Live from Sar-El - Somewhere in the Negev

Day is dawning on our second full day on the army base.  Our students remain asleep after a long day of work that ended with a night of excitement.

The army base, located somewhere in the Negev, is as it described in the Volunteers for Israel information booklet; Spartan at best.  We occupy army barracks; each room with four very basic spring frame twin beds covered with a razor thin foam mattresses.  This blue paper film covers the windows in lieu of curtains.  On our first day, the students and I were given very used but clean army fatigues, threadbare sheets and army surplus sleeping bags. 

After breakfast, we joined the soldiers on the base at the flag raising ceremony.  We learned the Hebrew commands for “attention” and “at ease” and our students followed diligently.  I sang along quietly with a recorded rendition of Hatikvah. 

Our group was broken into two with each group given a different work assignment.  My group spent the day clearing, cleaning and re-shelving supply huts.  Tables, boxes of rations, jerry cans (which the Israelis called “Jerrykanim”) and a broad assortment of supplies were hauled from shelves, wiped down and either moved to other shelves or to another location.  It was, in essence, cleaning the garage, an activity I avoid at all costs in America.  Of course, the difference was that we were organizing and rearranging articles required to effectively make war, and given our admiration and care for Israeli soldiers and the Israeli army, there was a far greater sense of seriousness to our efforts.  Among the items we moved were boxes of army rations, automatic rifle cartridges and camouflage netting for tanks.  Clearly the need to access these items quickly during a conflict is of great urgency.

We worked alongside two Israelis one in his twenties and the other quite older and we communicated through my profoundly limited Hebrew, hand gestures and two or three English words; “okay”, “good”.  

Last night, at 1:00 a.m., our students were woken up from deep slumber by Yael our group supervisor (minahelet).  A bit of framing is called for: Nineteen years old, Yael is approximately 4 ft. 10 inches and I’d be surprised if she breaks 90 pounds.  Yet at 1:00 a.m., Yael assumed the fierceness of a hardened drill sergeant.  And as she barked at the students to wake up, don uniforms and get in line, I found myself cowering (even though I knew this activity was coming).  The student lined up outside and Yael ordered them to come to attention and roughly chided them for taking so long.  She warned them not to talk or laugh.  I anxiously awaited cries of protests or students storming back to their room in anger or tears; however our students, these American young men and women, most from affluent American homes, accustomed to a sheltered and comfortable life all complied, stood at attention, ran through the midnight air and crawled through bushes.  And when it was all done, with Israeli marshal music playing on her mobile device, Yael formally inducted them as Sar El volunteers and placed blue ribbons in their epilates. Each student got a light punch on the shoulder as an initiation. And to my further surprise, and to my great delight, every one of them, even the non-Jewish students were honored and proud.

We learned many things on the army base: We learned that chocolate milk served in a plastic bag is quite yummy but has a tendency to spill all over the table if left unattended.  We learned that Israelis treat paper napkins like we treat precious jewels – they are handed out sparingly and with great reluctance.  After much practice, Pat learned to say “At yafa me-od” (You are very pretty) – and then proceeded to say it to every female soldier he encountered and, additionally, to Yael’s mother on the phone.  We learned that Israeli soldiers were just like us: teens and young adults who listen to rap music, hang out in groups and flirt almost endlessly.

But perhaps the greatest lesson was the humanness of soldiers; the above mentioned adolescence of most soldiers; but also the genuine warmth and good humor of officers who treated our students with such kindness and thoughtfulness.  We spent time with Yosef who is studying business administration at a local community college and Eli, a non-commissioned officer who, at the approximate age of 60 worked harder and lifted heavier objects than new recruits 1/3 his age.  And we all came to love the diminutive and delightful Yael with her sweetness balanced by the steel of an Israeli soldier.  This is perhaps the greatest value of the Sar El experience; human connection; human warmth negates objectification.  Our students will no longer see Israelis and the Israel army as faceless soldiers who can be subject to broad and inaccurate generalizations.  They will always see them as Yosef, Eli, Yonatan and, of course, Yael.

