Rabbi Janet Marder

May 4, 2007

Two Weeks in Israel

         It’s a bright Sunday morning and customers are crowding around Klein’s Deli, located near gate 36 in Terminal One at San Francisco airport. Klein’s, founded in 1979 by Deborah Klein, offers an assortment of tasty sandwiches named after famous women of the 20^th century. There’s the Frida Kahlo, for instance, (chicken salad with mango chutney, almonds and raisins) and the Edith Piaf (roast beef, cream cheese, horseradish and dill pickle on dark rye) – definitely a cut above your standard airline meal.

         I order the Jane Goodall special – peanut butter and bananas on whole wheat bread. Clutching my lunch in one hand and in the other my classy black tote bag, stenciled with the words “Congregation Beth Am Israel Trip 2007,” I huddle with the rest of our group: 41 people who are about to depart for Newark via Continental Airlines, and from there to Tel Aviv.

         The boarding announcement blares over the loudspeaker and the throngs surge forward, but our group stays together for a moment of prayer before we, too, are lifted up into the skies. “Mishebeirach avoteinu…May the One who blessed our ancestors, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah, bless us and those who travel with us, as we leave for the land of Israel . May we travel there safely, and arrive in peace in the land we hold dear, the land we call Zion . May we return, blessed in every undertaking, inspired and renewed by our people in our land.”

         Our lift-off was 20 days ago, on April 15. Our prayer came true. We came back, all of us, inspired and renewed by our people in our land.

         Every voyage there is different. Here are a few of the memories we shared. We go to Bet Hatefutsot, the Museum of the Jewish Diaspora, on the campus of Tel Aviv University . At the entrance is a giant reproduction of the Arch of Titus in Rome , showing victorious Roman troops carrying off the holy vessels of the Jerusalem Temple they have burned to the ground: the event, in the year 70, that marked the beginning of the Jews’ dispersion throughout the world.

         Diaspora comes from the Greek verb “to scatter seeds.”  For two hours we marvel at the vigorous Jewish culture that blossomed forth wherever our people were planted – Salonika , Morocco , Toledo , Amsterdam , Lithuania . We look at a 13^th century synagogue from Prague , the oldest one in Europe , still in use. There is an ornate cathedral from the Italian Renaissance, a simple wooden shul from 17^th century Poland , an 18^th century Pagoda-like structure from China . The flowering of Jewish expression is dazzling in its variety, but common threads stretch across the centuries and continents, as a people preserved its distinct identity: the chuppah, the brit milah, the Seder table, the Kiddush cup, the manuscripts of sacred books.

         We stand transfixed before a changing video display of more than 200 Jewish faces, in a rainbow of races, ethnicities, physiognomies  and costumes, putting the lie forever to any notion that someone can “look Jewish.”

         Near the end of the exhibits is a section called “Return.”  It tells the astonishing story that happened in our own generation: 2000 years after Titus besieged and conquered Jerusalem , Jews from all over the world came home to the place where we began. We stand together, watching a circle of illuminated words revolve endlessly on the museum floor below us: words from the Psalms – “Lo amut ki echyeh. I shall not die, but live.”

         We go to Rabin Square , where the late Prime Minister was assassinated on November 4, 1995, following a huge rally where a hundred thousand people sang “Shir L’Shalom,” a “Song for Peace.”  “Let your eyes look up with hope, not through a rifle sight. Sing a song, a song of love, and not another fight. Don’t tell me ‘the day will come’ – work for it without cease. Inside every city square, let out a cheer for peace!” It is a place suffused with a sense of what might have been.  “Shalom” is painted in huge letters on the wall, along with hundreds of personal messages from mourners. The most popular is “Chaver, ata chaser – Our friend, we miss you.”

         We go to the Palmach Museum , which pays tribute to the young fighters who fought and died in the 1948 War of Independence, a war that killed one percent of the population of the new state of Israel . Chaim Weitzman wrote “No state is handed to a people on a silver platter.” At the end of the Palmach Museum , you stand in a dark room lit by a memorial torch. On the wall are the words of Natan Alterman’s poem about the young men and women who gave their lives to create Israel : “We are the silver platter on which the Jewish State was handed to you.”

         Every morning we eat a delicious breakfast loaded with fresh fruit, fresh vegetables, home-baked bread, salads, fish, eggs and yogurt. Every morning we get up early and climb on the bus for another journey. We see the magnificent Roman harbor and theater at Caesarea . We go to a Druze village called Daliat Ha-carmel, where a Druze man named Fadel invites us into his home. He and his family serve us a lavish lunch and he speaks proudly about his religion, his culture, and his loyalty and love for Israel .

         We go to Atlit, a detention camp where British soldiers imprisoned Jewish refugees trying to enter Israel after the Holocaust, caging them in barbed wire and sending them to eerie-looking showers and disinfection stations. We climb into the Golan Heights, through green hills covered with wildflowers; we watch a powerful film about the battles fought there when Israel was attacked on Yom Kippur of 1973.

         We hike along running streams in the northern Galilee to the site of the ancient city of Dan, where archeologists unearthed a triangular piece of rock, dating from the 9^th century B.C.E., bearing the words “Beit David” – “House” or “Dynasty” of Davd – the first evidence outside the Bible that there lived a king called David in the land of Israel.

         In Tzfat (Safed), we meet an actress who made aliyah from New York and is now married to a gourmet chef. They prepare a delicious meal for us and she tells us her story – how she loves the beautiful, mystical city where she lives; how it felt to have bombs falling on her city last summer.

         We visit cemeteries, synagogues, the fortress of Masada , the desert caves where the Dead Sea Scrolls were found. We see the incredible excavations in the Old City of Jerusalem; we walk there, one Shabbat afternoon, guided by psalms and passages from the prophets.

         We hear a talk byRabbi Michael Schwartz of Rabbis for Human Rights, an organization committed to the idea that violating human dignity is an offense against God. Its members – rabbis from all the movements -- work for economic justice in the State of Israel and protect the rights of Israeli Arabs, Palestinians and foreign workers. When he is asked, “Why doesn’t your organization protest human rights violations that are committed abroad against Israelis?” Michael Schwartz says that their role is to hold their own country to its own ethical standards. When he finishes his talk, members of our group give him a standing ovation.

         We hear a talk by Khaled Abu-Toameh, an Israeli Arab journalist who writes for the Jerusalem Post. He tells us that he used to write for a PLO newspaper, but now, writing for a right-wing Israeli paper, he has much more freedom to express his views. Abu Toameh has little hope to give us. He doesn’t think peace is possible within this generation, and he vigorously denounces the corruption of the Palestinian leadership, as well as the European Union, which donates billions of dollars to them without expecting any reforms in return. But despite his pessimistic views, our group is energized by this moderate and pragmatic Arab voice, and he, too, gets an ovation when he finishes.

         On Sunday night, April 22, all Israel enters into Yom Hazikaron, the Day of Remembrance of those who fell in defense of the Jewish state. A siren wails for two minutes and all citizens stand in silent tribute to the 23,000 who have died since 1948.

         Our Israeli travel agent, David, had a son who was killed in Lebanon 10 years ago. He manages to get our group into an intimate memorial service for bereaved families held at Ammunition Hill, site of one of the toughest battles of the Six Day War.

         Prime Minister Ehud Olmert is there, sitting a few rows in front of us. So are the head of the Israeli Supreme Court, the mayor of Jerusalem, and other dignitaries, including the Sephardic Chief Rabbi (we see admirers coming up to greet him and kiss his hand). A mother whose 21 year-old son died in war lights a memorial torch. A bereaved father gives a short, emotional talk. He says that when your child has died, every day is a memorial day. He asks those present to honor our fallen soldiers by treating one another with love and respect, and by working for peace.

         The crowd sits in silence as the sun sets over the trees. Pairs of young girl soldiers carry bright garlands of flowers to the stage. A quartet of four young male soldiers sings melodies that are beautiful, haunting, full of sorrow.

         The last to speak is Prime Minister Olmert. He says: ” We are an ancient people.  We were born in this land thousands of years ago, and we have the strength to stay here forever.  The short lives of the fallen are the ultimate testimony of this.  But we will never despair of achieving our longed-for peace…..Our duty to the fallen, to the families and to all the citizens of Israel , is to make every possible effort to pave the long road which leads to the prevention of war and to peace.”

         Olmert concludes with these quiet words:

“Dear Families,

Night falls on Ammunition Hill, and all across the country the wind stirs the flags which fly at half mast….Even when the flags are raised again to full mast and we celebrate Independence Day, we will not forget the images, the valor and the sacrifice of the fallen.

The State of Israel bows its head in sorrow.

May their memories be blessed.”

         After the Day of Remembrance is Yom Ha’Atzmaut, Independence Day. At night there are fireworks, music and dancing in the streets; crowds of people playfully bonk each other on the head with plastic hammers. During the day there are parties, picnics and barbecues in the parks. There is nothing bellicose or militaristic about this celebration – only gratitude for the continued existence of a small country that was born out of a dream and survives by a miracle.

         At the end of our trip we go to Yad Vashem, Israel’s memorial to the Six Million, and we remember, with sorrow, that Europe’s persecuted Jews had nowhere to go, for no country was willing to take them in. We understand why there must be an Israel, and why it must have a Jewish majority.

         “I’ve been on trips before where we visited a lot of places,” says one of our group members, during our concluding discussion. “But on this trip what struck me most were the people.” Those are the memories that stay with us most vividly. All the people I’ve mentioned – and also Yitzhak, our young guide at Independence Hall, whose fervent convictions nearly make the room reverberate. David Wilfond, the gentle young redheaded rabbi who guides us through Old Jerusalem. Rachel Korazin, the brilliant teacher who prepares us for Yad Vashem. And most especially, our extraordinary Israeli guides, Orna and Gabi, who teach us in the most open-hearted, open-minded, generous, funny and loving way.

         We’ll remember also the people we traveled with. In our group there were shoppers, bird-watchers, history buffs, inquisitive engineers, and those with an unsuspected talent for belly dancing. We laughed and cried a lot, and made wonderful friendships.

         During our short visit, the Prime Minister’s popularity continued to sink, and scandal embroiled leaders in the upper echelons of power. But we met Israelis of every political stripe, including fierce critics of the government, who spoke eloquently a language that we do not hear very much in America. They spoke about love of country, about pride in its founding, faith in its purpose and its ideals. They told us their stories with passion, and they made us feel that Israel belongs to us. Their stories became our stories. We shared in their love. None of us came home unchanged.

         Next spring we’re going back again with another group – first we’ll go to Poland, and then on to Israel: a powerful experience of sorrow and rebirth. If you’ve never been before, or if it’s been a while since you went, I hope you’ll decide that now is the time to make the journey of a lifetime.