S’chach

Various disjointed tidbits of Sukkot that didn’t fit anywhere else: ¶ Micah and I built, nay, assembled our sukkah motzei Yom Kippur. This was anything but construction, but there was a cool feeling of “I made this” the whole week. Our sukkah is endearingly tacky. ¶ In America, people generally sell arba minim as a set, with the holder things on the lulav ready to go. Here, everything is sold separately, nothing has prices marked, and it’s very frustrating and overwhelming. ¶ On the way to the concert in Beit Shemesh, I saw a random sukkah-shack just sitting there on the side of the highway. ¶ Also on way, driving through the mountains and forests, with the city lights just out of view, I glimpsed ancient Israel in the night, as it may have looked ages ago. ¶ Sukkah parties are fun. People who play three instruments make me feel bad about myself. ¶ I walked across Jerusalem yesterday because I had two hours to kill. This may be blasphemy, but most of it’s not that scenic. But hopefully now I’ll have a better sense of geography and won’t get lost. ¶ My etrog smells nice. There should be more things that smell nice. ¶ Most olim are weird. ¶ I am very not productive this week. Next week I start working for real. Should I be worried?

Vanity and Vexation of Spirit

On the Saturday of Sukkot, Ecclesiastes is read in the synagogue. I know myself to be something of a curmudgeon, and one who is prone to doubt traditional Judaism’s comprehension of life’s realities on occasion. And every year, Ecclesiastes is there to remind me that cynicism predates me by a couple millennia. Futility of futility, all is futile! Kohelet begins. What profit does man have for all his labor which he toils beneath the sun? A generation goes and a generation comes, but the earth endures forever. I am of no consequence. My work is of no consequence. Whatever has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done. There is nothing new under the sun. There is no invention. It is useless to try. For with much wisdom comes much grief, and he who increases knowledge increases pain. Ignorance is bliss. Intellectualism begets only anxiety. And so on.

Wise aphorisms speak across the epochs. The uncaring, unflinching eventuality of death is constant, unavoidable. But lo, the occasioned refrain: I observed that there is nothing better for man than to be happy in what he is doing, for that is his lot. For who can enable him to see what will be after him? Halfheartedly uplifting, at best. A carpe diem as a poetic depressive. Yet it remains truth. There is nothing new, indeed. Cynicism is optimism weathered by experience. I need the reminder, and appreciate it. Ultimately, man cannot fathom the events that transpire under the sun; inasmuch as man labors to seek he shall not find it. And even though a wise man presumes to know, he shall not find it. Bleak, yes, but far from disheartening. The world is as it is, brokers Kohelet. Don’t stress yourself out. They are words for all times, and our times.

Confident, Confident, Dry and Secure

Following the barbecue yesterday, I got a ride to Beit Shemesh where I was meeting up with an old friend at a concert. The concert was pretty lame—American-born bands like Schlock Rock and Shlomo Katz playing to an audience of mostly American olim and yeshiva students, a slice of Five Towns NCSY in Israel—but what struck me was all the security I see.

We leave Alon Shvut through a manned security gate, and we nod to the guards on our way out. On the road, we go through two army checkpoints and they give us a once-over to make sure we’re not Arab (in which case they’d ask some questions and maybe search the car if they think something is suspicious) and wave us on. A bridge in the road has a concrete wall on one side to prevent snipers on the hill opposite from taking potshots at passing cars. I get dropped off outside the venue (a stage set up in the park) and the armed guards look me over and search my backpack. I get a ride from the concert to Jerusalem, passing more checkpoints, and meet my brother at the bus station. My bag is x-rayed and I walk through a metal-detector on my way into the station. The bus has bullet- and stone-proof windows, which makes them cloudy and nausea-inducing (think driving a windy road in a closed box with no windows). The Wall is ever-present in the distance, and each town we stop in on the way has a manned security gate. We get dropped off by the old gate in Alon Shvut, which we find out is locked after 10:30 or so. We call Micah to come pick us up and he takes in through the new gate which closes around 2:00 am. Every home is built with a bomb shelter or safe room. Bags are searched at the entrance to the mall. The synagogue has a guard with an M16 standing outside. The rabbi carries a handgun—even on Shabbat and holidays—when he walks to neighboring Efrat. I feel safe, and question the society that makes these steps necessary.

Smells Like Burning

Today we had an awesome barbecue. Kabob, hot dogs, sausages, circle steaks (not sure what they are supposed to be because I can’t understand the packaging), and chicken skewers. The most interesting part was the conversation. We had over two of my cousin’s friends from LA, their wives—one Israeli and the other from Latin America—and their kids—both have girls about 2-3 and a baby, matching up pretty well with my cousin’s little girl and twin baby boys. My cousin and his wife—American born but raised in Israel—speak to their kids in English so that they can communicate with the rest of the world and the rest of the family, knowing that they’ll learn Hebrew in school and from their environment. The couple with the Israeli wife speak to their kids in Hebrew, this being the land of Israel and Hebrew being the language of the Jews and all. The other couple speaks to their kids in Spanish, keeping that part of her heritage alive. At the table, the men spoke English, the wives had their own conversation in Hebrew, and the three little girls played nicely together, one speaking English, one Hebrew, and one Spanish, and still somehow managing to communicate.