 

Life in the Slow Lane

In the first week in my tenure as interim director of Hillel at Boston University I walked to Best Buy to cruise the Labor Day sale.  Students and parents rushed through the aisles of Best Buys snatching up air conditioners, iPad, TV’s and stereos.  A small microwave oven for $54.00 beckoned me as did a flat screen TV for $189.  But I demurred.  A simpler life beckoned me.

My small one bedroom apartment on Bay State Road is the definition of Spartan functionality.  It has all I need but very little more.  In the days ahead I will return to my well-furnished and provisioned home in Atlanta but here in Boston, life is much simpler. I have two double beds, one love seat, three chairs, two bar stools, two end tables, coffee table and a 6x8 rug.  I have a set of four each of dishes, eating utensils, mugs and glasses.  I have, as of yet only used two of the dishes, one of the bowls and one of the coffee mugs.  Oddly, I have managed without my precious expresso machine.  I have yet to do the laundry, but when I do I will fill my pockets with quarters and trek downstairs to the washer and dryer, which shares a small room with the buildings boiler. 

Everything takes a bit longer.  I make stir fry for dinner.  In the absence of a microwave oven I boil the rice.  Impossibly, it takes 6 minutes rather than one.  There is no dishwasher and so I wash each dish, utensil, pot and glass by hand.  I sweep the small kitchen floor and hand wipe it with a spray cleaner and a small rag.  That deliberate quality of life is pleasant; perhaps, functionally meditative; slow down, embrace the quieter moments. 

Without a Boston-based car, I walk everywhere.  Trader Joe’s is a 20 minute stroll as is Whole Foods.  The walk over is pleasant.  The returning walk with hands filled with groceries a bit less so. The dry cleaner is four blocks, the drug store six.  My commute to Hillel is a 10 minute walk.  I discovered that my iPhone is tracking my steps and I am averaging about 12,000 a day – about 4 miles. 

I sit on a park bench along the Charles River and watch sleek shells with determined rowers glide by.  I walk along Beacon Street admiring the beautiful Victorian era row houses.  I rent a bicycle and pedal to Harvard Square buy a used book and read while sipping coffee.  After a long, difficult day at work I grab a bottle of light beer, head into the bedroom (the only air conditioned room in the apartment) sit on an old office chair, place my feet on the bed, my computer on my laps and watch a movie on Netflix on the 14 inch screen.  It seems overly indulgent.

Perhaps the simpler life will get old soon.  I will long for the convenience of a microwave; the comfort of the full size leather sofa in my den, the convenience of a car and the mindless pleasure of a large flat screen TV.  But a quieter, simpler life has its pleasures.  These pleasures are all in the moment – and none are taken for granted.  It seems to me that is a core message for Rosh Hashanah; enjoy life in the moment for the simple pleasures it offers.  In the absence of the layers of possessions that surround us we become more attuned to gentle joys of God’s creation; trees, a soft breeze, new and old friends, our loved ones.  Among those great pleasure is our own journeys of thought, imagination and wonder.  Today is the birthday of the world, enjoy.

Apples Honey and Augie the Doggie

Generally speaking, other than a honey stained necktie and some extra pounds, I carry little of sustaining residue from indulging in apples and honey on Rosh Hashanah.  Clearly it is yummy but, without question, there is a quality of magical thinking to this custom and belief that eating apples and honey will advance happiness in the year to come.  The same can be said of Tashlich[1] where we presume that tossing stale Cheerios or Wheat Thins into the Chattahoochee or Charles absolves us of our past misdeeds.  Thus, as the New Year approaches, I find myself thinking about Augie, or as we like to call him Augie the Doggie. 

