Meeting Shimon Bar Yochai

Whenever a long chag comes up, I try to set out a goal for myself, something theme-related so I feel  a sense of accomplishment at the end of the holiday. Last Sukkot, for example, the theme was writing, and I succeeded in catching up on some much-needed journaling throughout the week. Another time, it was reading, and I set aside 2 books that I wanted to get through.

This Pesach, the theme I chose was nature. I wanted to spend as much time outside as possible and enjoy the fresh air. Considering that much of my time is spent in an office and the cold, wet winter just ended, I was desperate to get outdoors. However, I also wanted a challenge. Something adventurous that I could handle physically. So I asked a close friend if I could join her in a camping trip – a first time adventure for me.

And so over Chol HaMoed, we found ourselves in Meiron, a beautiful village in the mountains of the upper Galilee. Meiron is best known for the kever (tomb) of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai (Rashbi or “Rebbe Shimon” as his followers call him), a tanna or ancient rabbinical sage who is quoted often in the Talmud. Legend has it that he is the author of the Zohar; the father of Kabbalah, if you will. The town itself overlooks the mystical city of Tzefat. And so if Meiron is home to the father of Kabbalah, then Tzfat is Meiron’s daughter city.

Meiron is blessed with exquisite natural beauty: rolling mountains, panoramic views of the snow-capped Hermon, the Kinneret and Tzfat. Just gorgeous. It’s also super weird.

When we got off the bus, we marched up a very steep hill to the campsite. There was a massive traffic jam of cars trying to get to the tomb with incessant honking horns that disturbed the potential serenity of the place. But, our march on foot had us moving a lot faster than the cars so I wasn’t complaining.

As soon as we got to the mountaintop, I took in some deep breaths of that crisp mountain air. I suddenly heard the sound of people screaming at the top of their lungs: “ABBBBBBBAAAAAAAAAAA!” (Father!)

“Holy crap, what the f*%^k is that?,” I so eloquently asked my friend. I thought someone was being beaten up in the forest or something.

My friend responded nonchalantly: "Oh, they’re doing hitbodedut.  You should totally try it, it’s really therapeutic to just let it out… ABBBBAAAA!!" She threw her head back, arching backwards as she yelled out. 

She screamed to daddy in heaven until her breath ran out, and then gracefully spread the tent on the ground as if a foreign spirit had momentarily overtaken her body. None of the people around us seemed to notice. Screaming out Turret's style to Papa in Heaven is normal around these parts. Hmmm.... Jerusalem is starting to look normal.

Now, I fully respect anyone’s desire to pray. I believe that prayer and meditation can be powerful tools for gaining clarity, feeling connected to God, cleansing your soul, and to seriously focus.

But what is up with the Daddy thing? Jewish tradition does indeed refer to God as “Father in Heaven”, but “Abba?” That seems so…infantile…simplistic…CREEPY.

While this screaming on the mountaintop was going on, there was a techno party going on until midnight at the rabbi’s tomb. I mean a van with huge speakers blasting club music like a pahhh-ty. Isn’t this tomb a sacred place for deep connection and meditation? Aren’t there people crying their hearts out asking for fertility and parnassa and forgiveness, and the like? 

What is up with the na-na-nachman techno bass blaring from a van down by the mikve?! The lyrics, I realized, actually included “Abba” over and over again, but it was 11:45pm and they were going strong!  Across from the na-na-nachman techno club was a table selling all sorts of goods like candles with images of Shimon Bar Yochai & the Baba Sali on them. (This essential Judaica can be yours for only 50nis!)

Now, there is a part of me that connects to the concept of hitbodedut  - going out on your own in nature (usually a forest) to meditate and talk one-on-one with God. It’s an opportunity to put our prescribed tefillot away, and talk mano y mano with the One Above about your own personal stuff. To beg for forgiveness, finances, love, whatever it is that’s on your mind and heart.

But where did this screaming “Daddy Help Me” at the top of your lungs business start? And can Freund please help me out here because this manner of addressing God perturbs me greatly.

The crowds of people – those who were stuck in the traffic jam – finally made their way towards the kever.  They purchased their rosaries, magical-charms, holy Tzaddik water inspiring segulot from the segula refreshment stand, and then made their pilgrimage to Rashbi’s tomb to say tehillim and pray for whatever their hearts desired.

As a newly minted camper, I was just happy that Rashbi’s tomb caretakers installed public bathrooms with toilet paper and working sinks.  God knows what that Matza does to His Chosen people’s digestive systems after a few days of Passover.  So this new camper would personally like to thank “Abba” for toilet paper and for guiding the plumber to Rashbi’s tomb.