Otherwise Occupied

My cousin and his family live in Alon Shvut, a town in Gush Etzion, a settlement bloc 20 minutes south of Jerusalem. There is archeological evidence of Jewish communities here dating back 2,300 years, and was settled again by Jews in the ’20s, ’30s, and ’40s. The communities in the region were evacuated or killed in 1947 and ’48, and once Jordan took control of the area in the 1949 Armistice Agreements after the War of Independence, all buildings were razed. Following Israeli assumption of control after the Six-Day War in 1967, Jewish communities were reestablished here.

The legal status of these communities remains in question. I am technically on the other side of the Green Line, meaning I am in the West Bank (where to list my location on Facebook?), though in an area that will likely not be included in any peace agreements (the same for which cannot necessarily be said for the community of Tekoa down the road to the east). Israel claims that the land these towns were built on was public Jordanian land, though some Palestinians dispute this and claim that some it was privately owned. Past the edge of town is a small cluster of caravans (what the Israelis call trailers, after their British overlords) in an outpost whose legality and foundation is more tenuous. I don’t fully understand the issues surrounding the outpost, but I heard that the builder of the one actual house there has a restraining order against him that prevents him from living in the permanent building he built, but the wood house, the only other non-trailer home, is fine because wood houses are legally considered temporary buildings.

I bring this up because I went to the outpost today do drop someone off and saw essentially a trailer park that is seen by some as a human rights violation and others as manifest destiny. I have complicated feelings about “land for peace” and a pragmatic endgame to the conflict, but the thing that bothers me the most is the supposition the Jews living here in the Gush would have to leave and their homes possibly demolished should this land become part of a future Palestinian state. It is a given that anyone of any religion or ethnicity can be a citizen of any modern country. Israel is an increasingly melting pot society, and roughly 10% of the Knesset is Arab. Why, then, would these residents not be allowed to stay as Jewish residents of a future Palestine? Settlement expansion in light of International Law is purportedly a hairy topic, but I see this as a fairly straightforward point. Any voices to the contrary?

The caravan neighborhood of Givat HaHish.

Happy Holiday (in the singular)

We’ve been putting all fresh vegetable waste (peels, rinds, stems, wilted lettuce, etc.) in a bag and today I started our compost heap by alternating layers of carbon-rich dried grass and leaves from our gardening last week and nitrogen-rich green waste. For now, we’re just putting everything in a pile, but may change to some kind of box or enclosure if we can find or make one with minimal effort and money.

In unrelated news, I’m intrigued by the prospect of my first one-day yom tov. In ancient times in the land of Israel, the Jewish festival days of Passover, Shavuot, and Sukkot were celebrated for one day. Because the first of the month was decided by the Sanhedrin court in Jerusalem based on witness reports of the new moon, Jewish communities outside the land of Israel could not always be sure what day of the month it was if word from Jerusalem took too long, and therefore celebrated the holidays for two days to be safe. This custom of two-day holidays in the Diaspora persisted even after the standardization of the Jewish calendar, with related halakhic repercussions like the prohibition to cook on the first day for the second day.

Most communities in Israel now keep one day, and there is a lingering question of what visitors to Israel should do: hold two days, as is their custom, or hold one day, as is the custom in the community they are visiting. Some authorities say the former, some say the latter, and some propose a sort of compromise of “one and a half days” where no work is done, but special holiday rituals are not performed either. (The same question pertains to Israelis in the Diaspora, but I won’t get into that.) After considering the issues involved, I decided to hold one day as per minhag ha-makom (custom of the place). Granted this does go against another Jewish tradition of asking your personal rabbi’s opinion, but I’ll call myself a Jewish humanist and leave it at that. Chag sameach.

Do They Know It's Sukkos?

On Shabbat, I heard a mother reviewing with her elementary school-age son what he had learned in school about the biblical story of the spies who were sent to scout the land of Canaan. When asked why the spies didn’t take off their kipot and cut their payot so they would blend in better, he responded, because then they’d look like chilonim (secular Israeli Jews).

Then today, among our various errands, we drove out to an outlying community of Jerusalem to buy lights to hang in our sukkah from a woman who sells them out of her house. In a combination of broken Hebrew and broken English, the woman, Asian and married to an Israeli (presumably, though it’s very difficult to get an interfaith marriage in Israel) with a beautiful little girl of about three in a Dora the Explorer shirt, showed us all the various lights she had, and explained that she didn’t know if the lights would survive the rain in the sukkah because she only hangs them around the house. This was a chiloni community, and Micah mused that we were probably the frummest people ever to have ventured there. We bought two awesome strings of lights, and our hosts wished us a chag sameach (happy holiday), though we knew they wouldn’t be celebrating it.