Augie was irresistibly cute when we spied him a year ago at an adoption event; large brown eyes, oversized paws and an expression our son Jacob coined the “Sarah McLachlan face”, after the pathos oozing commercial for the ASPCA. And so we brought him home.  All seemed fine those first days; he was unusually docile, but we chalked that up to the pain medication he was taking for his broken tooth – acquired we learned when attempting to chew his way out of a metal cage.  And then we left him home alone. 

Upon returning, we couldn't quite figure out why large portions of his body were covered with white powder – until we spied the open pantry, whose contents, had been turned into a war zone with Cheerios, sugar, Wheat Thins and, of course, flour strewn all over the floor. 

Augie was dutifully locked up in a large dog cage for our next excursion out of the house.  Channeling Krypto, he bent the bars and broke out. And, in a display of profound industriousness, he ripped out all of the window screens, knocked down the accumulated knickknacks on our dining room hutch and relieved our bedroom wall of a framed lithograph.

More restrictive measures were called for and, as we headed out for a Saturday evening dinner with friends, we locked him in the downstairs bathroom; after all, what damage could he do.  Further demonstrating his destructive acumen, he ripped and ate through the dry wall, knocked a framed picture off the wall shattering its glass and chewed the ends of the vanity doors. 

We were about to give up.  Perhaps we had made a huge mistake.  We took him to the vet who told us about “Separation Anxiety” a common condition among rescue dogs.  He prescribed Prozac and guided us on how to build Augie’s trust and confidence by leaving him for very brief periods and gradually increasing the time away.  Astonishingly, I had found a pet more neurotic than I am. 

A year has passed since our house destruction ordeals.  Each morning begins with Augie jumping into our bed to announce the arrival of morning – and more importantly breakfast time.  His morning kibble is followed by Prozac wrapped in American cheese.  Whenever possible, Augie and I go hiking in Big Trees a local wooded preserve.  Off the leash, he follows close behind as we hike the trail, stopping to drink from the stream.  He sits at our feet as we read or watch television.  He is slowly transforming from a sullen, frightened pet to one that is becoming more outgoing and playful.  We say that he is “discovering his inner dog”.  Last month, for the first time, he chased a squirrel.  Unfortunately, my wife Jo happened to be attached via the leash at the time.  Caught totally off guard by this unexpected “dogged pursuit”, she took a nasty spill, broke a finger and a tooth and needed 5 stitches in her chin.  She is still in physical therapy.

What does this have to do with Rosh Hashanah and apples and honey? Here’s what we’ve learned from Augie the Doggy: The sweetness in life comes not from consuming or possessing things but in investing in, engaging and enjoying the company of others – humans and otherwise.  Psalms 133 teaches us:  “Hiney ma tov u’ma-nayim Shevet ach-im gam ya-chad”; "Behold, how good and how sweet it is for friends to sit together”.  The sweetness in life is in the company of others.  Thus, the question is not what will make this year sweet but who will. 

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[1] Tashlich: the custom where, on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, Jews cast some form of grain (e.g. bread, rice, Cheerios) upon flowing water, as a metaphorical representation of casting out one’s sins,

The Carnegie Deli

April 1, New York, NY -- The Carnegie Deli, the landmark delicatessen the heart of midtown Manhattan has featured celebrity named sandwiches since it first opened in 1937.  The “Don Rickles” features pickles, salami, Romanian pastrami, chopped liver and a thick spread of hot mustard.  The “Woody Allen” features corned-beef, pastrami, coleslaw, mayonnaise and young chicken.  However, according to manager Anthony Shapiro, one sandwich has not caught on: “No matter what we do, very few customers order the “Hillel sandwich”.  Featuring multiple slices of raw horseradish atop a mound of pate made from nuts, apple sweet wine and other ingredients, all heaped on a dry matzah cracker, the sandwich just does not sell. According to Jessica Kurtz, who post on the kosheryummy.com website:  “fusion dining is absolutely au-courant, but having said that, the core ingredients of the dish must have one essential characteristic, they have to taste good.”

