts of the Israeli landscape and it's a bit of a miracle to find them so close to the “built” Jerusalem of Wolfson Towers in the background. . . . . In addition to the people, what I love about Jerusalem and its surroundings is just the hills, so many of which have olive trees growing on terraces built into the hillsides. The site of those hills always takes my breath away.

Here is Minna also riding amid the olive trees with the “built” Jerusalem in the background.

Here she is again:


Minna's Hazon Israel ride donation page is here. (http://arava.kintera.org/2009springride/minna)

And here's our _team_ page.

[X-posted to abayye]

Tired

I went to class today and when my teacher asked how I was I said that I was tired. I didn't explain that I got up early this morning to see Alan off to the airport or that doing so left me not only sleep-deprived, but sad to see him go. My teacher said, tiredly, "Well, you're not the only one." And then the maintenance man who was removing a piece of audiovisual equipment from the classroom chimed in: "Everyone is exhausted from hearing about what is happening with our forces."
We nodded in agreement (though it was unclear what the content of this consensus was).
We opened our notebooks and started class.

Quiet

Quiet. That's what Ehud Barak says is the goal of Israel's current operations in Gaza -- "quiet for the south." By quiet, he says he means no more Hamas rockets falling on Israeli citizens within range of Gaza. No more sirens going off, giving people "45 golden seconds" to stop wherever they are -- even driving their cars -- and try to find cover, something a woman in Ashdod wasn't quite able to do the other day.

Here in Jerusalem, where I unfortunately will only be for a few more days before I have to return to the States, there is a strange sense of quiet. I feel confident that we are out of the range of Hamas' rockets for now. But, it has been raised in my conscious for the first time that I am staying in an apartment that does not have a "safe room". I do not have a gas mask or anything else I might need if Jerusalem suddenly came under a serious attack from the skies.

And, I well know that the quiet can end in many other says. I was here at another time of "quiet" -- in the summer of 2000 when there was real hope that, with Bill Clinton's help, a real peace agreement might be forged and all this death and violence could come to an end. But, at that time, the Palestinians, then led by Arafat (who has since passed from the scene), chose another course and returned to a violent path to seek their goals. Bus and other suicide bombings fell upon Israel over the rest of the year I was here and beyond. Everyone here knows that such attacks could happen, again.

Israel is gambling that it can continue to prevent such attacks with such measures as the controversial security barrier that prevents people from the West Bank -- hopefully, including suicide bombers -- from freely entering into Israel. The stated goal of this current operation is to, as I said above, prevent rocket attacks from Gaza. The possibility of rocket attacks was very much on my mind a few days before the operation began when Minna and I were driving up the relatively new Highway 6, a toll road that makes it possible to head from Jerusalem to the north of Israel without having to either pass through the Jordan Valley (in the West Bank) or through the traffic of Tel-Aviv. I noticed how close the road runs to the West Bank and, thus, how easy it would be for a tiny cell of terrorists to shut down the road entirely with a few homemade mortars. I know that it is not force that is preventing that from happening. Rather, it is a political solution -- the currently relatively good relations with the Palestinian Authority (which controls the West Bank, while the more radical and Islam-focused Hamas controls Gaza).

I think this is what this current operation has to really be about -- not stopping Hamas from firing rockets, which is something that is pretty much impossible to do with force, but with making a political statement to the Palestinian people. A statement like, you have a choice. You can either live in peace beside us and have a chance to form a real state that can join the community of nations and start to build a stable economy, like the Palestinian Authority is starting to do in the West Bank. Or, you can continue to live in a continuous state of mutual violence next to us. If you choose the second option, note that Hamas cannot even protect itself, not to mention you, from the Israeli Defense Forces. Look how pathetic and hopeless are their attempts to respond militarily with a few rockets. Look how our planes took them by surprise and killed so many of their leaders in the initial attack last Saturday morning. How is it in your best interests to choose to be led by such people?

Of course, Hamas is gambling that the Palestinian people will hear the opposite political message. They are hoping that -- instead of the people in Gaza looking to the West Bank and deciding it is better there -- that the people in the West Bank (and East Jerusalem) will look to Gaza and let their anger and outrage motivate them to choose Gaza's current path, the path of Hamas. If that happens, few places in Israel will have the safe feeling of quiet I enjoy now.

In order to reject Hamas' path, the Palestinian people will ultimately have to accept something that they have not been able to accept for decades before the State of Israel even came to be in 1948 -- they will have to accept that Jews have a right to live in this land and that the State of Israel has a right to exist. That will indeed involve much sacrifice for them.

But it is the only path to quiet.