Despite my sarcasm, I do actually believe that gravesites of tsaddikim are holy and inspiring. They are also fascinating historical landmarks. So I did go into the kever to say some tehillim, paying special attention to the chapter about “raising my eyes to the mountains – where will my help come from?  My helps comes from God, the One Who makes the heaven and the earth…”

And considering the panoramic views of the most beautiful mountain tops that seem to touch the heavens, I felt an extra special push to recognize the holiness of this place, no matter how weird the people are, and to enjoy that fresh crisp air. Luckily at midnight, those hitbodedut pray-ers found their way home and I managed to sleep under the stars. 

Pesach camping adventure: one odd, holy success.

New Year's/Old Years

This stormy weather out there reminds me of my years in New York: the sound of the winter winds howling outside, the balls of hail bouncing off of the window panes, the air so cold that the minute the door opens to the outside, you’re already shivering. I am thankful this only lasts a few short days here in Jerusalem. The cold makes me cranky and my body moves slower. I hate cold drops dripping on me. Yet there is something endearing about being forced to get inside and spend some quiet time at home. Instead of wandering around town, the cold weather pushes me into the space that I’ve created for myself. Whether I like it or not the winter tells me: "Go be in your own space and enjoy it." Apparently I have difficulty with appreciating what I have.

So here I am: my warm apartment, a snuggly new pair of Old Navy pajama pants, and memories.

Ten years ago. New Year’s 2003. New York City.

I was young and clueless on so many levels. Looking back, I had so much going for me: a decently-paying job, a beautiful apartment in NYC, wonderful friends and a caring, affectionate boyfriend.  I shouldn’t have had a worry in the world, but at the time I was too uptight to realize that. I had (and still have) this talent at looking at what’s missing; what’s not perfect; what’s not there. So much so that I sometimes completely overlook what actually is there. What actually is going right. 

If I would’ve known then what I’d be like ten years later, would I have made the same choices?

Would I have said goodbye?

Would I have left the only man that I ever truly loved?

That evening, I had bought a bottle of sparkling grape juice along with a sleeve of small plastic cups (I had known that it was illegal to consume alcohol in public spheres; if nothing else, I've always been responsible and terribly socially conscious.) Boarding the A train, I set out for a 1.5 hr subway ride to JFK. I had encouraged him to go to London with a group because I felt it would give him clarity, inspiration. Maybe that was my way of giving us both some space. Likely it was a combination of all of that.

Somehow I had timed-out the journey accurately enough that I caught him just as he was boarding that same train. The doors opened, I was thrilled. Exhilarated to see him,  and proud of myself for having such damn good timing. 

We toasted a Happy New Year on the subway car back up to Manhattan, celebrating with a group of strangers, probably student-tourists trying to save a penny by not taking a taxi to the city (like us).

I recall being happy; lonely; happy. Always riding this see-saw ride, navigating between being in love and fearing the future.  Being in love, and yet always wondering what else, who else may be on the horizon. Somewhere better, someone better.

Ten years later, I look back. I see that life is about choices.

Nothing is perfect. No one is perfect. There comes a time when we all choose. Priorities. And we have to somehow deal with those imperfections called life. We grow, we make progress, we learn. 

Most importantly I am learning to be present and appreciate what I have in life. In many ways I am a perfectionist, and I'm damn good at avoiding things I don't think I can do perfectly. 

My desire is to be cherished. To cherish. To value the present and embrace the wonderful man who lays next to me. To build. To bring inspiration and meaning to those around me. Priorities.

I had that. I could have had it for longer, but I was too uptight to realize how good it was.

Then again, maybe memory is playing games on me. After all, I was not stupid or blinded. Yes I loved, and I was loved, but there were problems, issues. I had issues. I couldn't commit. I was scared. I certainly wanted to build back then, but my foundations wanted to be built halfway across the world. 

Ten years. 

Celebrating New Year's with memories from the Old Years.

But overall, delighting that this storm is bouncing off my window sill in Jerusalem.

My Russian Learning Exchange in Jerusalem

I’ve always had a knack for languages. Maybe it was my mom’s initiative in sending me to a French-English preschool that got my linguistic wheels going. Maybe it was my father’s knowledge of random curse words in multiple languages that kept me curious. I can’t pinpoint the exact source of being a linguaphile, but suffice to say that I love having the ability to meet and communicate with different people in their languages.

Tonight was the beginning of my second stint studying Russian.  The first time I studied the language, I was a junior in high school. SUNY Stony Brook had offered after-school foreign language courses for excelling students, and I had a thirst to expand my horizons while taking advantage of my junior license and new car. I loved studying in a university setting, and soaked up the Russian by listening to tapes and reading books.

Fifteen years later, here I am living in Jerusalem, still with a burning desire to communicate with Russian people and learn more about their culture. Given my self-proclaimed status of ‘eternal student’ and ‘language nerd’ (חנונית לשפות in Hebrew), I felt that I needed another linguistic challenge in my life now that I am fluent in Hebrew. I figured I’d give this Russian class a try to see how much I remembered from high school and perhaps make progress with my comprehension and conversational skills.

