London--lost, found, and two museums

Trip from Tel Aviv to London went relatively smoothly, until the end, when they made me take off the lovely earphones that kept me from hearing the poor screaming boy behind me. He screamed for two hours, most of which I couldn’t hear. But the last forty minutes of the flight, part of which was spent in circling-the-airport hell—well the good part of me wanted to help his parents and the bad part of me just wanted to strangle the kid. (The kid was in pain, so really I’m not very nice. Oh, well.) As in Israel, landed and exited passport control and security without a hitch. And bought my tickets to and from the hotel. I had memorized and drawn the map from the train station to the hotel, so I exited the station in the drizzling rain and confidently marched off in the opposite direction, having turned myself around, as usual. I didn’t realize my mistake for several blocks, by which time the rain had turned from drizzle to downpour, my poncho had begun to leak, and I was wandering aimlessly, swearing like a drunk. By dint of containing myself enough to smile sweetly and ask every passerby where Norfolk Square was, I was directed down one street, overshot it, doubled back up the next street, and finally found Norfolk. Which is a divided street with a gated park down the center. Which was locked. Which I was on the wrong side of. Yes, folks. Turns out that my hotel is a block and a half from the hotel. I just walked it with my friend Monique. It took five minutes. Last night, I walked twelve blocks to find the same hotel. I suppose I could have made it take longer, but I’m not sure how. The hotel is pretty basic—a bed, a cupboard for clothes, and a washbasin. The bathroom and shower are down the hall. There isn’t supposed to be smoking, but there is a bit. Oh, and my room is on the third (American counting) floor—and, needless to say, no elevator. So last night, I was feeling more than a bit grumpy as I tried to figure out why I had been so excited about a day in London.

Well, today made up for it, starting with an ample breakfast, complete with lots of coffee. Then headed off to the British Museum. I got there ten minutes after it opened and it was already crowded. I had no desire to learn or see anything in particular, so I just wandered. Here’s a list of random impressions:

1) Dave has said how he was amazed at the sheer effrontery of a people who can just walk into another civilization and take stuff of the magnitude that the Brits took. I would emphatically concur (and add that the Germans were no better—as witness the amazing stuff in the Permagon Museum (uh, named after the temple that the museum is built around!)). It’s also interesting that rather than saying, “okay, we took it and we’re keeping it because we can,” the signs explain that the Brits have preserved it better than the countries of origin would have. This may well be true, but it’s kind of changing the subject. Yeah, the US can’t begin to match this crew when it comes to colonization. (Yeah, yeah, I know it’s not a contest. No, I’m not trying to justify US actions anytime, anywhere. Just saying that there are a lot of very black pots and kettles lying around.)
2) I was really impressed by the number of people who visited. Yes, it’s summer and it is the British Museum, but still—people really were interested in every part of the museum (okay, more interested in the mummies, but hey—dead people; what’s not to like?). People were clustered around the Rosetta Stone, around the Parthenon, around the various statues, through every room in the museum, and they were talking about history. How cool is that?
3) I don’t quite know what to make of what survives. Historians only have what’s left. What’s left is stuff that’s hard to destroy. So an ancient civilization that expresses itself through monuments of one kind or another will leave a record. Those that express themselves in other ways—maybe not. What remains thus determines what the past is to the present—but how does that relate to what the past was to those who lived it? This is hardly a new question; I think it shapes any beginning course in historiography. However, it was the question that kept coming back as I went through the museum.
4) The museum has free tours through the day. I was in the right place and time for one on Greece. The guide was absolutely excellent. He gave a brief summary of Grecian history, then led us through the development of Greek art, particularly the way the Greeks looked at natural forms. I asked about how different cultures use stylized forms versus trying to achieve a natural form—Egyptian versus classical Greek, for example. I can’t remember the precise answer he gave, but it was clear and concise. It led me to remember that the Greeks believed that this world was a microcosm of the world of the gods. If you believe that, then learning about the natural world is a form of connection to the gods themselves. This is also true in China, where meditation on a small piece of perfection—bonsai, or a piece of carved jade—encapsulates the whole world. By contrast, if you believe the world is best expressed through patterns or through emotion or some other way, then attempting to recreate the world precisely would have little meaning. There are real consequences to each choice in the way each kind of culture understands the world. Hmm, I think I’m just restating Weber. I can live with that…