[x-posted to abayye]

Impulse purchase

Back in the States -- on what was Christmas Eve day -- I'm sure many people were finding themselves making all sorts of unplanned last-minute Christmas-gift purchases when they spied something out of the corner of their eyes on the way to the checkout line. But last night in Tzfat (צפת/Safed), the ancient mountaintop center of Jewish mysticism, when Minna headed to the checkout line at a little food store, what caught her eye were the tools -- 9 little shot glasses packed together in a box, wicks that can float on the top of oil and bottles of olive oil meant just for the task -- to make an oil-burning menorah.

As darkness fell, we lit five of the little lamps -- four for the fourth day of Hanukah and one as the "Shamas" -- out on the balcony of the little hotel where we came to stay in this northern Israel town for a couple of days. I had been here on Hankuah once before and fondly remembered the sight of many little glass boxes outside the houses with the little oil lamps inside -- the Jewish tradition asks us to "publicize the miracle" by lighting where other people can see, which is why we lit on the balcony of our little room.

We didn't have a wind-protecting glass box to put our little shot glasses into, so I didn't feel safe leaving them alone. We sat out on the balcony watching them burn for well over an hour, trying to keep warm under a blanket, snacking on crackers and cheese and listening to some NPR from back in the States.

Tzfat is a strange and magical place. It is so much like Jerusalem with their Old City's of winding, narrow medieval streets and stairways made of light-colored stone and with their hilliness. But there's a quietness to Tzfat that both adds to its charm and that makes it seem unreal compared to the stark reality of Jerusalem, a city that despite being much smaller than New York has an intense bustle quite like that largest of American cities. Jerusalem -- especially the Old City -- is very much at the intersection of the Jewish and Muslim worlds, with its intensely coveted Holy sites important to both faiths and its large minority Muslim population. In Jerusalem -- as peaceful as it can be at times and as safe as I usually feel when I am there -- it is impossible to forget that you are in a place that has been warred over pretty much continuously in one way or another for a very long time now. Tzfat, on the other hand, is a place that is only Holy to the Jews (although the Arabs certainly fought for it in the 1948 war, as the war memorials in the center of town attest).

The city is held most Holy by the Hasidim, who make a practice of visiting the graves of the famous scholars of Kabbalah -- like Isaac Luria -- and praying there. Yesterday afternoon, Minna and I walked down through the steep hillside cemetary to the grave of Joseph Karo. It was cold and rainy, but we enjoyed our walk. It is a privilege to be able to have this time with Minna in the Holy Land, and I will be sorry to leave in a week-and-a-half after this too-short trip.

On the eve (almost) of my . . .

. . . . return to Israel, we have lost another giant who disseminated Torah among Israel.

You can read my tribute to Rabbi David Lieber here.

Strawberry season

Much to the surprise of (and clearly without prior consultation with) us Americans, it is now strawberry season here in Israel. Here, have one:

Arbel and more

Ouch! My legs and arms are still quite wonderfully stiff and achy from yesterday's short but steep hike on Mount Arbel. The end involved climbing up the side of the cliff using a series of metal hand/foot holds that are permanently installed. Our terrific guide, Missy (who was hiking in a long skirt), was thoroughly nonchalant about this hike. There was no warning beforehand (e.g., for people who are afraid of heights) nor any hint really that there would be any seemingly insurmountable challenges ahead. She was very aware of what the hike entailed (she and her family had just gone the previous week) and I guess she simply assumed that we would all make it one way or another. I actually found this "ignorance (on our part) is bliss" approach to a physical challenge very refreshing. As we were on the last stretch of the hike (when the ascent had turned back into a stairway cut in the mountain and I no longer needed to use my arms as well as my legs to propel me) one of my colleagues asked how I was doing. By now there were quite a bit of endorphins kicking in and I found myself beaming and calling out, "I feel like a mountain goat!" I hope to go on this hike again (maybe with Alan and/or my parents and brother and his family).

I was on the hike with my colleagues from the Rav Siach program and it was an inspiring way to kick off our shabbat together. As one participant reported, he was physically awed by our hike, intellectually awed by our discussions and arguments and spiritually awed by our praying together and what a rare chance for all three to come together. This group of rabbinic students from different denominations (plus me from no denomination) were in for a challenging weekend; spending shabbat with a group of people who feel strongly about their widely divergent approaches and practices can be difficult, painful, and tiring. At one point in planning this shabbat, we had discussed trying to see if we could set it up so that there was an equal distribution of discomfort. I had it easy in many regards: my own rabbinical school community is pluralistic and diverse (though admittedly much of that diversity is muted by our desire to remain a cohesive community) and I have been exposed to and enjoyed serving a wide variety of Jewish communities.

