Leah Koenig is the Editor of The Jew & The Carrot: Hazon’s blog on Jews, food, and sustainability. She’s also a freelance writer and a serious foodie. Check out her other work on her website.

I’ve only ever been to Israel once and that was last year at the age of 25. I’m not exactly sure what took me so long, though it was probably some combination of not being particularly involved in mainstream Jewish activities as a teenager, my parents’ fear of the “situation” in the Middle East, and my own complicated emotions around and relationship to he holy land.

But last year, I was given the opportunity to go to Israel for free - no not through Birthright Israel - but through Hazon’s Israel Bike Ride. The deal: if I staffed the Ride (lugging suitcases, setting up rest stops, attending to riders, etc.) then Hazon (my employer) would fund my trip. Sweet.

As a foodie and food writer, it seemed like every piece of advice I got from friends in the weeks before I left for Israel was food-related. “You must go to this hole-in-the-wall falafel stand in Jerusalem,” or “You have to go to try the most amazing hummus at…,” or “Israel has the absolute best cheese ever” - that sort of thing. A friend of mine who studied at Hebrew University recounted her weekly trips to the shuk where her lunch consisted of a seedless cucumber, a fresh, red tomato, and a hunk of bread. “That’s all I needed,” she wistfully recalled.

By the time I boarded the plane I was starving. I was going to get my taste of the land of milk and honey.

So, did Israel taste good? I’ll spare you from the typical “hyperbolic trance” that people seem to fall into when talking about Israel. Because, in all honestly, not everything was THE ABSOLUTE BEST EVER! For example I wasn’t completely blown away by the shuk’s selection. Yes, the vegetables there were gorgeous and fresh, but I’ve been there done that many times over at any number of the farmers’ markets in the States. And the restaurants were tasty, but come on. I live in New York where even the bad restaurants are good.

Still, much of Israel was really really delicious. I loved how so many culinary traditions - European, Russian, Moroccan, Syrian, Italian and American to name a few - converged and overlaped across Israel’s homes, restaurants, and cafes. I swooned over the loquat trees - fat with ripe orange fruit on my friend’s organic farm. I was equally delighted and frightened by the buffet spreads at Israel’s hotels, where shakshuka and gooey chocolate cake were considered equally appropriate breakfast items. And yes, the crispy green falafel covered in pickled beets and - omg french fries! - which I sampled at a hole-in-the-wall joint in Jerusalem, was out of this world good. Like tahini dripping down my chin good.

Of course, my trip to Israel was certainly about much more than the food - it was about visiting the Wall, jumping into the falls at Ein Gedi, biking 20 miles outside of verdant Jerusalem into an entirely different and arid eco-system, squirting water guns at parched bike riders along their route, and sleeping outside at Kibbutz Ketura where the desert wind whistled me to sleep. Still, connecting to the food in Israel was my own way of kissing the “holy land’s” soil.

Leah Jones is a writer and occasional talker based in Chicago where she pens the blog Accidentally Jewish. The former stand-up comic is now the Digital-Culture Evangelist in Edelman Digital and she’s an active ROInik.

March 11, 2004

I’m working in London where I manage an international student residence. We have 24 hour security and the guys who work nights and weekends are all Israeli. The weekend after the bombings in Madrid, I walk with my Spanish students through the streets of London to the consulate. There we light candles, leave notes and walk back with the Spanish flag between. “Todos somos Madrilenos.”

One of my Israeli guys says to me, “Leah, if we stopped working every time a bomb went off in Israel, we wouldn’t get things done. This is life.”

July 2005

One of my closest friends is back from his annual family trip to Israel. We are in his car, driving to dinner and he gives me a souvenir. It’s is wrapped in that perfect way gifts are wrapped in Jerusalem shops and is a kiddush cup. I’d asked him for one, it was the only major item missing from my household Judaica that I started collecting when I decided to convert to Judaism.

Around the base was a Hebrew phrase and with my very beginning Hebrew skills, I sounded it out. I’m sure it was painful for him to listen to me butcher his first language, but I was triumphant at the end. “Ha… ga…. fen!”

March 2006

Just four months after my conversion and I was in Israel. I went with a group from the JUF in Chicago to TelAviv1. Two nights in Jerusalem for Shabbat at the David Citadel, then a mad dash to Tel Aviv for the conference, then a few days alone tacked onto the end.

Masada? Check.

Dead sea? Check

Kotel for kabbalat Shabbat? Check. Check.

Avocados, strawberry juice, cheese, Israeli salad, falafel, coffee, wine. Israel tasted great. Oh and I felt safe. I could safely go home and tell my mom that the, “When you die in Israel, what should I do with your body?” conversation hadn’t been needed after all.