About 1 PM, the museum became unbearably crowded and it was time to meet Monique, a friend from Ulpan, who is a rabbinic student at Leo Baeck Rabbinical College. We headed over to the British Library where there was an exhibit of the sacred—the texts and practices of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. I will say less about this exhibit, although in many ways, it meant more to me. I am reminded how much I am a person of words and stories—and how little we know of the stories behind the great monuments in the British Museum (oh, we know some, I know that, but still…). There were many first, many oldests. There were examples of how sacred text is further interpreted. How it was and is beautified. How the same text is interpreted in different or similar ways in the different traditions. I was pretty happy, I have to say. And it was a lot of fun to go through with someone who was as excited and engaged in the material as I was. (By the way, the exhibit was pretty well attended, though not mobbed, and there were very serious discussions all around.) About half an hour before closing, I wanted to see the rest of the Library. Yeah, that’s when I was reminded that one floor up was the Magna Carta. And a whole bunch of other AMAZING stuff. I had twenty minutes to look at a first folio, at Chaucer, at a whole display of the writings of British scientists. And the whole time I was saying, I have to remember that I saw...well, fact is, there was too much to remember. I could have spent an entire day looking at the range—through time and subject—contained in that place. It was a whole different kind of sacred—but no less sacred for all that—than the words below. And it was different also from the concrete stuff of the British Museum. An amazing contrast.

Monique and I finished the day at a pub with beer, excellent Thai food, and conversation. She’s heading off to spend the night with relatives. I’m going to post this and head for bed. What a day! And tomorrow—back home again.

Tel Aviv and Jaffa

I spent all day Wednesday museum-hopping. First, I took the bus to the Eretz Yisrael Museum. Not bad at all—lots of little buildings, each with a different focus. I did wish for someone to comment to as I walked. I covered the entire museum, from beginning to end—history of stamps and coins, of pottery and of glass, as well as a whole section on material culture—how people made food, clothing, and so on. What struck me about this last section was how similar the tools and methods were to those anywhere else in the world. Weaving, bread making, carpentry, and so on seem to have a limited range of variation. It’s a bit like falafel. Every culture has its own version of falafel in pita: some kind of carb wrapped around some kind of filling, generally with lots of options for interest. Burrito, poor-boy sandwich, mu-shu, pasties, and so on.

I almost skipped stamps and coins—I mean, who cares?—but was very glad that I didn’t. I was reminded that stamps, money, weights and measures, standards of all kinds are part of what societies need to manage—the Hubble problems of a few years bear witness to what happens when those measurements aren’t standard. There is a distinction between ideology and values and those tools that need not have ideological import. I say “need not” because, of course, we put all kinds of symbols on our money and stamps—some frivolous (the US series of “biggests”, for example); some not (whose face is on which piece of currency).

I went from that museum to the art museum and had only about an hour there. It was fantastic—great impressionist and post-impressionist collection. Some weird stuff, but I didn’t much care; there was more than enough to see. I had posted earlier about how children in London and France are taught to appreciate art. Well, I saw the consequences at the museum. I was looking at some “weird stuff,” when I noticed a French father and his daughter of about eight. He was explaining some principle of art that was exemplified by the picture—I have no idea what; couldn’t understand the language well enough—and she was nodded with great interest and concentration, adding a few words here and there. I realized then that this French eight-year-old clearly understood more about art than I did. Ouch!

That evening, I took Avital out for dinner. She drove us down to the waterfront, where there were many shops, restaurants, and most of the city enjoying the warm, humid night. It was lovely to be out with her, talking about her experiences growing up in two countries, in the army, and as a scout. The Israeli Scout experience sounds not too dissimilar to 4-H in terms of developing skills and leadership. Avital was emphatic about distinguishing it from US scouting—it has a huge membership; many, many families participate. Much more than school, it is clear that scouting has shaped her. Which makes me wonder about looking at it as an education model for Jewish kids in the states. She also spent her last year in Scouts working with Israeli kids in south Tel Aviv. These are kids who don’t have the resources—money or other people—to run effective tribes, so many teens come to help and she was one. She spoke with great pride of bringing fourth grade Jews and Arabs together and watching them go from distrust to great friendship.

She also spoke of what it’s like to be in the Army—the bonds you form with others, the sense of responsibility of knowing your country truly needs you, and the fact that she doesn’t know what she wants to do with her life and, until she is done with the Army, doesn’t have to. As we sat on the Tel Aviv boardwalk, we also talked about how there is no sense of danger or war and, late into the night, there are still families and children wandering around, both in groups or alone. So there is a very different sense of what danger means, as well as some interesting ways to compartmentalize it.

It was a lovely evening and ended with each of us showing the others pictures of people and places.

Thursday morning, Karen and Jim’s friend, Yascha, picked me and took me to breakfast. He is a lovely man with a generous spirit. We returned to the same boardwalk, this time in the daytime, and sat speaking Hebrew and enjoying the food and the waves. Then he took me to buy a suitcase (either that or just throw more money at British Air) and headed off.