Shabbat started with an unscripted "bang" which was such a classic multi-denominational "mishap" that it almost seemed as if it had been scripted: After lighting candles, we walked to the room where we were supposed to be praying and learning together. The light in the room was off. Our coordinator, who is Orthodox and doesn't turn lights on and off on shabbat, was embarrassed that she hadn't set this up before shabbat started and she (and the rest of us) all froze. At this point, before anyone could move fast enough to talk about why this was a problem, a considerate Reform rabbinical student, who has no problem using electricity on shabbat, stepped forward to turn the light on. Now our Orthodox rabbinical student, who was already stretching himself right to the limit of what he could deal with because of his deep desire to be with the rest of us for shabbat, stepped aside and would not enter the room (because of a prohibition on causing another Jew to do work which he sees as violating shabbat even if the Jew doing the work doesn't see it this way). We all stood around outside the room looking at each other and one of the Conservative rabbinical students spoke rather sharply to the well-meaning and now very embarrassed Reform student.

It was, in some ways, exactly the kind of dilemma that no amount of discussing could have brought to the fore. What a marvelous opportunity! But first we had to find a place to pray and learn together while we figured out what to do about our "ruined" room...From this crisis point of (what some saw as) violations of shabbat, harsh words, and hurt feelings, we were "off and running" for a shabbat of difficult and ultimately wonderful conversation, including a level of honesty that we might never have otherwise reached. Much anger, confusion, love, frustration was dug up and I am now deeply curious to see where we go from here. If nothing else, I deeply admire the willingness each of my colleagues (and, I hope, new friends) to share our truths with one another.

There is so much else I was hoping to share here! As Alan mentioned in his other blog, I went to a very moving funeral last week. I didn't know Rabbi Mickey Rosen well at all, but I have been going to Yakar, the shul and learning center he founded, for services most Friday evenings. Even from the few times I heard him daven (pray) and heard him speak, it was clear to me that I wanted to connect with him more, I very much wanted to learn from him. I went to his funeral, at least in part, out of the sense that we have a long tradition of learning from our rabbis even (and sometimes especially) from their deaths. There were too many people to fit in the room designated for giving eulogies; there were hundreds and hundreds of people. I stood in the middle of the crowd waiting to go into the room and did not have any reason to push to the front. Consequently, when they decided to simply bring his body into the middle of the crowd, I ended up standing right next to the men holding the stretcher. Jews in Israel are buried without coffins, wrapped in a tallit. One striking thing from the two funerals I have attended since arriving in July is how very small people look in death.

Rabbi Rosen's wife stood near his body and said that he hadn't wanted them to call any great rabbis to eulogize him and that he hadn't wanted anyone to say much of anything, but that she wanted to tell us some things that we might not have known. She said that he had been battling illness for many many years. Yet when he went to the מכלת/makolet/grocery each day and the man behind the counter asked how he was, he always answered "כוסי רוויה/cosi revayah/my cup runneth over." She also said that when there was something he did not have strength for he would say how he really thought God had wanted him to do this, but that perhaps this was not the case if he was not being given the strength...then he would push on and do it anyway. And she said that all his life he would dream and then do and that he kept dreaming right until the end. And when she asked him if he was sad about dying, he said that because of his children and the joy they brought him, he was not sad. When she finished her brief words, she said we would now do as he had them do in shul: we would be silent for a few moments and then we would sing. Rabbi Rosen's illness made him look to me much older than he was. His voice was shaky, but I loved his singing and the singing of his family and his congregation. To be with him in his death, surrounded by this song is a learning I will not soon forget.

One other thing I wanted to mention, and then I have to go to sleep because I have another hike tomorrow (ouch!): December is a month of many sad anniversaries for me (tragic deaths and near deaths) and I often feel simply very sad: not necessarily depressed, but aware of an undercurrent of sorrow. Yet this December (the aforementioned funeral not withstanding) I haven't been having these feelings. I suspect that the weather has fooled my system. It should be cold and rainy, and because of the drought one is not really allowed (culturally speaking) to talk about how beautiful the weather has been. But the sunny and only slightly cool days have definitely tricked me (so far!!!) out of my December blues.

Tomorrow marks the 16th anniversary of the murders at my college. I will be remembering those who died, those who were wounded, and all of us who suffered losses and traumas that night. May this warm December warm my remembering heart.