Given the value of the Hillel brand in the hospitality industry, much new thinking has gone into raising the appeal of the eponymous sandwich.  The Carnegie Deli Foundation brought in a team of chefs from the Poughkeepsie Culinary Institute who proposed creating an “Open Hillel Sandwich” where diners would be invited to add their own ingredients such as olives, capers and humus.  Hillel sandwich aficionados responded “sounds tasty, but when does it stop being a Hillel sandwich?”   A small group of concerned consumers responded by creating the “closed Hillel sandwich” with a second piece of matzah on top to prevent the addition of unauthorized ingredients.   A third group proposed a “safe Hillel sandwich” removing the unappealing slabs of horseradish, the nuts from the charoset for those who might have allergies and the wine to prevent inebriation.  Commented one Hillel sandwich traditionalist:  “Goodness, what’s a Hillel sandwich without the alcohol and nuts?”

Culinary experts remain hard at work seeking a Hillel sandwich that will have broader appeal while retaining essential ingredients.  

New Biblical Discovery

The JEDP theory seeks to understand the authorship of the Pentateuch in light of the Documentary Hypothesis. This view believes that the Pentateuch represents the conflation of four different sources rather than the work of primarily one author, traditionally Moses. A recent archeological trove, revealed when fixing a water main brake underneath the Pizza Hut on King George Street in Jerusalem, has revealed a fifth author, who for now, we will refer to as “H”

The following is from H’s version of the Biblical creation narrative:

Genesis: Chapter One

26 And God said: 'Let us make man in our image, after our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.'

27 And the voices of the Seraphim arose and said unto God: “What if man dominion goeseth to his head and his ego become akin to the leviathans that dwell beneath the waters” And God said: “Good point”

28 And God created mosquitoes, chiggers and horse flies and all manner of beings that annoyeth and He caused them to swarm over the earth.  And He caused them to multiply and increase during the months of the summer when man was most likely to want to sit around the pool with his skin exposed serving as an attractive target.

29 And the Seraphim said: “Not bad.  “But will man see the power of the almighty in small insects even though they create raised welts and cause men to sratcheth thus causing unsightly scabeths.” And God said: “Good Point”. 

30. And God created piranha, tarantulas, scorpions, black widow spiders and the Black Mamba snake, the fastest land snake in the world, capable of reaching speeds of up to 20km/h that can strike up to 12 times in a row and whose bite is capable of killing anywhere from 10-25 adults.

31. And the Seraphim said: “Not bad.” “But how can serpents truly convey the awesome and terrible power of the Almighty who rules the heavens and the earth.”  “How can we be sure that man will remain low and meek for all eternity?” And God said: “Good point.”

32. And God created tornadoes, cyclones, hurricanes and ice storms to blanket trade routes and cause caravans to jackknife thus causing massive pileups that would delay the delivery of dates, almonds, silks, frankincense and myrrh.

33. And the Seraphim said: “Not bad.” “But will man see the true power of God in wind, snow and ice, and will he not take salt from the Dead Sea to cover the trade routes and forge iron to make snow shovels?”  And God said: “Good point”.

34.   And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon the man, and he slept; and He took one of his ribs, and closed up the place with flesh instead thereof.

35. And the rib, which the LORD God had taken from the man, made He a woman, and brought her unto the man.

36. And the Seraphim chuckled and had a drink.

Midrash

In the days of creation of the world, God created a race of beings with the mind of man, the speed of the cheetah and the thick skins of the rhinoceros.  During the days of Noah, as each creature boarded the ark by twos, these beings demanded an upgraded from a cabin with ocean view to one with a balcony.  As none were available they choose instead to wait to the next ark. 

Reflections on Taglit Birthright 2014

It is the second to last day of our Taglit/Birthright journey in Israel and it is another day of contrast.  Our students began the day with a visit to Yad Vashem, the Jerusalem institute dedicated to preserving the memories of the Holocaust and teaching us all of its enduring and painful lessons.  It will be a somber morning for our students; some have grandparents who are Holocaust survivors, for others this will be their first face-to-face encounter with this profound sadness.  We will follow up with a discussion on individual and collective Jewish memories.  Can we have shared memories with Jewish people around the world; now, in the past and in the future?  How do these memories frame and shape our lives and actions?  These are wonderful young men and women and they will embrace these complex and painful discussions.

