"V'af al pi sheyitmameiha, im kol zeh ani ma'amin"

What would you do if you only had one Sunday afternoon for the whole year? For those who live in the US and Canada, it's a strange exercise. What would you do if you only had one afternoon with no fixed obligations, no set schedule and no musaf? How would you handle it?

Welcome to Yom Ha'atzmaut, friends, the only Sunday on the Israeli Calendar.

There are plenty of Yomei Rishon, but that aint Sunday, folks. Yes, Thursday night/Friday morning here has some vague connection to Saturday night/Sunday morning overseas, but like a joint initiative in congress, the link is tenuous. When you finish brunch at your milchig restaurant in Manhattan on Sunday morning, you can go anywhere- at least until the kids are out of Hebrew school. When you finish brunch in your swanky Jerusalem eatery, you have Shabbat to think about. And don't start with the "Chilonim don't have Shabbat" crap. Over 2/3rds of Chiloni households still have some form of dinner *With Kiddush* on Friday nights. It might not be legitimate in the eyes of the Moetzet, but then again, in their eyes, neither is anyone who is not a) dressed only in black and white, b) supporter of Degel-Hatorah and c) a man. So even those who don't identify as dati still have Shabbat. And that means Shuk, Makolet, Doar, cooking, cleaning, and snacks for the kaduregel game after dinner.

As Judy Balint put it, "It's the one day in the year that feels like a Sunday. Pure recreation with no major religious obligations. No newspapers, banks or mail to take the mind off the all-important task of finding the best place to set up the portable barbecue."

Many people talk about the switch from Yom Ha’zikaron to Yom Ha’atzmaut. It is startling- mournful music on the radio evaporates and all of the sudden, its all classic hits, all the time. It is hard to imagine people can manage it- my ulpan teacher no longer has big parties. She and her husband spend the day at home- they’ve lost too many to go out and have a celebration. The number of people who feel that way, she tells me, is growing. Others still try to plunge from grief into celebration. For those who say hallel at night, it may be one key to transitioning. Starting with Ma'ariv and the Amidah can out one in a place where one can make an attempt at the inner work of packing away all the pain and loss that has been set out for the day, and Hallel can help bring a bit of joy back to the psychological forefront. That being said, I feel as if the party and the show are for kids and tourists, and the real Yom Ha’atzmaut is a day spent trying to rein in the grief and bitterness that is given reign to express itself the day before.

Of course, Israel is a country where patience is not a virtue (there has yet to be an Israeli Ieyasu Tokugawa), so profound mourning followed by fireworks at night and cooking over fire by day is not so incomprehensible. Maybe the shock of the transition is what lets Israelis be so relaxed and less cynical for the day. These classic happy songs of Israel that you hear on Yom ha’atmaut are normally poo-pooed the way a rock critic derides "Frampton Comes Alive.” Suddenly, these same songs are on the lips of those same people who the week before were calling them "anachronistic leftovers from an era of naiveté and groupthink." It is Israeli society gone crazy! Gone are the faces with hard edges, the grim glances, the impatience the aggressive driving- okay, the drivers are still nuts with honking and speeding uphill the wrong way, but the rest is gone. Romantics blossom for the day, and people bloom with love for their country. Its like the drunk guys at the bar. You know them- the macho guys who during their first game of pool were making the bartender make sure the shotgun under the vodka bottles was loaded. Suddenly they are now all leaning on each other's shoulders, say "I love you, man!"

Erev Yom Ha’atzmaut, we saw pre-teens roaming town unescorted, shaving cream in hand to spray targets immobile (stores) and mobile (everyone around them). There are two groups of parents who would never let this happen back home; the safety conscious, who would fear for their children's safety, and the good parents, who know that unsupervised teenagers are agents of mayhem, Satan, and the Republican party. In Israel, they are let loose by two groups of parents, those who belive that Israel is a safe country for kids to roam about in, and those who would never say no to their kids.

Yom Ha’atzmaut was picture perfect. Idyllic. Warm. Cobalt edged Turquoise skies. The scent of grilling meat was aloft. We hit three different BBQ's, and we could have gone to many more. The Americans finished with… well, they didn't really, they just kept eating. The Israelis, by contrast, put the leftovers away, brought out halvah, coffee, Turkish delight, and of course, a hookah.

Passover in Israel is remarkable because of the products and being part of the majority culture. Yom Kippur is so very moving because of the lack of traffic and the socializing that takes place after synagogue. But these days are not purely unique in Jewish experience; one can have intense spirituality and moving community moments outside of Israel. But Yom Ha’atzmaut is different in Israel- not because of the mangal, not because of the fireworks and flags, and not because of the parties. In Israel, grief tempers the joy. The most amazing celebrations are those held in the kitchen of a family that has lost an uncle and a son, or a mother to terror, and yet… and yet they still try and celebrate. A part of them still echoes the Hatikvah, dreaming of being a free people in the land.