Remembering Odetta

When people hear me sing, they often like to tell me who I sound like. Given the range of very different suggestions, I usually assume that what they are telling me has more to do with them than it does with me (e.g., Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell, and Tracy Chapman...not exactly birds of a feather vocally speaking). Consequently, I don't pay much attention to these comparisons; they don't make any emotional impact on me. There are two exceptions, singers I will admit I am deeply proud to be compared to: Ronnie Gilbert and Odetta.

As announced on the homepage of the New York Times' website, Odetta has died. There is a wonderful video of an interview with her as part of the Times' "Last Word" series. In the video she talks about how some of her own earliest connections with the songs of African-American workers, prisoners, and slaves were from the recordings of Alan Lomax. Reflecting on what she connected with in the music she says, "You're walking down life's road, society's foot is on your throat, every which way you turn you can't get from under that foot. And you reach a fork in the road and you can either lie down and die, or insist upon your life." Those who wrote and sang these songs insisted on life. At the interviewers request, she also talks about her personal wounds from the overt racism of the 1950s. "But what the wound caused --the fear, the hate...-- the music has healed," she says firmly, "I'm not saying I love everybody...but it helped me shuck that off. It helped me see myself, instead of waiting for somebody to look at me and say that I'm OK." Using singing to help people see themselves in this way is a big part of my work as a voice teacher.

I knew Odetta mostly from an LP my parents had. It introduced me to her "Freedom Trilogy." She sang this medley from the stage at the 1963 March on Washington and it includes "I'm On My Way" which I have adopted as a song to use in association with Passover and the Book of Exodus (and with any other occasion where I can get away with it). On the same album, if memory serves, is her wrenching rendition of the sea chanty "Santa Ana." Though my shipmates would likely never have guessed, my own chantying drew much more inspiration from her than from any sailor.

I saw Odetta twice. She came to Eastern Long Island to perform once when I was a kid. I remember the performance space being very small and feeling almost overwhelmed by how her voice and her presence filled it. I remember the performance as having happened at the Parish Art Museum in Southampton, but I'm not 100% sure. One thing I do remember for sure about that performance: She sang a song that was a setting of some of the words of Winnie the Pooh. After singing it, she laughed and said, "Words by A. A. Milne, music by O. Odetta."

The second time I saw her, I actually got to meet her. I was performing with Clearwater's Hudson River Sloopsingers at Symphony Space in Manhattan. I don't remember what the occasion was, but Odetta was also on the bill and after our set, I ran into her backstage. Completely struck by her strength and her grace, I stood in front of her awestruck and then managed to say, "You are a beautiful woman." She fixed me with her gaze and, with that voice that was simultaneously both crystal clear and connected with untold and complicated depths, she answered slowly: "Takes one to know one." I do wish that I could have known her more.

"Range" is the word that comes to mind, not only in describing Odetta's singing but in seeing how full a swath of the spectrum of human ways of being she embodied in that singing: easy fearlessness, both woundedness and healing, cutting intelligence, and playful, even flirtatious, humor. Everything she had, everything she was, poured through her voice. I think of Odetta as one of my musical/spiritual foremothers; I feel blessed to be in her lineage.

Click here for a recording of Odetta singing "Take This Hammer." My favorite verse: "If he asks you, was I running, tell him I was flying, boys, tell him I was flying."

From Hebron to Tel Aviv

As promised, a post about our tiyyul to South Mount Hebron with שוברים שתיקה/Shovrim Shtika/Breaking the Silence plus a little addendum based on my visit up north this shabbat.

One of the first things that tipped me off to how much I would appreciate our tour guides from Breaking the Silence was Micha'el's explanation of the road that we took from Jerusalem to the hills south of Hebron. He told us that in order to understand this landscape, we needed to think about the map as three dimensional rather than two dimensional. He was referring to the series of bridges and tunnels built in the wake of the Second Intifada that basically create an overlapping infrastructure by which Israelis and Palestinians trying to traverse the same terrain travel on completely different road systems. He also began talking to us about how Palestinians have rights to access their agricultural lands but that this access is interrupted in ways that he described as "Kafkaesque." One example: there are gates in the separation barrier surrounding Palestinian cities that are open at specific hours to allow access to vineyards, orchards, and pasture. However, everyone and every vehicle requires a permit and attaining such permits can verge on the impossible. He said that even donkeys need permits.

Our tour basically consisted of viewing various places in South Mount Hebron where Israeli settlements and Palestinian villages and/or agricultural lands butt up against each other. Israeli settlements (plus roads to these settlements, as well as agricultural operations like dairies, archeological areas, and even JNF forests) have security buffers around them which are off-limits to Palestinians. There are also some zones which may be closed to various parts of various populations at one time or another. For example, Breaking the Silence usually brings groups on tours of Hebron but, because of the recent unrest, primarily between settlers and the army, our tour guides were forbidden from entering the city. So, instead we drove around the South Mount Hebron area stopping to get out and look at various sights.