On my way out of the country, I explained to El Al that I wasn’t visiting family. In fact, I don’t have family in Israel, because I converted. The agent pulled all of the stickers she’d put onto my luggage off and put a new color sticker on them. Then she sent me through extra security.

July 2007

I lie in a bed in my private room in a Tel Aviv hostel, wondering why I’d paid for a single room and not paid for air conditioning. I can’t tell if I am incapacitated from the heat or from jet lag, so I don’t move until the sun sets and then I go to the beach.

After a couple days, I go up to Jerusalem and drag my luggage up Ben Yehuda from Zion Square. I have a map, but more important I seem to have an inner magnet that helps me find my way around the city. I spend the next few days at the ROI120 conference, then finish the trip with a Chicago friend in Jerusalem and on my own in Haifa.

When I leave Israel I’m prepared. This time I have my beit din papers to prove I’m Jewish. I still have my luggage searched and all my gifts unwrapped. At 2:45 in the morning am sobbing while an El Al agent looks for a siddur for me to read from, to prove I can read Hebrew with vowels.

May 2008

I’m going to Israel again this summer for ROI120. I consider myself very lucky to have gone to Israel once a year since my conversion, but each trip makes me sad that the country I love so much doesn’t count me as a Jew because Reform rabbis supervised my beit din and mikvah.

Despite that twinge of not counting, I still love to laugh in Israel, walk in Israel, eat in Israel, listen in Israel, watch in Israel, smell in Israel, dream in Israel, and pray in Israel. I am beside myself that I get to do all of these things again, this summer that she turns 60, and hope I can again and again and again. I’d like to keep writing postcards to Israel.

A.  A conversation with an Israeli friend who grew up in the US. 

 Me:  True, we have a lot of problems here.  But I believe in Israel.  We have done so much in 60 years that I have no doubt we can go the rest of the distance. 

Friend:  (condescending) Oh please.  The government is corrupt. The people are corrupt.  No one cares about anything but their own wallets. Really, nothing is going to happen to change that.  

Me:  Of course change can happen!  Look at the United States! The federal and local governments were completely corrupt until people got up and called for change.  We can do that here. We are already doing that. 

Friend:  You know, I know you like to believe your pretty little fantasy world. But you cannot compare the US and Israel. The US was built on a good, solid foundation.  Israel was built on a bad foundation. 

Indeed?  Please, take a moment and Google the following: 

Tammany Hall.  Robber barons.  Tenement Slums.  Slavery.  Star Route Frauds. Decimation of the Native Americans. Discrimination against women. The Red Scare and McCarthyism.  Jim Crow.  Pollution.     

I present you with two potential conclusions to be drawn from the above list: 

1)      The United States and Israel have equally solid foundations.

2)      The United States and Israel have equally weak foundations. 

Choose whichever one suits you. Once you have done that, please take a look at some the following: Charles Henry Parkhurst.  Mary Harris (”Mother”) Jones.  Jacob Riis. Thomas Garret. Dorman Bridgeman Eaton. Sarah James.  Susan B. Anthony. Edward R Murrow. Barbara Johns. Rachel Carson.  

 To save you some time, let me provide you with the common factor linking the names above. Each of the names is that of an ordinary person who said “enough”…and who proceeded to change the United States and make it better. It is thanks to the above people and thousands upon thousands like them that the United States, for all of its faults, is so often cited as an example of good government and a well-functioning society. 

Are you asleep, O our nation? What have you been doing until 1882? Sleeping and dreaming the false dream of assimilation. Now thank God, you have awaked from your slothful slumber. The pogroms have awakened you from your charmed sleep. You eyes are open to recognize the obscure and delusive hopes. Can you listen in silence to the taunts and mocking of your enemies? 

Where is your ancient pride, your old spirit? Remember that you were a nation possessing a wise religion, a law, a constitution, a celestial Temple whose wall is still a silent witness to the glories of the past…

 Bilu Manifesto 1882

 If they can do it, we can do it.  Do not forget who we are. Do not forget where we came from.  Do not forget what we have endured.  And most of all, do not forget what we have accomplished despite everything we have had to endure. For us to doubt ourselves and our abilities as individuals, as a people and as a sovereign nation is patently ridiculous.  A corrupt prime minister?  קטן עלינו. 

B.  A conversation with a co-worker.

Friend:  My husband and I sometimes talk about how we wish we had been born during the early days of the State.   

Me:  Why is that? 

Friend:  Times were different then, better.  You know…more idealistic and heroic.  People had something to believe in. The people were different then as well.  They were more Zionist then, less disillusioned, less selfish and more self-sacrificing. They cared about the State of Israel.  