I find that I learn best in group settings, so the class at Berlitz got me very excited. After the trial class, I am pleased to report that my reading and comprehension skills in Russian are actually still quite good, which I think is due to a combination of frequent eavesdropping on random Russian conversations while traveling on public transportation throughout Israel, and reading every single sign in Russian that my eyes land upon.  I would say that my visit to Moscow also plays a part in my language retention, but my trip was eight years ago, so I don’t think it’s a contributing factor anymore.

The other students in my class intrigue me more than the language study itself. Talk about an "Only in Israel" moment – their backgrounds are testimonies to the authentic diversity in Jerusalem as a city. Just hearing a small snippet of their biographies made my own narrative seem mundane and lackluster. I’ve only met these young adults twice thus far, but I am looking forward to starting an enriching encounter with a different face of Jerusalem.

Take V., for example, a twenty-something Armenian Jerusalemite. He lives in the Old City, and works in his family jewelry business, which has stores in the Armenian Quarter of the Old City and one of the fancy hotels on Road #1 (the busy thoroughfare which serves as the border between “Western” and “Eastern” Jerusalem).  He speaks four languages fluently, and already knew how to say in perfect Russian, “Friend, for you, I give you a discount!” 

Then there’s A., a young twenty-something Arab guy with strawberry-blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He is finishing his degree in Mechanical Engineering. A. is from Abu-Gosh (I think that means he’s a Christian Arab), and went to school in Neve Shalom – the cooperative peace village near Latrun that I've been reading about for years. This came up in conversation because I assumed he had to translate the Russian exercises into Hebrew and then into Arabic, but he informed us that he’s been in an all-Hebrew learning environment since elementary school.  Hearing that he studied at Neve Shalom was a particularly exciting discovery for me since I’ve been following their work for many years, when I was researching bi-cultural peace education in areas of conflict. It also turns out that David Broza’s grandfather was one of the founding fathers of Neve Shalom –so many connecting pieces for me!  A. has the lowest level of Russian, but I think if he starts watching Russian TV, he’ll improve quickly.

K. comes from the FSU Republic of Georgia. He’s been here since he’s about 10, and works as a lecturer in Physics and Mathematics at ORT. He also studied German, plus he’s fluent in English, Georgian and Hebrew.  I don’t know how his Russian is so good, but he has little patience for A. and steals the spotlight. There’s always one know-it-all in every class!

Then there’s C, who is a sweet Charedi girl who was born to American parents in Jerusalem. It turns out that she volunteered with the same organization that brought me to Russia eight years ago, and spent three winters teaching Judaism to Russian students. She is kind, gentle and speaks Russian on a basic level. She reminds me of myself when I was young, more frum and more naïve.

The process of studying a foreign language in a foreign language is a fascinating process. There aren’t enough words to fully express how excited I am to refresh my Russian skills, but the added element of learning it in my third foreign language (Hebrew; Spanish is my second language) is going to be very challenging.  For me, the mental gymnastics is enjoyable. I love the cerebral challenge of translating back and forth, but I thought I would be the only one doing so in the classroom. I'm definitely not alone here.

Jerusalem’s colorful cultural tapestry is once again showing its face. Each one of us is learning Russian in a foreign language, yet most of the students (besides K. and I) were born in this very city! This “Only in Israel” moment is one that I have never encountered before. 

Today's cultural experience once again shows me how much similarity there can be between individuals who otherwise seem to have little in common. Each person has a narrative, and each person is fascinating in his/her own right. Even the aggressive, sketchy merchants in the Old City have families and children who wish to help develop their families' businesses! I find that when you encounter different people from various walks of life, you develop an appreciation for and curiosity about everyone.

Oh, I am a student of life, and every day in Jerusalem is my classroom!

The Longest Six Miles Away

The mainstream media makes conflict zones seem so black-and-white. You’re either on this side or that side. One side is the aggressor, the other the underdog. We are made to think that one side is made up of terrorists, and the other consists of innocent, peaceful civilians. Riots, demonstrations, divestment strategies. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

The longer I actually live in a so-called 'conflict area', the more encounters I have in my day-to-day life that make me realize how grey and complex the reality is. I come home at night after a day at work and a short shopping stint in the city center, and realize that the most palpable conflict zone is the one going on in my mind. Exhausted, with a million thoughts in my head, I come to see that this geographic conflict zone has become an emotional conflict zone for me. Short sociocultural exchanges quickly become long, twisted existential dialogues in my mind, when all I really want to do is live in pleasant surroundings and be able to trust those around me.

So I will rewind to the scene last night, as I walked by the luxurious David Citadel Hotel on my way to meet a date. I got off the bus and began to head towards the outdoor Mamilla Mall. As I walked down King David Street, I saw a large group of teenagers and young adults hanging out with some snare drums parked on the side, close to the building. They were all wearing a beige uniform with tassels on the shoulders and carried green flags. The closer I got, the more visible the Arabic writing on the flags became. At first I thought they were a group of tourists who had returned from a pro-Arab rally or maybe were about to start one. Then I got even closer and saw small Palestinian flag emblems on their uniforms, and noticed that they did not look like any European tourists. The dark hair, olive complexions, mustaches (Yes- Mustaches! Hello 1982? You were 30 years ago.) They were also speaking Arabic. I thought I was mistaken because even though I see lots of Arabic writing in Israel, I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a Palestinian flag in real life.

However, these youngsters definitely we were wearing Palestinian flags on their uniforms. I got closer.

Now, I recall my own days in marching band. We were not a scary bunch. We wore those dorky green uniforms every darn Memorial Day Parade and marched down the bridge in Centerport proudly displaying our shiny instruments which glared from the sun as much as our metal braces in our mouths. As I walked by this group, I made the presumption that the nature of marching-band-geeks prevails internationally, and therefore did not sense any threat of potential violence. Fellow band nerds, Palestinian style. OK I have nothing to fear.

I walked over to a girl who was sitting down talking to a guy. They were probably around 17 years old. “Where are you from?,” I asked in Hebrew.

“What?” They responded in English.

“What kind of group is this?” I asked in Hebrew again.

“We don’t understand,” in English they responded.

“Oh,” I said in English, “Where are you from?”

“From Ramallah,” the guy said, “We are scouts.”

“Oh. Ramallah. Where did you play your music?”, I asked them in English.

“Beit Fajjar. You know it?,” he asked me.

Now at this point, I was stunned. Stumped! For 2 reasons:

1) Here is a group of school kids- boy and girl scouts - from a town about 20 minutes from Jerusalem who do not speak a word of Hebrew. Their English wasn’t so great either, but they didn’t even understand me when I spoke Hebrew, and usually comprehending a ‘foreign’ language is easier than speaking it (note: this is my own theory, not based on any research). And they live just up the road! Do they not get reception for Galgaltz Radio or Yes TV?!

2) Beit Fajjar? Do I know it? Um, yes. It’s in Gush Eztion. I pass by the sign for Beit Fajjar whenever I go to Alon Shvut. I distinctly remember the sign because it’s right near a trempiada (hitchhiking stand) in Tzomet HaGush which stands out in the open on the highway. There have been numerous shootings in that little traffic circle called, "The Gush Junction". It is one of few places in the Gush that frighten me. Whenever I see hitchhikers there, I get anxious that another shooting could easily occur again because there’s really nowhere to hide for safety except for behind a bus stop. So yes, I know of Beit Fajjar.

I also have heard about it because it was the village in which the mosque was vandalized by some fanatic Gush Eztion residents.

So how would you respond to this exchange?

Do you make reference to “Gush Eztion”, a totally legitimate, legal, widely recognized name that refers to the same exact neighborhood they were playing their music in? No.

The trempiada? Nope, they don’t stand there. They’re probably not allowed to.

The shootings? Em, nope.

Tzomet HaGush? ‘Shu Hadaa?’ They won’t know what that is either.

The mosque? Oh God no.

South of Jerusalem? Maybe, but they call Jerusalem ‘al-Quds’. So probably not.

Each time I tried to make some reference to show recognition of the town, I couldn’t.

Different language, different recognition, different frame of reference, different mentality, different ways of life. Different, different, different.

Foreigners with no common frame of reference at all who literally live 6 miles away from each other.

Sad.

More than that, and this is where I get crazy, but the likelihood of some of their close relatives being members of the very organizations who actively pursue our annihilation is high. Hamas? Fatah? They build their parks, hospitals, and schools in their neighborhoods! Internationally-recognized terror organizations are the equivalent of the freakin’ Salvation Army down the road a few miles.

I don’t know what they were doing waiting openly in front of the hotel, but I am confident that there is no way a group of teenage, Jewish scouts would ever survive hanging outside of a Ramallah hotel lobby in one piece.

Perhaps I should be upset to see this group so comfortably hanging out on the streets of our Jerusalem. But honestly, I felt fine. I had a calm, yet admittedly awkward conversation with a group of Palestinian marching band members, with not one guard or policeman around.

I don’t know whether I should have been scared or comforted. Hopeful, maybe?

Maybe if we just find some common ground, and keep ourselves open to listening, we could just have a conversation and move on with our lives.

…And maybe in the end of the day, I’m really grateful they’re heading up 6 miles to Ramallah – the longest 6 miles away in the world.