What I liked best about our tour guides was that they were able to very intelligently tell us what we were looking at and its context vis a vis Israeli history and policy in the West Bank AND juxtapose this bigger picture with straightforward personal accounts of their own experiences as soldiers. This combination of smart, complex explanations combined with heart-felt stories was very moving to me. One thing that was important to Micha'el was to make it clear that he was not in any way "anti-Israel." He explained that he had, in fact, volunteered to serve a fourth year in the army after his mandatory service was up. They painted a picture of the organization aims to be at least somewhat pluralistic in terms of espousing a particular political viewpoint or advocating a particular solution to a given issue. A bit of evidence of how this plays out in action: Jewish Israeli men are obligated to serving in the reserves, some people affiliated with Breathing the Silence fulfill their reserve duties and others refuse to do so for reasons of conscience.

The most important aspect of our tour, from my perspective, was our tour guides refusal to offer us advice or solutions. I felt a deep desire to shift away from the scenes right before our eyes and join in the conversations that kept starting up about political solutions. And I deeply admired our guides' abilities to acknowledge that desire AND to bring us back to taking in what we were here to witness. I came away with a deeper understanding of the group's declared two-fold mission:
1. To collect testimonies from soldiers who had served in the territories.
2. To bring people to see first-hand what was happening in the West Bank, with an emphasis on bringing Israelis to see what was being done in their name and on their behalf.

This emphasis on simply witnessing and listening to soldiers' stories felt very right to me. One particularly moving moment was our visit to the village of Susya (not to be confused with the nearby Israeli settlement of the same name). The village had been forcefully relocated several times and the villagers had since decided to live as individual families on their respective agricultural lands rather than to reconstitute the original village of several families. While they are allowed to work their land, they are not technically allowed to build on it or live there. We came to a man who was using a tractor to prepare the land to be sown (we think the seed would grow into feed for the animals). Our tour guides hoped he would tell us his story of mutiple relocations. However, his land abutts a buffer zone and its boundaries are not entirely clear. Some of his land goes up the hill toward where Israeli soldiers stand guard and he is afraid to work there. Our presence (including a couple of us who were wearing kippot) made him feel safer and he quickly decided to use his time more wisely and take the opportunity to stop talking to us and head up the hill a little ways to plow and plant. He is pictured above in his tractor before he cut short the conversation and got to work. In the foreground on the left is Micha'el smiling and explaning what is going on.

I got yet another perspective on all of this
Shabbat when I went to visit the Arzis, my adopted family from my year on kibbutz. Omri, the younger son, who was pre-verbal when last we met, was home for the weekend from his army duty. He serves in the Nahal brigade. I didn't get to talk to him directly, but when I told Amira about our trip to the West Bank, she said that Omri had served in Hebron and had some pretty horrible stories to tell himself. Like our tour guides, she emphasized the fact that by and large the treatment Palestinians receive (at checkpoints for example) is completely systemic and is not a measure of the sweetness or meanness of any individual soldier. She framed it in terms of Omri, a truly menschlich kid as far as everyone is concerned, just trying to retain his own humanity in a truly messy and inhuman situation. Or, as our tour guide had put it: If you're going to maintain an occupation, this is as pretty as it's going to get. You can't do occupation any prettier than this.

The Nahal brigade is known dividing soldiers' time between regular army service and more community-service oriented work. Omri is currently in a period of his service in which he does work which he finds much more meaningful than manning checkpoints: he teaches and facilitates after school groups for youth in one of the most poverty-stricken neighborhoods in Tel Aviv. The language the family uses is that he is "our soldier" (as in "Our soldier is home for the weekend"). I hope to have the opportunity to learn more about his work; even though last time we met he was barely learning to walk, I feel a little bit like he is my soldier too.

Night in Mumbai

When we read about things like yesterday's terror attacks in Mumbai, it can strike us as awful, but also very distant -- very far away. . . . . But to think about my own loved one huddled in the dark, defenseless behind a locked door, just hoping that nobody with a weapon would break in (the image brought to my mind in reading Minna's below blog post) . . . it just brings the sheer horror of it home in such a profound way. . . . I cried in reading it (and I'm crying now writing this). . . . Part of that has to do with Minna and how much it hurts to think she suffered that. But I think I am also very much crying for the people Israel -- so many centuries of people hating us -- and for humanity as a whole. So much suffering. So much hate. So much death. Oh, Lord, when will it end? Please. Please. Bring peace upon us. Let it be speedily. In our days.