In the meantime, Steven had arrived from Caesarea, enroute to the airport. We headed down to Jaffa and Neve Tzedek for the day. Actually don’t have much to report on that—both were fine to wander around, but again I am reminded that I’m much more interested in how people live now than in the history of stones. In Neve Tzedek, we did walk through the Suzanne Dellal Dance Center, though, and I felt like I was on a college campus. Amazing place for all kinds of dance. And, on the walk from Jaffa to Neve Tzedek, I detoured into the Mediterranean (finally). I did roll my jeans up, but it took two waves before I was wet to the knees. Warm and salty and very blue. What else is there to say? Anyway, glad I made it in before I left!

Kiryat Mal’achi and Yad Mordechai

One of the things that pleases me most about this visit to Tel Aviv is getting around. I know which bus to take where and, more or less, how often and when they come. When I get on a bus for the first time, I take out my city route and make the connection between reality and schematic. Which then means that, when I look at the map later, I am seeing a place, not simply a set of intersecting lines. I do this because I have no sense of direction at all—put me in a place and I will turn the wrong way about 80% of the time (if it were 100%, that would be preferable, but no…). And don’t give me oral directions; I just can’t make sense of them. But a map and an address—I’m set. That, plus the buses—well, I feel like I’ve gotten a decent sense of Tel Aviv. Aside from the weather (the humidity is just about unbearable), it’s a great city. I don’t have a lot to add to what the books say about the three cities—Haifa is the working man’s town; Jerusalem, a crazy center for religion in all shapes and sizes; Tel Aviv, the center of business and art. Even with all Jerusalem’s insanity, I think I would choose to live near Jerusalem for one rather embarrassing reason—I can tolerate the climate. It is dry and hot, which I can deal with. The humidity kills me—I just can’t cope. Hardly profound, but there it is.

On to my day Monday. I left very early to get to the Central Bus Station and from there took a bus to Kastina, near Kiryat Mal’achi. It was a long, sweaty ride in a bus that had no air-conditioning and a grumpy bus driver. More of the passengers were Ethiopian than I had seen before, with many elderly women and children.

The whole area that is south of Tel Aviv is economically depressed. The Jewish Agency is trying to find US congregations to help support the area, and Beth Emek is one. For example, this summer, two students came to help with Beth Emek summer camp, as a way of connecting the two areas.

I was put in touch with Inbal, a young woman who is Miranda’s age, finishing her first year at university. She did three years in the army, completing her officer’s training, and then began studying psychology. Taking groups or individuals to the various sites/sights in the region is a part-time job for her, and one she takes very seriously. She grew up in Kiryat Mal’achi and clearly loves it and Israel. So the two of us spent a pleasant day together. She had wanted to show me a youth center, an art program, and more, but in August, much is shut down. What I got to see was a senior day center and a kibbutz. All very interesting. And, while most of this trip has been a personal journey, this part I took very seriously as a representative of Beth Emek, whose job was to bring back information we can use as a congregation.

Here is what I found out: the senior day center is a place where the elderly can go to be with community, to make things—some to decorate the center; some to sell (interestingly, the men make mosaics; the women sew. Apparently, the men are “lazier” (and I do quote!) than the women, but mosaics hold their interest, while sewing does not. Fascinating. The center offers exercise, showers and haircuts, meals, health care, and company. What I noticed most were the smiles and the smell—or lack thereof. In the US, every center I’ve been in has a slight smell of urine. That was completely absent here. Have to say, though, that I don’t know if that’s because of the kind of place or the kind of care. The center director showed me the kitchen, being renovated by donations from one American congregation; the art room, supported by another; the barber shop/salon and so on. In the middle, were about thirty seniors playing one kind of game or another. I wanted to take pictures, but was afraid of invading their privacy—not even. When the camera came out, each one wanted a picture and then to admire it. I didn’t catch on quite soon enough, but would have taken pictures of each one if I had understood sooner. The center for Ethiopian Jews was attached, but—it being August—not active. Still, I had a chance to see the work participants produce.

Inbal talked to me at length about the volunteer opportunites—drama, music, and art; helping with youth; working on computers; teaching English (no knowledge of Hebrew required) and, of course, working with the seniors. It turns out that the Jewish Agency maintains an apartment where volunteers can stay rent-free while they help. Very cool. So that was Kiryat Mala’achi.

Then we drove south, near Eshkelon, to Yad Mordechai, to see the museum there. This is a kibbutz that took its inspiration (and some of its fighters) from the Warsaw Ghetto. During the 1948 war of independence, it held off the Egyptian army for several days, eventually fleeing, but by then, other fighters had had the time to organize and get weapons. The museum itself is a nicely done place, but what I was most interesting in was the ideology behind the museum.

Two things—first, it claimed responsibility for the State—had it not been for the defense, Tel Aviv would have fallen, and so on. Same thing was true in Tzfat—it was the defense for the north. Clearly, both are true—Israel was threatened on all sides; had the defense faltered in any case, well, the situation could have been very bad indeed. And the need (both perceived and real) for defense continues to this day. Both Inbal and Tali knew that their work in the army was important in allowing Israel to continue to exist and to exist in relative security. Very different than in the US.

Second, the museum made a distinction between Jews who fought and those who went “to the slaughter.” It’s a distinction I used to make—I can remember when “Dona, Dona” was one of my favorite songs. From making that distinction, I went to a belief that people simply do the best they can and the best they are capable of. Perhaps some of those who ended up in the camps were easily led, however, some of those who ended up outside the camps were lucky. The problem, as always, is that we never know where our choices will lead and that each person has a different set of constraints—the fighters in the Warsaw Ghetto were, by and large, young and unattached. From that perspective, it’s easy to see the world in black and white and it’s easier to act without considering the consequences. And, as in a previous post, those who resisted were not left unscarred either.

Following the museum, we had a tour of the battleground and then of the honey factory (cute, but frankly, better for the ten-year-old set). I’m bringing back Israeli honey for Dave. Deborah (meaning “bee” in Hebrew, just for the record) has declared that he will need to decide whether the honey she brought back from the South of France is better than Israeli honey. A tough job, but someone’s got to do it.

Chassidic tale--or And Now for Something Completely Different

Chassidic Story

<>I have heard this story twice now in Israel. The first time was from the storyteller in Haifa who was supposed to be speaking on Jewish identity. He told a long, elaborate version which gave each character specific context and motivation. The second time was at the Shabbat lunch in Jerusalem, where the Jerusalem guest told the story. This time it was primarily plot, with little description of the characters. In each case the story fit the teller. But the fact that the same story was told in two different places is enough to pass it on. And I presume my telling will fit this teller as well.
The Baal Shem Tov (abbreviated as Besht) was dying. Each of his followers came to him and to each he gave a task that was his alone to complete in this world. Finally there was only one young boy left, barely past the age of Bar Mitzvah. He was an orphan and had followed the Besht since his parents had died some years before. Now he, too, wanted a task, a mission that only he could fulfill. But the Besht was reluctant: “You are too young,” he said. “You do not know what will be asked of you.” The boy insisted: “I am past the age of Bar Mitzvah. And do any of us know what will be asked of us?” To this the Besht had to agree. He thought of this particular boy and his talents. This was a boy He could not parse the halachic arguments in Talmud, but who had a gift for story and song that some of the followers took lightly—although the Besht had noticed that when the boy began a story, they were silent from beginning to end.“I will give you a task,” he said. “But you must promise that you will not accept it until you are eighteen. It is important, but not easy, and you must be old enough to take it on with full knowledge.” To this the boy agreed immediately.“You will be my storyteller,” said the dying rabbi. “You will tell the stories I have told and you will pass on the work we have done. Each week you will travel somewhere else for Shabbat, and as long as your work continues, you will have no home. Do you understand why this is so difficult?”
The boy, being young and eager to see the world, did not understand, but nodded eagerly, nevertheless. The Besht smiled, knowing something of youth, but continued. “You will want to know when your task is completed, I suppose.” The boy had not thought that far ahead, but now he nodded obediently. “There will come a time when you do not know the end of the story, but another will complete it for you. When that day comes, it will be time for you to find a wife and a home. Will you remember?” The boy nodded again and left with great eagerness. A few days later, the Besht died, and was mourned by all his followers.
The boy, obedient to the Besht, waited for several years. He did not wait idly, but practiced telling stories to old and young. He learned songs and to play a wild fiddle. And time passed very slowly, but pass it did and eventually the boy turned eighteen. The day after his birthday, he took a pack and his violin and set off down the road to tell his first stories.
After a day or so, he arrived at a small shtetl on Friday afternoon. After evening services, he announced that he was the Besht’s storyteller and the next afternoon, during motzi Shabbat, he would be in the town square prepared to tell wonderful stories. There was not exactly a huge outcry, in fact, no one really took notice, but the boy did not care, so sure was he of his mission.
But the next afternoon, only three people waited in the town square—an old woman and her two small grandchildren. The boy was disheartened, but remembered his task, squared his shoulders and began.
Now you would think—he certainly did—that the years of practice would have helped him in telling stories. And perhaps that is the case. It is certain that his voice and body had learned to move comfortably with the words of each story he had carefully and meticulously learned. But the story he told was not one that he had practiced. It was one that flowed through his body and mouth without guidance, a story that came from that place and the people listening, but also from the words of the Besht. The boy finished the story and told another and by now a few more people were listening. At the end of the third story, he was exhausted, but twelve people were in the audience and two offered to house him for the night.
<>That evening, he ate well and talked into the night. Before he fell asleep in his comfortable bed, he took out paper and pencil and sketched his hosts in words and pictures. The next morning, he packed his few belongings, took his leave, and traveled on into the woods and to the next village.
It was same at this next village—he announced himself at erev Shabbat services, he waited until Shabbat afternoon, a few people listened as he told another story that flowed through him, and when he finished his stories, the square was half-filled. <>The first months were the most difficult as he learned how to sleep, how to pack, how to wash, and how to feed himself as he traveled, each week in a new town. But over time, he learned and over time, his reputation spread, so that when he came to the town square of each village, he would find the townsfolk already assembled and waiting eagerly. And so passed the first year and the second and the third. By his twenty-first birthday, villages eagerly waited for the young storyteller to arrive and fill their Shabbat afternoons with tales that came straight from the mouth of the Besht. And the storyteller loved every minute of it, loved the way the children elbowed each other to make space in the front, and loved the way the old men and women nodded to themselves as one part or another pulled at a memory. And also the storyteller saw the young men and women who were his age marrying and beginning new lives in their villages. He was still looked forward to the next village and the next story, but part of him began to wonder when his task would be fulfilled. He had forgotten what the Besht had told him so long ago, remembering only that there would be an end—someday.
When ten years had passed, the storyteller was a strong, confident man who knew the ways of the world and had stories of his own to tell, although these he confined to the notebooks he carried with him. His job was still to tell the Besht’s stories, not his own, and he was still proud to do so. But now he found himself lonely. The men and women his age had homes and young children. He had a different bed every night and no one to share it with. And he still could not remember when his task would end. <>One day, as he played his fiddle near a brook, a horse and rider approached. “You are the Besht’s storyteller?” asked the rider. “I have been searching for you for three months. My master, who lives in Italy, requests that you come and tell stories to his community. He will pay you well.”
“I do not tell stories to be paid,” replied the storyteller. <>
“Nevertheless, he requests that you come. He beseeches you, sir,” said the servant.
“I go where the wind takes me,” said the storyteller.
“Is there a reason the wind cannot blow you to Italy and my master?” asked the servant. The storyteller smiled. He was free to travel where he wanted and if a rich Italian wanted him to come to tell the Besht’s stories, why not do so?
The rich Italian was, indeed, very rich. The storyteller slept in great comfort and was fed the finest meals Italy had to offer. If this were a different tale, the Italian would have a daughter for the storyteller to fall in love with, but in fact, he had only sons. After three days, the Italian gave a banquet for the community and at its end, the storyteller stood up to begin, opened his mouth, and found that no story emerged. He stood gaping at the crowd for a moment, his mind empty and confused, then from his own travels pulled one tale and then another. He told them well and the crowd applauded, but the Italian looked puzzled and disappointed. This was not what he had expected.
The next morning, the storyteller made ready to leave. He had taken no money from the Italian, but nevertheless felt profoundly ashamed. He had failed the Besht, he had pretended to be something he was not. He felt a great need to leave and consider whether this was the sign that his task was over. And yet, how could this failure be the end? As he set off down the road, the Italian hailed him. <>
“Sir,” he said. “May I walk with you?”
This was perhaps the last thing the storyteller would have wanted, but what could he say? The two men walked in silence for several minutes and, as they walked, the storyteller felt the familiar push of a story waiting to be told.
“Last night,” he said to the Italian, “You must have been surprised at my tales, as they had nothing to do with the Besht.”
“I was,” replied the man. “But I thought there must be a reason and so I came to you today to see what that might be.”
“The stories I tell come to me without my conscious thought,” he said. “I prepare and practice, but when the words come, they come of their own accord. They have always come—until last night when they did not. Over the years, I have collected enough stories to satisfy an audience, but what I did last night was not part of the task the Besht set me. Now, however, there is a story that I would tell and perhaps it is for you alone to hear.” <>

Here is the tale:
Near Passover one year, the Besht and a few followers came to a shtetl that appeared to be deserted. This was odd—it should have been bustling with Passover preparations, but instead, the streets were quiet and doors and windows were locked. The group of travelers knocked at one door and another, but no one answered until, toward the end of the street, they heard a door being unbolted and an old woman beckoned them in. There they found the villagers crowded together in great fear.
It seemed that there was new and fiery priest who had begun preaching against the Jews, as was not uncommon for that time. It was not uncommon during the season of Passover for Christians to tell each other how Jews would kill a Christian child to bake matzo. There was no truth in this story, but those who told and those who believed would then come through Jewish shtetls, destroying all that they found. And this new priest had the gift of inspiring action, reminding his audiences of every imagined sin of the Jews from the beginning of time until the present. It was from this that the village was hiding.
When the Besht heard the story, his face grew still. He turned to the youngest member of the group—the boy who had become the storyteller—and told him to go to the priest and tell him that the Besht would speak to him. The boy, with great reluctance and fear, made his way to the Christian section of town, staying in the shadows and praying that nothing would give him away as a Jew. He knocked on the priest’s door—once, twice, and finally on the third time, the door opened and the priest stood there. The boy did not look at him, but simply muttered: “The Baal Shem Tov wants to see you.” He could hear the sharp hiss of breath and the priest whispered: “What did you say?” The boy repeated: “The Baal Shem Tov wants to see you.” The priest swallowed and said: “Tell him I will come in two days.”
The boy nodded and raced out of the village and back to the Besht as fast as he could. But the Besht was not pleased. “In two days this village will be destroyed,” he cried. “You must return and tell him to come at once.” With even more fear, the boy made his way back to the village and to the priest’s room, where he delivered the message, expecting at any moment to be hauled in front of the crowd as the first victim of the coming pogrom. Instead, the priest sat for a moment, then pulled on a cloak and followed the boy back to the shtetl. There the Besht waited in the village square. He met the priest and they walked off together. The priest never returned and without his words to rouse them, the peasants did not storm the shtetl and the Jews observed Passover in peace. <>

The storyteller stopped and looked at his host, who was wiping his eyes. “That is not the end of the story,” said the Italian. “Let me tell you how it ended.”
The storyteller started as the Besht’s parting words, so long forgotten, came back to him: “There will come a time when you do not know the end of the story, but another will complete it for you. When that day comes, it will be time for you to find a wife and a home.” He nodded and said, “I am ready.” <>

The Italian’s tale:
Many years ago, a Jewish family was fleeing from a pogrom. It was a large family piled into a small wagon and the horse was running with all its might. If the mother had not been clutching the baby so hard; if the two older boys had not been poking each other; if the older girl had not been hiding beneath the seats—well, there are no ifs. The littlest boy, just old enough to have had his first haircut, lost his grip as the wagon turned a corner and bumped through a ditch. He found himself under a thorn bush, unable to get free, and the wagon raced on without him. Some time later, a farmwife found him crying in the yard and took him to the local monastery, which raised him as a Christian. As the boy grew he found comfort in the monks’ prayers, the same comfort that he had once found in his mother’s lullabies, although he did not then remember them and did not remember anything before life in the monastery.
<>The boy grew into a man and decided to become a priest and remain in the comfort of the prayers. Like other Christians, he was taught of the Jews’ sins and he believed them. And, for some reason, everything Jewish enraged him, infuriated him. He heard the word “Jew” and his mind would fill with resentment as words of hate came out of his mouth. The first time this happened, he was unsettled, but as the priests around him praised his fiery speech, he accepted this as a gift, and grew to embrace it.
Then just before Easter, three nights before he was to give a speech to a village arousing them to destroy a small shtetl, he had a dream. In the dream, a kind old man spoke to him: “I am the Baal Shem Tov,” said the man. “You must find me and hear my story.” The priest awoke, shrugged off the dream, and continued his preparations. But the next night the dream returned and again, the priest paid no attention. But then, after the third night, a boy knocked on his door and told him that the Baal Shem Tov wanted to see him.
It was on that walk that the Baal Shem Tov told him his story. He sang the lullabies that his mother had once sung as she rocked him to sleep. All the loneliness and rage that a small boy felt at being abandoned rose up and left, as the priest understood what had happened so many years before. Then he wept for the boy that had been and for what the man had done to his own people.
“How can I return and repent?” asked the man who had been a priest.
“You will make your way in the world, caring for those of your people who need it most,” said the Besht. “I do not know whether the damage you have done can be atoned for. But know this: if a man comes who tells you this story but does not know the end, then you will know that you have made atonement.” <>The Italian and the storyteller looked at each other, knowing that each had completed the tale of the other and each was free of their allotted tasks. They embraced and then separated. The Italian returned to his home and found that his life changed but little—except that a hole in his heart now felt full. The storyteller continued on for a time, still telling stories, but now they were his own tales of the places and people he had seen as he traveled. In not too long, he found himself in a shtetl that was most welcoming, staying with the town rabbi who had a daughter….and from this you can write the end of his story yourself. <>

In writing this, I did find that the story became my particular telling. There were bits that others put in that I thought didn’t fit; other bits that I wanted to expand. An interesting thing, telling a folk-tale….

Shabbat doesn't always come on Saturday

August 14, 2007

A home in Tel Aviv

I woke up this morning with a headache and feeling like I just didn’t want to move. Not really sick, but just bone-tired. I was supposed to travel south of Tel Aviv to meet with a children’s book author who is a friend of Hedva’s, but I couldn’t face the thought of going anywhere. Instead I called home and blithered to Dave and Deborah (especially Deborah, just because she’s done this before). Then cancelled my appointment and lay about and read some of the books that fill the bookshelves of this house. The house—where I am? I am staying in Nurit and Colin’s house while they are gone. It is the lower floor of a two story house and it feels like family. There are signs of children everywhere—books, writings, clothing. There is a refrigerator full of family food (which I am supposed to help eat). The dishwasher and the washing machine are almost identical to mine. There is a pet—a small dog named Meshi (silk). Meshi is silent and very affectionate. The last two nights, she has slept by my bed, which was quite a comfort. The neighborhood is quiet and there is a small shopping center around the corner where I bought a falafel for lunch and where I will buy fruit in a bit. Tali was here last night, watching TV and chatting amiably. She’ll be back tomorrow and tomorrow evening we’ll go out to eat. In the meantime, the day has been entirely rejuvenating—tomorrow I am ready to head back into Tel Aviv for one event or another.

Shabbat in Jerusalem

My companions and I separated for Shabbat. Steven was interested in going to the Kotel for services, I was not. And then I had all the problems of the day, particularly the wet phone. So I decided to go to a nearby synagogue—one I could walk to. It is Yedidya, and is similar to Beth Israel in Berkeley in terms of being Orthodox, but verging on egalitarian. The building was simple—white stone or concrete, two stories with the synagogue on top; the social hall below. In the social hall was a separate ark for a women’s minyan. Girls become Bat Mitzvah there with great regularity and men attend—although they may choose to then go to a regular service (the point is—there is choice). I got there right on time, always a mistake, and there were only a few women scattered through the women’s section, and about three times as many men. However, by the service’s end, both sides were close to full (men’s perhaps a bit more crowded). The books were entirely in Hebrew—the most amusing thing was the translation of the one Aramaic prayer into Hebrew, a very nice touch—and I could follow pretty well.

There was no rabbi and the service was led by a young man whose suffered from a common problem of youth—mumbling and speed. And yet, I found I could follow and the congregation took up melodies or silence in a comfortable rhythm that was incredibly moving and powerful. Unlike in Berlin and in Tzfat, there was nothing forced about the service; unlike the service in Haifa, this did not feel imported (although it had been initially). It was exactly what my soul needed.

After services, I headed back to the apartment. I was a bit disappointed that no one had asked me for dinner, but there hadn’t really been a way to communicate my desire. And, as it turned out, I was happy to be alone and quiet.

The next morning, with a phone still only working intermittently, I decided that I should take my cue and not try to go into the city by cab. Besides, I wanted to see what a Torah reading at Yedidya would be like. Services in Jerusalem begin early—which is very nice, they end early, too. I enjoyed the morning service as well, although the young man reading Torah went so quickly that even though I knew the words and melody, I could hardly keep up. On the other hand, he read the whole parsha, so speed may have had its virtues. The d’var Torah was given by a woman—in American-accented Hebrew, which is always easier to understand. And, as they passed the Torah around, when it came to the women’s side, a man passed it to a woman, who then carried it around. I have no trouble with men and women being separated—having separate spaces for each allows a different kind of fellowship to emerge than when families sit together—it is the prohibitions that bother me. Here, some women wore tallits, women led parts of the service, and they have made compromises with Torah reading.

During announcements, one woman said that if we wanted to be hosted for Kiddush lunch, we should see her following the service. There was ample food below, but I wanted company, and so talked with her. Her name was Linda and she knew the Bay Area and Stuart Kelman, who had hosted her. And she found me a couple who were looking to fill their lunch table, a short, round couple (Esther and Steven) a bit older than me, who were as gracious as could be. Esther went off to set the table; I found people to converse with. When Linda came back, I asked for her full name to pass onto Stuart. “Linda Gradstein” she said. My expression must have shown that I was trying to remember why the name was familiar, so she added “from NPR, but that’s my other life.” Yeah, so I had a long conversation with the Israel correspondent from NPR. What a place! The conversation, by the way, was entirely about the nature of the synagogue and about religion in Israel. Much of what she told me is woven into my description—although I will stress that the lack of a rabbi is a philosophical decision and one that has mixed results (which I understood absolutely completely—much more than she knew!). She was someone I would like to know better—down-to-earth, engaged in community life, and (as you might expect) articulate.

Lunch was amazing—Esther and Steven had been married only five years, second marriage for both and they were a pleasant, contented couple. Along with me, there were two young women from Birthright, and a man who lived in Jerusalem, but was kind of a waif (that is, currently single and socially clueless, although with a decent job and an odd hobby (codes in the Bible)). Esther had lived in Berkeley and knew the Rosens. It’s a funny thing—Stuart Kelman and Daniel Boyarin are names that keep coming back; that I know these people gives me credibility, oddly enough, and now the Rosens. It’s a very small Jewish world indeed. Esther served about five courses for Shabbat lunch: appetizers, soup, chicken with grape leaves, vegetables, and stuffed cabbage, and some kind of dairy-free ice cream cake for dessert. I’m taking notes—Shabbat afternoon meal is an custom I could get used to.

Towards evening, I went to tea with a Servas family. While that was nice, there is little more to say about the day—I went, we talked, and I returned to get ready to leave for Tel Aviv the next day.

Birthday at the Israel Museum

I wasn’t sure how I would feel on my fiftieth birthday—in a strange place away from my family and friends. I hoped it would be good, but had no great expectations. I woke, got myself up and out the door to go to the Israel Museum. It was supposed to open at 9, but I got the bus early and headed out the half-mile way by 8:10. As I walked, I called home where they enthusiastically sang the requisite song. Hearing my family sing to me as I looked across a Jerusalem valley toward the Knesset—not a bad thing at all.

It turned out the museum didn’t open until 10 and I got there at 8:45. Fortunately, they let me to wander the grounds in the cool and quiet of the morning. I walked by the model of Jerusalem prior to its destruction, through the sculpture garden (some seriously weird, others terrific), and between the black wall and white dome that together make up the Shrine of the Book, where the Dead Sea Scrolls are kept. Then a cup of coffee and eavesdropping on Hebrew conversations with more or less comprehension. Finally Brian and Steven showed up and we headed into the museum. Most of it is actually closed for a serious restoration, but that turned out to be no problem at all—there was enough to keep up going the entire day; had the rest been open it would have been a two day visit anyway. I went on the Hebrew tours of the model city and of the Dead Sea Scrolls. I didn’t get all of it, but I know the stories well enough to fill in the gaps and, for the Dead Sea Scrolls, I repeated the tour in English. I found that listening to lectures is terrific—I don’t have to understand and respond, so I can begin to get pieces and put them together. Easier than the rapid-fire news or other TV shows.

I have written at length about my response to the Wall—almost idolatry of a sort. But when I entered the Shrine of the book, a warm round room, with two thousand year pieces of writing preserved and displayed, writing that is still read aloud today in an unbroken chain, an unbroken scroll of writing and generations, I felt everything that I didn’t feel at the Wall—connection to people, to God, to history, to the meanings of the story. Even writing about it, I feel overwhelmed. And how fortunate to have been there on my birthday! How blessed I am! (By the way, this is a country in which everyone, even the fairly secular say “b’ezrat ha-Shem,” with God’s help. Unlike in the US, it isn’t a statement of religious politics, simply a comment on the reality that life isn’t always in our control.)

Steven and Brian left the museum before me to go off and rest, but we were to meet again to see an art exhibit on Jewish identity and then they were going to take me out for my birthday—really sweet of them and very much appreciated by me. Once again, I found myself waiting, this time in a great restaurant attached to the “Artist’s House” (right next to the Betzalel School for Art). I didn’t get any to eat but sorbet, but it was some of the best sorbet I’ve had. I was pretty disappointed in the exhibit, but the evening was fun—a beer for me, a dinner that was odd but excellent (scrambled eggs with Israeli salad), and interesting conversation about what we had seen during the day. Steven and I are both knowledgeable Jews engaged in our respective Jewish communities; Brian is a Christian, although how or if he practices wasn’t clear and I’m always reluctant to do a third degree on that. So much of the evening was spent discussing and explaining Jewish life and practice in the past and present.

Part of what we discussed was the politics of presentation—I went on the tours as much to hear what was presented and how it was presented as to learn (I know this history pretty damn well, as I found out yet again). However, what was interesting in the tour of the Dead Sea Scrolls, for example, was who was named and who was not (the shepherd boy who found the scrolls was never named, for example, nor was the man who bought them from him). It was also a remarkably conflict-free version of the tale—not mentioning, for example, the secrecy surrounding many of the non-Hebrew Bible texts. For a long time, these texts were controlled by the Dominicans, who were more interested in protecting theology than publishing the results they found. In the past five-ten years, complete translations of the schools have been published, but what the Scrolls may mean to Christian theology in particular is still in process—and clearly somewhat frightening to Church leaders. None of this was even hinted at in the tour—none. Why not? My guess would be the desire not to offend. Too bad—it is an interesting and important story. More here: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dead_sea_scrolls.