Me:  I don’t get it—why can’t you and your husband be like that? Do community service. I don’t know…take your kids to volunteer at an old aged home once a month.  

Friend:  Oh no! We used to live across the street from an old aged home—it was really frightening. 

Me:  Well, then do something else. 

Friend:  Well, you know…things get so busy. 

Now here comes the rub.  We can…but do we want to?  Let us have a little reality check.  It is not “the times” and it is not “the country” that is the problem.  You are the problem. Do you want to be idealistic?  Then be idealistic! What is stopping you? What the hell are you waiting for? Either you want this or you do not. If you want it, you will do it. (Do not worry—I am saying this to myself as well). 

אני רוצה להתבגר במדינה שמתגברת על כל הקשיים, בכל המובנים.  דואגת לילדים שלה-וגם למייסדים.  קולטת עליה, לומדים מניסיון אז נזכור מה שהיה ונעשה את זה נכון. ניקח אחריות, המדינה הזאת שלנו.  אז בוא נצעד צעד צעד ללא פחד.  נציג את כל שנבקש אם נשאר ביחד.  נביט למציאות עמוק בתוך העניין ונבנה עתיד טוב יותר בעבודת כפיים.

סאבלימינל והגבעטרון”בת 60″

 Being idealistic in action is not as difficult as it sounds. Volunteer. Teach your children to volunteer.  Go to demonstrations. Vote! If the party you voted for does not keep its election promises, kick the bums out.  Write letters.  Give to charity. Add a tzedakah box to your kitchen décor.  Think about the environment. Turn off the water while you scrub the dishes.  Fight corruption on every level, and wherever you can.  Remember—corruption does not emerge, like Athena, fully formed from the minds of top government officials. It exists everywhere—it is just a matter of scale. The corrupt clerk in the iriyah who has an illegal side arrangement with the black-market guy who buys cars from people looking to leave the country (as encountered by my friends) may well “grow up” to be the mayor with illegal side arrangements with real estate developers.  Fight corruption in your own behavior as well. Obey the law. 

 C.  A juxtaposition of two comments made to me by two Israelis.

 Comment One:  (On the Israel she knew growing up, in the 50’s and 60’s).  Yes, Israel was not rich, but we were also not poor. We did not have as much, but we were happy.  It was good to live here. People really cared for one another and cared about the State. It was a community.

 Comment Two:  (On the changes in Israeli society and the claims that the upper classes are disconnected from the rest of the country).  Can you blame people if they want to give their kids all of the things they did not have growing up?

 Herein lies the rub. Getting back the idealism may entail some amount of trade-offs.  It may entail giving up some of the things people did not have growing up but that they are now able to give to their children. Like, for instance: misery, cynicism, obsessive keeping up with the Joneses, rampant consumerism, self-absorption, and complete disregard and disrespect for the law when it interferes with your shopping or any other pleasure.  On the flip side, this may also involve people giving their children what they did have when they were growing up:  happiness, community and pride in their country.

 Yeah. Definitely.  A tough call.

 The further we went the hotter the sun got, and the more rocky and bare, repulsive and dreary the landscape became…. There was hardly a tree or a shrub any where. Even the olive and the cactus, those fast friends of a worthless soil, had almost deserted the country. No landscape exists that is more tiresome to the eye than that which bounds the approaches to Jerusalem. The only difference between the roads and the surrounding country, perhaps, is that there are rather more rocks in the roads than in the surrounding country.   

 The Innocents Abroad, 1869 Mark Twain

 To help you decide, I offer you the Jerusalem Forest. Trust me, this makes perfect sense.  The generations we most admire are the generations that carpeted the “tiresome terrain” with green.  Next time you have a free afternoon, head over there and spend some time enjoying the trees and nature. While you are there, think!  Here is the choice.  Option number one: you can give your children the forests you had growing up, the forests you were proud of, the forests that represent so much of what is good about Zionism.  Option number two: you can give your children a land where there used to be  forests back in the days before developers greased the right palms, and the forests were illegally razed in favor of yet another “exclusive” neighborhood.

 D.  A Conversation With Myself

 Me to myself:  I love this country.  If I ever get married, my relationship with Israel approximates the relationship I hope to have with my husband. I never really understood the mechanics of how people could stay together for years without going stark raving mad and getting sick of one another. Israel has taught me. I came here out of fascination and infatuation. I have stayed out of love and passion, a love that is almost indescribable and that exists despite the myriad of and warts and faults Israel bears and which I have gotten to know over the last seven years.  Recently, someone asked me (seriously) if I would be interested in working in the US for a few years.  The very thought of being separated from the מולדת, my homeland, for an extended period reduced me to something of a mental panic. This is love. This is my home.