Night of the Gliders

I hope to write a post about our tiyyul/trip yesterday to South Mount Hebron in the West Bank with tour guides from שוברים שתיקה/Shovrim Shtika/Breaking the Silence. At the moment though, I am remembering what I was doing 21 years ago tonight. How do I know what I was doing 21 years ago tonight? Well, it was the night before Thanksgiving and my American Class classmates and I had made as many preparations as possible to give ourselves a Thanksgiving feast. Cranberry sauce was impossible to find, but we did order a turkey and it was waiting the nearby town of Kiryat Shmona for us to pick up on Thanksgiving morning. But, in a way, Thanksgiving morning never came that year.

Instead, that Wednesday night there was a series of events which has come to be known in Israeli history as the Night of the Gliders. Two members of the PFLP-GC, a PLO splinter group, flew into Israel on motorized hang gliders. One landed accidentally in a heavily armed area and was caught and killed almost immediately. The second managed, before he was killed, to kill six Israeli soldiers and wound eight others. Kfar Blum, the kibbutz I lived on, was close enough to the action that we moved into an "on alert" mode. Writing this now I realize that I don't even have language for what this mode was or what the procedures were. Folks on kibbutz seemed to have a sense of this as the kind of event they were trained to deal with, but, as a fourteen-year-old, I don't think I really absorbed any kind of big picture.

I was in the shower with a head full of conditioner when my roommate, Esther, came in to tell me that something was happening and we all had to gather downstairs. I do remember having one of those odd moments of wondering whether I should rinse my hair out first or just get out of the shower as is. I rinsed. When I went downstairs to the lawn by our buildings, I realized that the רמקול/ram kol/PA system was blaring but that I did not know what it was saying. One of our מטפלות/metaplot/house-mothers/care-givers was giving us instructions. She told us to walk directly to the apartments of our respective adopted families and stay there. It was later explained to us that if there was rocket fire or other bombs falling we would have gone to the bomb shelters, but that when individual terrorists are wandering around with guns and hand grenades, and you don't know if they have all been accounted for, it's better not to be gathered all in one place.

I remember walking on the quiet deserted paths and being afraid that one of the men on guard duty would find me and not know who I was. When I got to the Arzi's apartment, one hint of the night's strangeness was that the door to the apartment was locked. Amira (my adopted mother) let me in and told me that Doron (my adopted father) had already left to join the kibbutz's own defense efforts. The boys (now in their twenties but then three and one) were still fast asleep and unaware of any goings-on.

Amira said we should move to the room farthest from the door so we went into their bedroom and turned off the lights. I remember feeling scared and nervous, but also reassured by Amira's apparent calm. I also remember finding it oddly humorous that this incident allowed me my only chance that year to sleep on their waterbed. And after talking for a while (with me asking lots of questions) we did sleep. Maydan and Omri slept through the night as well only to awaken frightened in the morning by the PA system.

Although both terrorists had been killed in the night, all the communities in the area were closed off and essentially shut down the next day just to make sure there was no one else wandering around unaccounted for. It would have been a regular school day for us, Thanksgiving or no, but because of the attack, the school was shut down. Partly this was because it was a regional school and with all the communities sealed, none of the students from surrounding kibbutzim could get there. We were also under the continued order not to have lots of people all gathered in one place. Instead we each went to our respective work places (where we normally worked every Tuesday), which meant that I spent the day with the 3-year-olds in the פעוטון/pa'oton/daycare. It also meant that our turkey spent the day in Kiryat Shmona. I don't think many of us felt like we were still in the Thanksgiving spirit.

I left the country more or less for the intervening decades and it is only in doing a little bit of research for this blog post that I learned how impactful the night's events were. In addition to the obvious impact on the dead and wounded, the Night of the Gliders is seen by some as being the event that "kicked off" the First Intifada. It was also seen as signaling an unreadiness on the part of the IDF. Additionally, the deaths of a number of the soldiers were blamed in large part on the fact that the sentry guarding their base panicked and fled when the terrorist fired on him. However, many people felt this was unfair and the incident and subsequent court martials led to an increased awareness of the dangerous tendency to shift blame solely to the lowest ranking soldier involved.