Try it- you won't like it.

Americans marvel at Yom Hazikaron – but we don’t want to have a day like it. Close stores and restaurants early? No theatres for 24 hours? No cafes? A near-obligatory nationwide moment of remembrance? We couldn't even make "Hands Across America" work. Getting everyone to stop for a second? Both sides of the political spectrum would complain:
The Right wing would complain about the limiting of free enterprise, the socialist overtones of the idea, and would demand the sirens be turned into a minute of prayer.
The Left wing would complain about the limiting of free speech and religion, the fascist overtones of the idea, and would demand the sirens be turned into a minute of interpretive dance to protest the war in Iraq.

Hence, the US has a memorial day that can only make us cry if we find out the clothes we wanted to buy are not on sale for %50 off, rather just %25. Only our veterans and citizens in uniform give a damn about the day in a manner with any emotional content. They deserve better, but Americans don't want Yom Hazikaron, impressed with it though we may be. We like our sales and day off of school, and we are quite happy not thinking about the soldiers who have died with the Stars and Stripes on their uniform- not even those who fought in the "good wars."

Can you imagine HBO having nothing on for 24 hours on memorial day? Long Island alone would riot and burst into flames. Yet in Israel, the radio, TV, even cable in Israel are behaving as if the day means something. Movies and kids programs are related to the day, and sad mellow songs are all that is on the radio. True, most people in the US don't even know someone who has served or is serving in the Armed Forces. In Israel, almost everyone knows someone who has been killed in action, and with every new war that "almost" gets smaller and smaller.

The numbers work against the US having a powerful and emotional day. But since most universities teach that patriotism is always questionable, the numbers aren't really the problem anymore. They teach the flaws of our founding fathers, and place their virtues in the trash can. Nobody can get away with saying "This is what it means to be an American" anymore. If you can’t say what Americans have in common, then you can’t have a day to honor those with the goal of defending that commonality.

And what does it mean to be Israeli? My guess knowing that even a person who is lucky enough to say "I have never lost anyone from among those who served in the IDF", will get out of their car when that siren sounds, stand at attention, and be still for the moment has something to do with it. Dalia Itzik has antoher part of it. During her speech at the Kotel which marked the start of the day, she said "Tonight, Israel weeps...We have no words of comfort, but we embrace you, the families, with endless love." Her own words? Perhaps, but she presented the fact that the sacrifice is understood. There are other parts as well, some based in the struggles of building a state, others in facing political and religious divides. To experience Yom Ha’zikaron is to gain insight into these and other aspects of what it means to be an Israeli.

There is nothing wrong with the fact we Americans want to shop and have fun on our memorial day; the shame is that we would not know what to say to the family of someone who died in service of the USA if given the chance. There was a time when Americans understood the small flags with gold and blue or silver stars that hung in front windows of homes across the country. How sad that there are more of those flags starting to appear again these days; how sad that those few that are in use are no longer understood. And in the state of Israel… in Israel there is no special flag for having a loved one in the service or lost in action; the flag of Israel is that flag for all families.

And to them will I give in my house and within my walls a memorial and a name

Emek Refaim street is dark. Normally flooded with cars and restaurants flooded with young students and older residents, the street is empty and the cafes are shuttered. I’ve seen this at 5 a.m. walking back from a Super Bowl party or after 11pm on Friday night, but this was at 9 in the evening on a weeknight. This was the eve of Yom Hashoah, and by law restaurants are closed. Some civil liberties folks are sure to find such limitations of commerce ghastly, but there is a powerful metaphor here. This is a real day of remembrance, not just a few banners and flags but a situation that forces people to break from routine and think.

The night was filled with TV related to the day. Ceremonies were televised, and some stations on Israeli cable/satellite went “dark” to mark the day- see Robbie’s post here for some great pictures of networks showing a bit of class- the last one may surprise you.

As many times as you have heard about it, the sirens sounding on Yom Hashoah are still powerful and surprising moving . We left the Bet Midrash a few minutes before the set time, and wandered down the corner. We saw traffic flowing at its regular pace, messengers on scooters defying traffic laws and common sense, cabbies cutting through red lights- the usual. But as the time came near, matching clusters of people appeared on opposing corners of the intersection.

It almost sneaks up on you. The sirens where we were did not all begin at once, but they slowly became clear. And the traffic became still. The city was quiet beyond comprehension, excepting the grinding wail of the sirens. People stood by their cars, at attention, in contemplation, the ever impatient Israeli now suddenly still in thought. Of course there was one truck that kept backing up and two cabs that did not wait more than thirty seconds, but there are schmucks everywhere, and we did not think to bring eggs with which to pelt the vulgar bastards with.

Two days after Yom Hashoah, the Yeshiva went to visit the new museum building at Yad Vashem, the Israeli Holocaust museum. The use of architecture and design is devastating; the winding path in and out of the exhibits in the wedge shaped museum is so compelling that although there are washrooms halfway through the path, you have to really walk against the flow of people and concentrate to find them. The exhibits are presented in marvelous clarity; the museum does not require tour guides to be effective. Remarkable innovation fills the museum. There artifacts you can touch, videotaped testimony from survivors, and models (real and virtual) of camps and attacks. The museum begins with a digital video montage of life before the Shoah and ends with an exit from unfurnished concrete and steel to the green panorama of Jerusalem. The design is powerful on multiple levels; it is nearly impossible to avoid breaking down into tears at least once while working your way through the space. It is a remarkable place.

And now the city has moved itself away from the Shoah to more recent losses. Yom Hazikaron, the Israeli memorial day is fast upon us. Flags are everywhere in J’lem; schools, cars, balconies, supermarkets and new flagpoles just for the week. There will be more sirens, more ceremonies, and more speeches this week. It’s very intense week, and the transition from Pesach to Yom Ha’atzmaut is not an easy one. It is wise to recall Israel is still a young country making a great effort to remember and not to forget. These are two separate things, and if the efforts get muddled from time to time, that’s to be expected .

The Magic Words and From Seder to Shoah

Some people would enjoy the life of a supermarket cashier. People come in weekly or daily, you get people what they need, and you know what is a fair price when it comes to food.

That being said, the average Kupa’it is not the most pleasant of women. Let’s be honest, most of them are downright surly. Who can blame them? Repetitive stress injuries, people trying to use expired coupons, folks who can’t read a label on a shelf, and management that… well, you get the idea. But there is a magic phrase that for a week will turn even the most grim of Kuapiyot into a woman happier to see you than your favorite aunt. “Aich Leyl Haseder?” How was your seder? This phrase, and various variations thereon will give you a feel of wizard- like power. Speak the incantation, and the grim sphinx who guards the way between your groceries and freedom turns into a aristocratic matron all too happy to speed you on your way.

The first time I used the magic, I was unprepared, and nearly brought the store to a standstill. “How was my seder?” Her expression transformed from wrinkled, prune like, in annoyance of having to deal with another American, into a beatific smile as she replied. Yes, it was lovely, 40 people, ended at midnight, what a delight. Then the chain reaction happened. “Shira! Shira!” she hollered to the next Kuapit, “How was it? Did Muki come in from the Army?” “Yes! And he brought this girlfriend!” “Dana,” called Shira, “how did the seder go by you?” Another kupait stopped scanning cans and boxes. “Everyone wore white, we sang and sang…” It spread like a wave of giddiness, and it took a few minutes for the lines to get moving again. Powerful stuff.

Supermarkets on Pesach are a trip. Wine is on discount, sold in bonus boxes and 2-for-one offers. Wine here is cheaper than beer, strangely enough. There are shelves full of K4P cakes (see the photo- each cake is k4p), other shelves covered over with butcher paper (shown above), just like at home- very amusing and enjoyable shopping. And now Passover is past. The initial clamor for all things Chametz has died down- bakeries are not running out of bread, schnitzel is available in all its manifold forms, and the magic phrase has lost its power. Try it out next year if you can.

*********************************

We are transitioning into the period of the “new” holidays, starting with Yom Hashoah V’gevurah. in Israel that last bit is stressed, unlike in the US where nobody uses it. That means that here in Israel people are not as likely to lament “Why didn’t they fight back?” In Israel, part of the day is remembering that people did indeed fight. Jews fought back in numerous ways- combat often came last. First came the greatest acts of resistance under Nazi oppression- remaining alive and practicing Judaism. When smuggling extra food or praying in a minyan are things that can get you killed, it is heroism to daven or to bring potatoes to your family. Not as flashy as binging bullets to bear on Nazi soldiers, but just as daring an act of heroism. We did fight back- and hence in Israel, the day has three words, ending with V’gvurah- and heroism.

Hasal Siddur Pesach

We hope, dear readers, your Passover (or Easter) week was a joyous one. An update on our Jerusalem Passover will follow soon. Here's a shot of our living room, where we spent the first half of the seder reclining, nibbling on Carpas of many varieties (one spring of parsley? I think not!) and discussing in fine Greco-Roman style. Sort of.

Tables came later. The meal was delightful (sorry about that vegetarian entree, folks, but I did not know I was making it until 40 minutes before seder), our company was kind, and my in-laws were the warmest of guests. A great seder.

Next year- here.

Who burned the biscuts, Or, The long line at the car wash

This morning, all of Jerusalem smelled like burnt bread. It's about as surprising a scent here the morning before Passover as incense would be surprising in a Greek Orthodox church on a Sunday morning. It may be the one day that pyromaniacs and people with an unusual hatred of baguettes have a ritual to celebrate together.

People heap leftover pita, dry challah and breakfast cereal into hastily made bonfires which let columns of smoke waft heavenward, if I may be so poetic. When it comes to some ultra-orthodox, the plastic bags these things come in also go into the fire, which makes the smoke change from the scent of burnt biscuits to the smell of a tire fire, which is not so poetic. Unlike parents in the US, israeli children are encouraged to poke the fire with sticks, get too close to the flames, and watch stuff burn at their leisure. Most of the bonifires are on empty lots, old train track lots and other public spaces, which allows one to see the cross-section of religious groups in J'lem. Everyone from Hasisim in gabardines and long side-curls to girls in jeans and university sweatshirts shuffle over to put their bread to the fire. Then they all shuffle away to leave the fire unattended by anyone. (I should contrast this with Baltimore, where all the Jews bring their chometz to one location and have it burned by people who know how to make a conflagration of dangerous proportions- the Baltimore Fire Department.)

There are only a handful of car washes in Jerusalem, and it seems that they are rarely put to task. This morning, they are getting a work-out as car owners here in the Holy City suddenly become neat freaks. Lines were long this morning, as Jews tried to vacuum out the chametz from inside thier cars- and wash three months of crap off the outside while they were at it.

Of course, bread may be burned, but few Jerusalemites have the stomach for wasting other foods that are not consumed on the holiday. Hence the artfully arranged heaps of lentils or mustard jars I saw set out on several fences, walls and driveways. Jerusalemites also don't throw out books; they leave them near trash cans or walkway fences in neat piles. You can also tell who is Sefaradi this way; those who can eat kitniyot don't have as much stuff piled up for the taking outside their homes before passover.

And now, your Jerusalem Moment for April:
You can buy Mezzuzot in the home supply store. They are at Home Center (pronounced "Ohm Senter"), just by the drapes and window dressings in aisle 8.
Hey, it's hardware.

Chag Sameach!


(photo: View of Jerusalem's Nachla'ot and Machne Yehuda from the Supreme Court Building)

Everything My Mother Told Me Was Wrong…

. . . when it comes to going around barefoot. We spent the weekend at Kibbutz Keturah, situated about 40 km north of Eilat. It is smack dab in the east of the Negev, with majestic views of the desert awaiting you from the front and back door of each room in the guest house.
Keturah is not a secular kibbutz per se; nor is it a kibbutz dati (religious); it is the one of two kibbutzim in all of Israel that is open to both lifestyles (Chanaton being the other). The dining hall is kosher, but few people attend Shabbat services. Friday night dinner filled every table in the chadar ochel, but there was neither table songs nor communal bentsching (grace after meals).

The kibbutz is more of a classic socialist endeavor than most, with a greater emphasis on egalitarianism than most, and salary is still based on need, not work. There is still plenty of evidence of the kibbutznik lifestyle is alive and well. Communal meals in the dining room are one aspect of it, as is the informality of dress (There we no ties to be seen on Shabbat, but there were 3 men who wore Jalabiays (the long Egyptian tunic). This includes kids going barefoot. Going barefoot outdoors in the city may be a bad idea, but my mom always told me that even going around barefoot indoors was unhealthy. You’ll get sick or catch a cold- and Jewish boys don’t go around barefoot; these and other statements were regular mantras chanted during my childhood.

Well, Mom was wrong about the barefoot thing. I saw plenty of healthy, happy, charming, giggling children running around barefoot, indoors and out. If these kids are sick, people will pay to catch what they are suffering from. “Perhaps it was just a few of the kids, then. An indulgence, if you will, because Israeli parents spoil there kids.” Nope. Kids were barefoot in all sorts of places, as were, of course, adults. Grown men came to dinner without shoes.

So my mom was wrong about going barefoot. But she is still right about plenty of other things, including eating before you go swimming and watching too much TV, as well as some of life's more difficult promblems.

Happy Birthday, Mom.