 “אם תרצו, אין זו אגדה!”  תיאודור הרצל

“If you will it, it is no dream!”  Theodore Herzl

 This is my home. This is your home.  Either we do it right or we do it wrong but whatever path we choose, we have no other place.  But honestly, I do believe that we can transform the State of Israel into everything it should be. Yes, the challenges we face are huge ones, but think about how much we have done so far. Look at Israel and look at other countries that were established around the same time.  Look at where we are compared to where they are. Look at what we have had to deal with. This place is amazing and a testament to the people who built it. The times are different? The people are different? I disagree.  The times are the same; it is just the nature of the challenges that have changed.  And as for the people?  We are the same people. We are just as good and just as strong.   We can do anything…if we choose to. If we will it.   

“עורי עורי דבורה.  עורי עורי דברי שיר.”  שופטם ה  יב

“Awake, awake Devora.   Awake awake, utter a song.”  Judges 5:12

 Make a choice.  Start with a little exercise. Israel spent approximately a gazillion shekels on her 60^th birthday celebrations.  Ask yourself this:  what would need to change here in order that, by the 70^th birthday, the government could spend nothing —no official birthday song, no air shows, no fireworks, no logo, no excessive Israel Award prizes—and you would still spend Yom Haatzmaut with a goofy grin on your face and you would still plaster your car, your home and your children with Israeli flags.  Now sit down.  Write up a list.  Then get up, go out and make it happen.

Crossposted to My Shrapnel

After studying religion at King’s College- London and earning a B.A. in philosophy at the University of Wisconsin, Brenner received both his M.A. and rabbinic ordination from the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College in 1997. Brenner has been a contributor to Crosscurrents, The Infinite Mind, Killing the Buddha, Beliefnet, The Jewish Week, The Living Pulpit, Spirituality & Health and The Forward. In 2004, he received a Simon Rockower Award for Excellence in Jewish Journalism and his fifth professionally produced play - Driving School of America - premiered at New York City’s Vital Theater. Rabbi Daniel S. Brenner is currently the Vice President, Education, for the Birthright Israel Foundation and blogs at Reb Blog.

Eretz yisrael

Motherland

Lactating

tahini

Lukewarm goldstar

Sachlab

I once curled up under a cliff in the machtesh

thousand star hotel

Awoken by the sound of wild gazelles

as they jostled for a choice spot by the spring

Ancestral womb land

Your children are spread out from taipei to toledo,

But they never forget you, tongues cleaving,

a spoonful of peanut butter, right hands withering

left hands waved into the air swinging like they just don’t care,

feet dreaming of return.

You have nice rocks.

Our rock and our redeemer,

Your dust on our toes

A permanent condition

The axis mundi,

Jerusalem

Belly button

Umbilical cord to the other side

We sing halleluyahs into your cracks.

To sip a turkish coffee under the shade of your palms?

To sip a fresh squeezed orange juice on your cliffs that look out over the great sea?

To sip the cool mountain water cascading off your northern waterfalls?

We drink in your mother’s milk, Zion,

At pretentious cafes on streets named for city boy socialists turned farmers,

Plastic chairs in kibbutzim gone condo

On the porch eleven flights up overlooking the rarely open museum of the Diaspora,

On the Ottoman era tiled rooftops of your old cities,

We lift our glasses to you.

Tectonic shifting, trans syro african rifting

Each of your hills and valleys sing a new song unto the Lord on high.

May our dwellings on you be open tents

May we give thanks for your yearly gift of dates,

The goodness of the land.

And may we forever merit to not only have our

bones lie in your rocky soil

but to watch our toddlers crawl across your grassy places.

-Daniel S. Brenner

Yonatan Gordis is the Executive Director of the Center for Leadership Initiatives, an operating foundation working to support current and emerging leaders in the global Jewish community. www.leadingup.org

My mother’s father, Meyer Cohen, was something of a mythical character in our lives. Born (apparently) in Kiev in 1890, he was already in his 20’s when he immigrated to the United States. Married to Nechama (Nellie) Goldin in his 30’s, he was never much of a career man. He sold shoes. He sold encyclopedias. He sold insurance. Nechama taught Jewish topics and Hebrew to Jewish girls for sixty years.

Rabbi Yonah blogs at Jewlicious.com, and Blogshul.com. He runs Jewlicious Festivals and serves as campus rabbi at Long Beach State and UC Irvine.

May there be a good sign and good fortune for us and all of Israel. Amen.— From the prayers for the New Moon.

I am walking through empty markets stalls, littered streets, stained asphalt. Cats scurry in corners over garbage left behind from the thousands of shoppers who crowded the streets yesterday. Wrappers, crumbs, pigeons cooing, strutting amid cigarette butts and cans that line the drainage ditch that runs the length of the street on my way, this Shabbos morning. This shabbos morning that I walk in my mind from time to time. This shabbos morning walk across the innards of Jerusalem, from Rechov Narkiss 7 where we lived to Tiferes Yisrael, across Nachlaot, stone homes, shuls, across empty streets, finally into Machaneh Yehudah. Wide empty street. Wooden carts, awnings covered in Hebrew script from my siddur. Across the markets, and through Geullah up and down hills, across Yafo. No belching busses today. No lines of old women today holding too many bags, and beggars and shnorrers. White taleisim flying in the morning breeze over the shoulders of larger than life Ger Chasidim, proud spodek wearing tribe, flow across the streets silently on their way. The clouds overhead but a whisper, mostly blue deep blue sky over head. The water trickling through this alley I avoid. A few cars pass by, and I don’t really see them, this morning. Tiferes Yisrael rises above the worn homes and streets of Guela, high on the hill, many stories tall, in smooth stone. She is all of Israel for me.

* * *

The original three story synagogue was completed in 1871 and inaugurated on August 19 1872, 29 years after the land had been purchased. For the next 75 years the Tiferes Yisrael synagogue served as the centre for the Hassidic community in the old city. This domed masterpiece of 19th century Jewish architecture was the reunification of chassidus with eretz yisroel. It was the synthesis of the Ashkenazi with the Yerushalmi. It towered over the ancient Jewish quarter with its proud dome – unlike any Ashkenazi shul ever built in Hungary or Poland, lest it compete with a church. And the domed roof in keeping with the local architectural mores and tastes. It even had two names. Some called it the Tiferet Israel synagogue, after Rabbi Israel of Ruzhin, the founder of the Ruzhin and Sadigura Hasidic dynasties, that aided in its construction. Jerusalemites, however, knew it as the Nissan Bak Synagogue, after the son of Rabbi Israel Bak and one of the community’s leaders. It as through the leadership of Rabbi Bak, owner of the first Hebrew Printing Press in Jerusalem, that the land was purchased for the shul in 1843.

During Israel’s war of Independence, the Jordanian Legion captured the old city and the synagogue, which had served as a position for the defenders of the Jewish Quarter, was blown up one hour after midnight on the night of May 20-21 1948. The story of its destruction is captured her in O Jerusalem (1973):

The first major Haganah stronghold to fall was the Nissan Bek Synagogue, the building whose dome had been donated by the Emperor Franz Joseph. It was essential to Rusnack defence plan and the Haganah fought tenaciously to hold on to it…Fawzi el Kutub finally ordered eight of his men to rush across an open space and place a charge at the base of the synagogue. All of them were killed or wounded. No one would volunteer for a second try. Hoping to force his men’s hands by his example, Kutub sprinted across the space himself. When he got to the base of the synagogue, he saw that no one had followed him. Like a spider he pressed himself up against its wall until finally the Tunisian to whom he had promised a wife rushed out to him carrying a fifty-five pound charge. The explosion barely chipped the wall. Three more unsuccessful attempts were required before Kutub managed to blow a hole in the synagogue wall and a party of Legionnaires rushed through the smoke into Nissan Bek’s interior. Sure that the Haganah would counterattack and that the irregulars swarming into the synagogue would quickly turn to looting, Kutub decided to destroy it with a 220-pound charge. His strongest follower, a one-eyed former porter in the railroad station nicknamed the Whale, staggered up with the explosive. A terrible roar shook the quarter and blew out the heart of the building. As the smoke cleared and the frightful devastation caused by the bomb became apparent, Kutub heard a cry of consternation rising from the Jewish posts around him. It was quickly replaced by a triumphant yell. A small group of Haganah led by Judith Jaharan counterattacked and took the smoking ruins of Nissan Bek from the Arabs. As Kutub had suspected, the irregulars had spent their time looting the synagogue. The Haganah found the bodies of Arab irregulars killed in their counterattack with altar cloths around their waist, pages of the Torah stuffed into their shirts, pieces of chandeliers and lamps in their pockets.

* * *

In 1953, Rabbi Mordecai Solomon Friedman, the Boyaner Rebbe, laid foundations for a new Hassidic centre in the new city of Jerusalem, and in the 1960’s a new synagogue was built resembling the original design of the Tiferes Yisrael synagogue of the old city. Called Mesivta Tiferet Israel of Ruzhin, it is home to a large yeshiva, and during Shabbos, services are presided over by the current Boyaner Rebbe, Rabbi Nuchem Dov Brayer, whose grandfather laid the foundation stone for the building.

The Boyaner’s followers make me feel at home when I arrived there for the first time with my spiritual mentor, Rabbi Chaskel Besser. Rav Besser’s father in law was one of the leading Boyaner Chassidim of pre-war Israel, who literally fed thousands of hungry Jews. I look up at the aron hakodesh and the ceiling, rows and rows of pews, and while it is very 1960’s it is still very much an awe inspiring place. Every time that I walk through the doors of the shul I feel the touch of a hand on my shoulder welcoming me, finding me a seat, a siddur, and aliyah, a piece of shiraim from the tisch, a place to stand, a cup with wine, a great warmth of Ahavas Yisroel, of love for a fellow Jew.

* * *

The old Tiferes shul is still in ruins in the heart of the Jewish quarter and was never rebuilt. Only it’s western wall remains. The old home and magnificent court of Boyan lies in ruins in Ukraine. However in New Jerusalem, Boyan and Tiferet Yisrael are packed on Shabbos.

I walk back after Kiddush levanah with my wife Rachel and the city has already restarted, cars rushing everywhere, music, traffic, horns blowing, but we glide through Geula, across Yafo, into Machaneh Yehudah, some stores opening already, across Nachlaot, passing othr shuls emptying out or outside praying at the moon, this new moon, this reborn moon over Jerusalem, and we make our way back and to Narkiss. Our apartment on Narkiss built just before statehood, and also home to Zerah Warhaftig Z”L, at the time one of the last two living signers of Israel’s declaration of independence and a rescuer of Jewish refugees during World War II. Ninety years old, bent over, walking back home held by one of his grandsons.

The Maharsha explains, writes Eluyahu KiTov, “that when Israel is in Exile, we are unable to ascend to Jerusalem to be in the presence of the Shechinah as we were in the time of the pilgrimage Festivals. Nevertheless, we have never stopped yearning to do so, and whenever we see the moon renewed, we are reminded of God’s promise that we will also be renewed, that we will once again attain the merit of ascending and being seen in the presence of the Shichinah.” When we go out to view the moon’s renewal, and bless it, “our inner thoughts are on our own renewal” on our return to service of God.

My first visit to Israel was in 2000, soon after my conversion to Judaism. I went with the intent of learning in yeshiva in Jerusalem, experiencing Torah learning in the Holy City, and having the “year in Israel” experience I had heard so much about. I identified Israel with the land of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and King David — and imagined Jerusalem as a theological time capsule where ancient faiths were dutifully practiced universally, where the G-d of Scripture was as real today for everyone as it was for their Biblical counterparts. There could be no atheists in Jerusalem, I thought, because how could one live in Jerusalem and not feel the Divine Presence?

Well there are atheists in Jerusalem, as well as Buddhists, Hindus, agnostics, and Sikhs — and I would meet many of all sorts of people at the bars that I also had no idea existed. But I can’t say that they aren’t connected. First off, Israelis seemed connected to each other in a way quite different from Americans. There was a pervasive “us” that could be activated in everyone’s mind at any moment — whether by an existential terrorist threat or by a political corruption scandal. Israelis had the ability — as I would see first-hand being in yeshiva during the 2000-2001 intifada — to spring into spontaneous unity as a collective family, to act as one at a moment’s notice.

Prime Minister Olmert spoke of how the feeling of “unity and shared destiny” is stronger on Independence Day than at any other time, but I think that the feeling of unity is what has kept Israel thriving for these past 60 years and what will keep Israel moving towards the future. Israel’s destiny is shared just because of that — Israelis realize that they are “in this together” in a way many other nations could learn from.

As a religious Jew, I would attribute this to the Divine sparks inherent in human beings, or to the Divine Presence which I believe permeates the Land. But no one can deny the reality: united Israel stands and advances, divided — chas v’shalom the opposite, and at 60, Israel should stand united and know that it is precisely their unity that made all their achievements possible.

Israel’s Ministry of Defense houses the “Izkor” Remembrance Project Web Site, which documents every single soldier to have died for Israel. Following is the story of Nissim Gini, wounded in the battle defending the Old city of Jerusalem on May 27th, 1948, and he succumbed on the following day, May 28th, 1948.

This is his story (translated by me)

Nissim Gini, son of Miriam and Yitzchak, born in 1938 in the old city of Jerusalem, where he lived his entire short life from beginning to end. He learned in school till the Israeli War of Independence in 1948 and Siege against the Old City of Jerusalem interrupted his routine life.

When the battles started, he volunteered, as did his young friends, to defend his city and birthplace — and demanded a position [in the army]. Without telephones or wireless radios to communication between military positions in the winding alleyways, he was given the task of being the communication “runner” between positions — which he did with adult responsibly and faithfully amidst hailstorms of bullets and the thundering of bombs.

He requested a handgun in case he be faced by an Arab solider, but his request was rejected. On the 27 of May, 1948, when one of the Jewish positions fell, he was seriously wounded, and he died a painful day later on the 28th of May, 1948, the 19th of Iyar, 5708. He was buried in the Old city.

He was ten years old.

The youngest to fall in Israel’s battles.

His name is inscribed on the monument at the Har Herzel military cemetery for the victims of the battle for the Old city of Jerusalem, and he was reburied on Har HaZeitim, the Mount of Olives.

Inbal Freund is the Director of Mavoi Satum (Dead End) a Jerusalem-based organization that advocates on behalf of Agunot.

In - memory of Noam Mayerson, my step cousin who fell in the recent Lebanon war, my cousin Chani Dikshtein , her husband Yossi and their child, Shuvael who were shot to death on their way to spending Shabbat with friends. This is also in memory of older loved ones: Shlomo Gabriel Freund, my father’s brother who gave his life while defending Gush Etzion in 1948 and of my grandmothers’ brother, David Metal who fell while commanding his troops in the south on the same year. Further I would like to commemorate my grandfather’s siblings and parents who perished in the holocaust. May their memories be blessed and guide us to meaningful growth and much joy of life in our present and future days.

A. My father.

My father has good eyes, which have seen a lot. He has grey hair that sometimes sneak out in mischievously boyish wisps from under his kippa. He has wrinkled hands with blessed old age stains, which treat every flower in his garden with great gentleness.

On Rosh Hashana, my father’s big hands open the Torah scroll at the synagogue. Full of emotion, his voice trembles above the crowd, reading from Jeremiah, chapter 31-the consolation prophecy describing the return to Zion. Embedded in that glory lays our foremother Rachel’s great agony for her lost sons- the ones who perished during the journey to Israel, and never made it to the Promised Land. When the reading is over, the cantor blesses Yonatan son of Rachel and Moshe. My father’s good eyes are lit with splendor and laughter as he steps quietly down from the Bimah back into the crowd.

In the army, my father’s role was taking care of the dead. His job was to bring them to a dignified Jewish burial. He never tells us anything of his past actions; he is not a man of many words. Until today, whenever somebody passes away in my old home town, my father vanishes for a few hours to help treat the dead. It’s called “Chesed Shel Emet” –the benevolence of righteousness. Unlike his parents’ generation who built the institutions of our country and set up its main structures, his Chesed is quiet and responsive to the events which happen around him.

Sometimes I wonder how my quiet father can carry all that weight on his shoulders.

B. Masoret- tradition.

Moses received the Torah from Sinai and passed it on to Joshua, Joshua to the Elders; the Elders to the Prophets; and the Prophets passed it on to the Men of the Great Assembly…
-Pirkey Avot

The generations which came before us are embedded within us. They escort us as we celebrate our holidays – on Yom Kippur or University graduation, their eyes are watching, examining our actions, giving advice and meaning to mundane life. We are expected to relate to them. The glory of their memories commands us to better the world. To improve what they have given us. To carry their greatness to our inheritance. To create the next part of the chain, day by day.

I study what my forefathers studied. I study what my foremothers did not always have access to. I have the freedom to wonder around beloved texts, I have the freedom to walk in ancient pathways. I live in a world which reinvents itself with every passing day, where technology dictates an ever growing pace of life. I live in the liminal space between old and new as I try to make my own way forward.

C. National Memorial Day 2007

A frantic rush. It is 10:30 am and I’m running up the mountain. It’s hot and I feel heavy. I’m running to be there on time for the ceremony, to stand next to my father when the siren that traditionally marks Memorial Day will begin to pierce our ears with memories.

It’s crowded and hot. The cemetery is flooded with people swarming in from every direction. They are dressed in blue and white; some wear only one color: black.
I run. I smile with gratitude at teenagers who wear their youth movements’ uniform as they hand me flowers to put on a grave. However, I refuse their offer, as well as the water bottles that soldiers provide for the vast crowd. For now, I run forward with the crowds.

It feels just like before a big pilgrimage. I see visions of a white river of people who are rushing towards the Wailing Wall to read the Book of Ruth on the holiday of Shavuot. Before dawn kisses the sky which lays above it, darkness is broken with a new light.

I stop. I got too high. From this standpoint, I can see my family members trying to find their way to each other. They move in the crowd, not aware of how close they really are to each other. The focal point is Noam’s grave. I witness the strong quiet presence of his parents and some of his siblings. They are all standing, ready for the ceremony. I see familiar heads everywhere. The only islands in the crowd are the graves.

I locate my father. He is standing down there, trying to gently push his way forward. I can imagine his debate with himself; whether to further protect his head from the burning sun, as I see him put his funny-looking hat over his kippa. It’s 11:00 am. My father’s big hand freezes in the air as the siren blows.

We stand and stare at the ground. New beloved ones have been buried here this year. In my mind I try to remember each of my family members who are commemorated today in the short two minutes period. I’m left overwhelmed.

The ceremony is over. We unite under the big tree we have come to know in the past year on our visits here. Our tribe members gather. My cousin’s wife, Hadassah, is 15 days late in her pregnancy; both her beautiful blond-haired daughters run around. We all hug and kiss and fill each other in on latest news. I take Noa, Noam’s new niece in my arms. She is a beautiful two-month-old baby. She is life. I say shalom to Noam’s fiancé, not really knowing what to say to her lovely enigmatic smile.

A man who rescued Noam’s body from the tank is standing between us all. Wrapped in our family, he is telling of the rescue efforts. The children run around and we are hiding from the sun behind a tree, behind sunglasses, all attuned to his story. We are embraced by the tree’s shade; we are embraced by this man’s story. We embrace him back.

The clock is ticking and we start to depart. People are going to Noam’s parent’s house to be together. With my father and others the ascent up the mountain begins. We make our way to the next ceremony, which should be taking place at 1:00 pm, on top of the mountain. My father sneaks apples to our handbags; the day is hot and long. We are all encouraging each other to drink. The sun beats down on our heads; there is still much to be done.

There is heavy security on the way to the terror victim’s ceremony. The main speaker is the Prime Minister. We wander on and on in a labyrinth of blue plastic cloth, passing through different guard points to get in to the central ceremony. Our agony is our passport on this journey. We mourn for my cousin Chani, her husband Yossi and their child Shuvael, who were shot five years ago. It’s 12:45 pm and we are afraid of being late. We start running again in the roads that lead up, passing by the tombs of Herzl’s children as we go further on our way to be with Chani’s nine living orphans.

The Talmud says, “Everyone who visits takes away one-sixtieth of the illness.” My father runs to support my cousins, to take his part.

We get there; see our family members in the distance, by the stage. We listen to the cantor crying a prayer of mourning, “El Male Rachamim,” once more and then withdraw back down the mountain to make it to the next ceremony; the hour of 1:30 pm is drawing near.

I run. I try to locate the shortest and quickest way to go down this mountain, to the Gush Etzion ceremony. To show my father the way. His brother is buried there, Rachel’s son who never made it to the Promised Land. It has been exactly 59 years of independence and loss for my father. I stand with him at the mass grave, nodding my head to greet more of the elders of our family. I kiss my twin brother, who was named after our fallen uncle. The memorial service begins. El Male Rachamim again. We stand on both sides of our father. We embrace him as his body leans towards the earth.

D. Independence Day

The sad, heavy, choking, patched blanket of ceremonies is lifted. We can never really take some pieces back as we return to our homes to prepare for our Independence Day. The shift is so dramatic. Like a transformation from a long fast to the festive joy of Purim. Like a great light that blinds eyes which dwelled in much darkness. By the evening, the sky is lit with fireworks. My head is still pounding from the sun. From the distance the fireworks sound like shots, and I have to look up to remember that this is an expression of joy which is not taken for granted. It’s an expression of freedom.

My forefathers are looking down at us, seeing good old stained hands caress our heads. My father’s soft eyes are full of light.

a run on sentence for Israel….I remember as a kid I could never count how many times I had actually gone to visit Israel because I had visited it just as many times in my dreams and as I had in reality, running out of the car of (insert close relative here) into my Savtas apartment to grab a popsicle, put it into a glass of petel and cold water, stir it with the wooden tong that finally came loose as I broke the pieces of frozen Israeli Popsicle into my cup, after quickly drinking it up and feeling refreshed after the Israel sun beat down on me in the car and after outside as I stood in Ramat Gan, I ran to the makolet, not even to buy candy, but because it was heaven for me, maybe because I had an account there under my Savatas name (wonder if that still exists) and just soaking it all in, all the fun candy that I couldn’t eat in Israel because of that damn jelatin, I could eat here because it’s Israel and everything is totally amazing and Jewish, next stop in what was reality or a dream would be Shabbat where I would go to a little Yemenite village that had a shull the size of an American garage and an opening the size of a window for the women to peek in, the old Yemenite men looked so intense and sounded so cool as they sang Kabbalat Shabbat in a hypnotic meter and tone, their sons seemed to be dressed for what would happen on Friday nights instead of Shull, I guess they balanced the two worlds, as I grew up, Israel still had that dreamlike quality to me, even though I somehow ended up miraculously two blocks away from bombs going off when I should have been on time on the block, I tend to get places late all the time now, Israel and I know why.