Inside and out

I love my course on זרמים ביהדות בעת החדשה/Streams in Modern Judaism. I love it in four aspects: content, vocabulary, Israeli context, and the reactions of my Israeli classmates. The content itself (starting with the Treaty of Westphalia) is partly review and partly new. Much of it is material that I feel like I should know already but don't. But what is completely new is the Hebrew vocabulary. Learning this topic in Hebrew means that potentially boring heard-it-all-before subjects (Emancipation, citizenship, religion versus nationality, blah, blah, blah) are reinvigorated for me as challenging vocabulary lessons. Learning about all of this in the context of Israeli society is also a draw. Our assignment for next week, for example, is to read three platforms from the Reform movement: The Pittsburgh Platform (1885), The Columbus Platform (1937), and the platform of the Reform movement in Israel. Finally, perhaps my favorite aspect is the reactions of my (largely "secular") Israeli classmates.

Today we were talking about early Reform changes to the liturgy and to the entire realm of everyday Jewish practice (e.g., kashrut). One woman began passionately voicing her disapproval that the Reformers wanted to do away with many aspects of Shabbat observance. How could they do this, she argued, when so many of the prohibitions are laid out so clearly in the very text of the Torah itself? She quoted texts verbatim and emphasized that these practices were part of the Ten Commandments themselves. Of course, she noted parenthetically, she did not keep shabbat, but still! Many people have told me that it makes more sense to think of most "secular" Israelis as something closer to "non-practicing Orthodox" and my classmate was clearly fulfilling this stereotype: "There is only one way to live a Jewish life!!! So what if I happen not to live that way, at least I'm not making any changes."

And then a young man in the class said that he understood that the teacher was saying that the early proponents of Reform understood themselves as taking the best that Judaism had to offer and working as part of continuous Jewish history. But, he wanted to know, what exactly were these rabbis retaining given all the things they were ready to get rid of? "Sure," he said, "there's the One God, but outside of that?" "חוץ מהאל האחד...מה?" I nearly burst out laughing (but lately when I laugh I also start coughing and I knew I didn't want to do that) partly because of his minimization of God and God's Oneness and partly because, especially to my ears, saying it in Hebrew sort of makes it sound like a truly deep question: What is there aside from the One God? Two responses rose in me simultaneously:
1. A joyous remembering of the Torah's audacious claim: אין עוד מלבדו/There is nothing outside of the One.
2. A good wordplay chuckle compliments of Groucho Marx: "Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read."

Pre-Shabbos rush

Rushing, rushing, rushing, to be ready for shabbat (which comes in even earlier here in Jerusalem, which no one has been able to explain to me yet...anyone?).
Rushed to the Mister Zol around the corner to get fresh chicken and veggies.
And in my rush I was (still!) confused and then delighted and then amused at myself when the woman working behind the olive counter said, "Shabbat shalom," while hanging me the little plastic containers.
And in my rush I began to feel an annoyance rising as the very cute but very slow little old lady came to a complete stop right in front of me in the exit to the grocery store. Why was she stopping? Because she wanted to pause, to reach up, to kiss the mezuzah.

Gotta go rush some more!

P.S. the Bulbuls are putting on a full-blown nature show at the window, complete with one of them hanging upside down from a vine and alternately flapping wildly and holding its wings tight to its side and making a series of squawks. The other one sits below on the window sill and "pretends not to notice."

How much is that bulbul in the window?

When Alan was here he tried to tell me that a bird had come into the apartment. I only sort of believed him. But for the last few days, at least two of these birds have been perching on the grating, peering inside, flapping against the glass and generally seeming to indicate that they would like to be inside. They also do some sort of dance together. I can't tell if it's a mating thing or a fledgling-still-asking-to-be-fed thing. It involves puffing itself up and gesturing at the other bird with its beak.

This is our wildlife window. The vines growing on the building are flowering and the area outside the window is abuzz with bees. This is also the window through which a now-deceased rodent probably entered. Why do I suspect this window? Because, one lovely evening, before said rodent's entry and subsequent demise, I once spotted a suspiciously similar-looking rodent eyeing me through the vines.

We can also sometimes see lizards (smamiot even!) through the window. It's a fun view through the glass, kind of like an enclosure in a zoo except that we are the ones on the inside. All of this is more interesting because we live on the second-and-a-half floor, which is no big deal for the bees and the birds, but does mean that the four-legged critters are climbing up quite a ways in the vines.


The birds are either Yellow-vented Bulbuls (because of the bright yellow patch near its, um, private parts) or White-spectacled Bulbuls (because of the white circles around its eyes) depending on which website you want to believe. There seems to be another species which is also called "Yellow-vented Bulbul" but is a different bird and lives in Southeast Asia.

It's a lovely window and I am now inclined to keep it closed. Once the bees leave I may open it again, but only when humans are sitting right near it and keeping the out-of-doors at bay.

Judaism in general?