Upon leaving Yad Vashem, our students will travel to Machane Yehuda, the vibrant, bustling outdoor market where the Jews of Jerusalem will be buying fruits, vegetables, cakes, challah and wine for the Sabbath.  Those who have been to this market on the day before Shabbat understand how fully it represents the vibrancy and energy of Jerusalem, Israel, Judaism and the Jewish people.  The market almost assaults our senses with sights, sounds and smells; vendors hawking their wares; the aromas of sweet spices; Orthodox Jews rushing to get home as the afternoon turns toward evening.

It is this sense of contrasts that perhaps best describes our journey thus far in Israel:  Our 24 hours of rushed travel, followed by the wonderful tranquility and peacefulness of Shabbat on Kibbutz Degana Bet.  The pain of visiting the site of the assassination of Israel Prime Minister Yizhak Rabin, followed by a visit to the bustling streets of Jaffa, alive with Israel/Oriental fusion restaurants, coffee shops and antique dealers.  A visit to the magnificent ancient mosaics of Tzippori, followed by a delightful guided tour of the artist village of Ein Hod.  It is perhaps through these days of contrasts that our students are coming to see and understand the richness and diversity of Israel, Israelis and the Jewish people.

The journey has been both a collective experience but also an intensely personal one for each of us.  Each student, in their own way, has made a personal connection to the land and people of Israel.  A student and I shared a taxi ride through the streets of Jerusalem. The driver, who wore a kippah, began asking about our lives in America.  Soon, he and I were singing Z’mirot, Sabbath songs together.  When the ride ended the student enquired: “Are all taxi drivers in Israel like this?” We talked about what it meant to be in a Jewish country.  Last night, with great trepidation, another student phoned his 103 year old great aunt who he had never met and never spoken to before.  “What should I say?  Will she understand me?”  “Tell her about yourself,” I counseled.  Later that evening he came to me with a wonderful smile on his face.  He had spoken to his great aunt; she was raised in England – even at age 103 she was lucid and thoughtful.  A Jewish connection was made between nations and generations.

Our ‘mifgash’, the encounter with the Israeli soldiers who joined us for half of the trip, was perhaps most emblematic of the bonding that took place between our students and the land and people of Israel.  Before the Israelis arrived, Hillary, our tour educator, asked our students to draw pictures representing their image of the Israeli soldiers we were about to meet.  The aggregate images of guns, falafel, kippot and payis displayed their notion of these peers from Israel as somewhat alien beings.  Over the days the American and Israelis were together they learned about each other, laughed and shared music.  At the end of our time together Americans and Israelis hugged and cried.  The collective sentiments of these wonderful young adults were shared by an Israeli soldier and then by one of our students:

“We didn’t know what to expect, but you are just like us.”

“I’m so proud to be Jewish and to call these people our people.”

Our second and last Sabbath in Israel will soon be upon us.  Tomorrow night we will board the British Airways jet back to the States.  We have traveled the length and breadth of this nation.  Each student has embarked upon and, hopefully, just begun, his or her own Jewish adventure.

The Blessing of Making Aliyah at Age 79

Published October 13, 2010 issue of “The Forward”

Two years ago, at age 79, my mother became an olah hadashah, a new immigrant to Israel. We moved her to live in the small apartment above my sister Ruth’s home within the Old City in Jerusalem. In the years preceding her move to Israel she had descended into the fog of Alzheimer’s disease. Her engagement with the world had diminished; her memories were dissolving. All that she was and all that she represented was replaced by the poignant image of who she had become: frail, confused, angry and profoundly dependent. Thus, in a decision filled with pain and anguish, our family decided my mother should spend the remainder of her days in Israel.

Memories of that day of leave-taking are so clear: We had told her time and again that she was going to visit my sister Ruth in Israel. But we had not told her the full truth. Her husband, Leon, and I had round-trip tickets; my mother’s ticket was one-way. We settled into our seats in the 56th row of our El Al airplane and, riddled with anxiety, I wondered how we would manage the 11-hour flight; would my mother become agitated and begin ranting as she had done in past months? But Leon dispensed three small pills into her mouth and the flight passed far more smoothly than I anticipated.

The wheels touched down at Ben Gurion Airport and the other passengers applauded. I did not know what to feel. When it was finally our turn to approach the agent in the passport control booth we declared that my mother was an olah hadasha. Our passports were dutifully stamped and we were directed to a telephone in a corner of the arrival lobby. We dialed immigration control and, within minutes, a handsome middle-age man arrived and accompanied us into the elevator, to the second floor and into the small immigration office.

All this time, my mother repeated incessantly “I want to go home, I want to go home.” Leon and I worked hard to keep her calm and the immigration officials were thoughtful and patient. Within a half hour, all forms had been filled out. Each thump of the official stamp proclaimed the magnitude and finality of this life transition. “Thump” — my relationship with my mother has changed forever; “thump” — I will rarely see her, “thump” — will she know me next time I come and visit? One last thump and my mother was an Israeli citizen.

As my sister Ruth and Leon unpacked my mother’s belongings in her apartment, I stepped outside to catch my breath on the deck. I turned to the left and peered at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Moving to the railing to the right of the door I shielded my eyes from the sun and marveled at the gold-clad Dome of the Rock. I turned to the right to observe the construction on the rebuilding of the Hurva Synagogue. It was a beautiful, clear day in Jerusalem. My mother will spend her final days surrounded by the world’s holiest sites, the epicenter of Western faith and the focus of thousands of turbulent years of history. She has no awareness of this.

On the day of my departure I said goodbye to my mother. Who knew when I would be able to return to Israel? Would this be the last time I saw her? If I came again, would she know me?

There is no happy ending with Alzheimer’s disease. But within the sadness and pain, there is a blessing for us. In the warmth of the Jerusalem sun, in the shadow of sacred spaces, my mother is well cared for and well nurtured. Doctors traverse the narrow cobblestone streets of Jerusalem and climb the steep steps to her apartment to make home visits. An occupational therapist comes once a week to flex stiffening joints and to guide Adelpha, mother’s fulltime caregiver, on how to best maneuver her increasingly frail body. A geriatric psychiatrist monitors her psychotropic medicine to maximize its benefits and minimize their side effects.

I do not have the expertise to assess the technical quality of medical care that my mother is receiving in Israel relative to health care in the United States. However, what is so profoundly evident is the remarkable human dimension of her care: home visits, after-hour calls, a gentle touch, a kind word. She is treated as if she were a member of an extended family.

As a child growing up in the 1950’s and 60’s, Israel was a miracle and a dream to me. Wrapped within this miracle was the Law of Return: All Jews are welcome to live in Israel and benefit from all it offers its citizens — security, support and human services. At the Solomon Schechter School, I sat transfixed as teachers spoke of homeless wanderers from across the globe embraced by Israel. They have come by millions and have built this remarkable nation. But my mother will never be a nation builder; she cannot contribute to this society. She can only be a ward of its protective and supportive services. It is a remarkable gift.

Israel is an unfinished and, as of yet, still flawed experiment. Perhaps all nations, all societies, are. While we stand in awe at its survival, marvel at its accomplishments we may also at times find ourselves cringing at policies and practices that offend our political or cultural sensitivities. It is not difficult to feel conflicted and confused about the latest challenging news emanating from Israel.

But I think of my mother, sitting in a small apartment in the shadow of some of the holiest places on earth. She sits in the sun, her memories fading, perhaps being absorbed into the stones of this city of memories. She has been welcomed to this home. She has been embraced by these people, our people. She is a Jew living in the land of the Law of Return.