Unlike in America and elsewhere in the Diaspora, Jews are the majority in Israel. Demographics force Diaspora Jews, to some extent, to identify as a unit, despite strong unwillingness to do so by many of them with assorted religious and political leanings. In Israel, Jews are the majority, but the Jews still manage to make things difficult, as they are often wont to do. Here, in an effort to self-define, every little detail is used to separate one group from the next. Various groups dress differently, live separately, and build their own communities. I may have been the only one in shul not wearing a srugi (a kipah srugah, or knitted kipah, mark of the dati leumi, or religious Zionists)—granted my suede one has choochoo trains on it.

But at the same time, as a Jewish state, there is a shared heritage. Everyone here knows it’s Sukkot, regardless of personal religious observance, the same for which cannot be said of America. Here, all the meat in the grocery store is kosher. Traditions, even those of others, are common knowledge. It’s an odd paradox of prizing both personal and national identity. The dichotomy of distancing the other and celebrating commonality is an inherent part of Israeli culture. Achdut, or togetherness, is a virtue here. Kinda.

Dirty Jews

Today Micah and I began our adventure in composting. In conversation, we realized that we were both independently interested in composting, opened his copy of Gardening for Dummies, and resolved to become proficient gardeners. Or at least reasonably competent gardeners. Composting not only reduces the waste that would otherwise fill landfills, but also recycles nutrients back into the earth. Especially in Israel, trash reduction and soil improvement are both essential tasks. We spent much of the day clearing out the weeds, branches, leaves, and dead grass that made up a thick layer above the ground, exposing the topsoil and tiny green grass shoots that Micah thinks have already grown, and starting what will be our compost heap. I had a massive allergic reaction to something in the dried plants and dust, and we were both sore and filthy by the end of the day. It dawned on us that while we’re no Halutzim, we were, for a few hours on a Friday, involved in physically working the land of Israel. Updates on compost, gardening, and our burgeoning rugged masculinity will be forthcoming. Also, any advice on composting would be much appreciated.

Hineni

I find one of the most affecting parts of the Yom Kippur service to be the short prayer the leader recites before the Musaf: Hineni, Here I am, impoverished, trembling and afraid. In it, the leader confesses, I have come to stand before You for Your people Israel who have sent me, although I am unworthy and unqualified to do so. Thus I plead of You … do not hold them to blame for my sins and do not find them guilty of my iniquities. It is a powerful admission, before the entire congregation, that even I, the appointed leader, am not without sin. There is no concept in Judaism of infallibility. Even Moses sinned against God, and willfully, despite his status (according to Maimonides in his 13 principles of faith) as foremost among the prophets. No one is perfect, and at the same time, no one can atone for your sins for you. You’re on your own. As we all accept responsibility upon ourselves for our actions, we pray that God accept our prayers and aid us in our repentance. I ask forgiveness from those who I have wronged, and I pray for focus and direction in the coming year. Blessed are You who hears prayer. Gmar Tov.

Good Walls and Good Neighbors

I landed yesterday, saw the baby twin cousins for the first time, hung out with the family, and successfully staved off jetlag. The secret: sleep as little as possible the night before—I was at the Rocky Horror Picture Show at the NuArt Saturday night and got four hours of sleep—and as little as possible on the plane—three hours Sunday night thanks to a crying, flailing toddler—then sleep a full night on arrival—Monday night, making sure to stay up to a normal hour—and awake on Israel time. Today I walked the Old City, visited the Kotel, got lost in the maze of stone streets, found my way out to the market at Machane Yehuda and then to Ben Yehuda Street. I saw kids no more than fourteen smoking, fish heaving their last in a bin in the market, live chickens in small cardboard boxes in line for kaparot, two people I knew walking on the street, and lots of walls.

There were bullet-riddled walls, 16th and early 20th century, scarred in the War of Independence. Herodian walls with more recent improvements: the Western Wall with Montefiore’s additions, a sleek new area under Wilson's Arch, and spotless bathrooms. Offices with electrical wiring in plastic runners over the stone and swanky new commercial and residential complexes rising above dilapidating homes and shops. Metal gateways, to markets and holy sites manned by army personnel checking IDs of Arabs, and others keeping everyone out of the rampant construction sites. And off in the distance, the new walls separating Israel from the West Bank, demarcating with cement and steel the boundaries of old feuds. In archeological sites around the city, the past emerges from hiding; generations of building, each directly on top of the last, making strata like that of canyons, with the modern city emerging above it. This is a place adamant about living in the past as it reaches into the future. The struggles are apparent. Languages shout for priority in the streets and on signs, dogma fights dogma for dominance, ethnicities hold to their heritage as they navigate the waters of nationality. There are old walls and new walls, and people who build them and curse them. Welcome to Israel.