I am participating in a program called "Rav Siach" which brings together rabbinical students from many different movements/backgrounds and gets us all talking to each other. This evening we were asked to write (100 words or less) in response to the question "What vision of Judaism do I want to promote in my rabbinate?" We put what we'd written it in a little square in the middle of a big piece of paper and then sat around a table and passed the pages around wrote commentaries on each other's writings (or commentaries on commentaries). It turned out to be a fascinating and enjoyable exercise, definitely a good way to get people into potentially challenging conversation.

The biggest button this exercise pushed for me was that I knew my answer would be different depending on who I was "promoting" this vision to. The Methodist pastor down the street is a much different audience/conversation partner than the elders in the synagogue. I want to be able to speak to people where they are. And then I realized that this very desire to meet people where they are, in their own particularity, is a big part of my vision of Judaism. So, in my bristliness, I wrote the following:

"Judaism in general" is not my Judaism. In a society which consistently promotes breadth over depth and which (not illegitimately) holds abstraction, depersonalization, and problem-solving as the keys to efficiency and "progress," Judaism by its very particularity allows and urges people to connect, to deepen, to integrate, to wrestle, and to wonder. Judaism says: Take your sweet, odd, particular self, take this strange and wondrous Torah, these challenging traditions and rituals and turn them, turn them as you grow in seriously playful relationship with self and Other, with uncertainty, contradiction, and Mystery.

What I'm doing here

"Why are we here?" Always a big question. The chair of my sociology department once suggested at a beginning-of-the-year departmental gathering that this could more easily approached by breaking it into its component questions:
1. Why?
2. Are we here?

(Ah, the humor of the academy.)

But seriously, last night's Hebrew College event (despite Sharon's palpable absence due to weather/airline problems) was a wonderful chance to share some thoughts on "Why rabbinical school?" and "Why Hebrew college?" It's always good to tell and retell our own stories about the choices we have made. And being able to sing for people (despite my voice still not being at full capacity) after having felt somewhat muted was a wonderful reminder of how important that aspect of my work in the world is to me.

Danny Lehmann's visit --and his asking good questions about the school's Israel program-- has also allowed me to articulate another way of thinking about our (my and Alan's) motto that "Israel IS the curriculum." In particular, I said that the school might want to think more about being explicit about the component of the Israel program which is about experiential learning. "Just doing it" and gleaning what we can from our everyday lives is a great start. However, there are also wonderful models of experiential education, learning through adventure, and the like.

After my second year of college, I spent a few months sailing from Boston to the Virgin Islands on a 125' schooner as a participant in the SEAmester program, which at the time was run by Long Island University. One of the "courses" for which we received college credit was called "Navigation and Seamanship." We did have some formal lessons, but much of the course "material" was decidedly hands-on. We did have a final exam though, and as it approached my fellow students and shipmates started asking Captain Bobby Hall what would be on it. His simply answer: "Everything that has happened since you set foot onboard is fair game."

I also found myself recalling my time teaching in the Chicago Field Studies program in which undergrads had a 30-hour-a-week internship and then came to a seminar to learn how to do ethnography. They consistently found that this combination enriched both their learning and their work experience. Even if they weren't intending to be social scientists, a regular practice of taking field notes allowed them to look back at and glean deeper wisdom from their hours on the job (about themselves, their ambitions, the role of work and school in their lives).

This blog is part of my attempt to get the most out of my informal learning this year. Another goal: meeting with "real Israelis" in casual settings (and maybe doing some formal interviews as well). Alan talks about CPE as he runs it being an "action and reflection" model of learning and one dream for the Israel-year component of the rabbinical school would be for this reflection to be better integrated and supported. I really mean it when I say that I learn about Israeli culture as much from being in line at the grocery store as I do from anything I could learn in a classroom. The junk mail is a "cultural text" no less than the latest novel. After all, learning what people think they can sell --what real or perceived needs and desires advertisers are tapping into-- is an important window on any society. And today I was excited to see that a phone book had arrived on my doorstep...what a delicious data set! Another example I reported in our meeting with Danny Lehmann: in my class on "Streams in Modern Judaism" class yesterday, we were reading an article about the Reform movement. The article stated that two million Jews identify as Reform. I didn't do the math in my head, but it sounded about right to me. My Israeli classmates were simply incredulous. Two million Reform Jews?!?! Where were all these strange creatures? So, here the simple reporting of a demographic fact allowed me to learn something about my classmates and their worldview and how different it was from my own.

I have to end this post because my coffee-date (a genuine "real Israeli") will arrive shortly. I will leave you with this picture of my educational setting: