Erev Shabbat Shuva (9/13/02)
Dear family and friends,
As is my custom, I will try to keep you up to date on our experience in Jerusalem this year where I am a Fellow at the Institute for Advanced Studies in a group working on Jewish and Islamic mysticism. This is the first letter.
JERUSALEM
We have been in the holy city of Jerusalem for eleven days and I can scarcely believe it. This is a wonderful city. The air is so clear, and the light is so warm. The Jerusalem stone is everywhere, radiating back the warm light. The weather has been superb, warm during the day and cool at night. Only an occasional cloud; no rain. I wear shoes to the Wall but sandals around the city. None of the soggy weather of New York or Atlanta, or the briskness of the Swiss climate. As I drive to the Wall each morning before dawn, I marvel that I am really here.
Jerusalem is a working class city. There are no large cars, no opulent shops. Everyone has something to do, and study counts as something to do. We live in an area which is really a neighborhood. We can walk to the grocery store (no Krogers). The hardware store is just fine. The husband of the woman who sells us our newspapers went into the hospital and we all knew about it. The woman who runs a local gift shop took one look at Philippe and informed me that she has nine or ten successful matches to her credit. Everyone rushes but no one really rushes. Time runs on a different clock here. Everyone knows that there are delays in doing whatever one is doing: The bank is still using reams of paper. At any moment, a security alert can delay you. Or, there can be a traffic jam at the Wall which prevents you from getting to services on time. Everyone takes all this for granted. Everyone watches out for everyone else. It is not unusual to see children and even adults escorting older people on the street.
Being Jewish is natural here. Some with knitted kippot and sandals, and others with black hats. Some modestly dressed, and others rather exposed. It's normal for large numbers of people to be going to synagogue in the morning, and for the salesperson to wish you "Shana Tova." On the plane coming over, we were delayed and we had a minyan on the airplane itself, and no one seemed to notice or care. There is no non-kosher food on El Al.
But there are practically no tourists. The hotels are empty. So are the stores; the shopkeepers thank us for coming in. I decided that I would bring very little and buy what I needed here, thus supporting the local economy (which I have managed to do quite well). Ursula is nervous all the time about security. Arriving on our block and not being able to get to our apartment because of a "suspect object" didn't help calm her. Even I am nervous as I enter a mall to do some shopping or go to Ben Yehuda for supper with Philippe; Ursula won't go to these places. We are inspected at the entrance to every building. I was even stopped at random at 3:30 a.m. by the police while driving. But everyone accepts this as normal; no one ever complains.
THE WALL
The morning after I arrived, I joined Philippe for selihot (penitential services) and morning prayers at the Wall. We get up at 3:10 to be there at 4:00, which is before dawn. There are two types of Jewish practice here: the ashkenazi (European ) and the sefardi (Mediterranean). I was brought up in the ashkenazi rite where there are different medieval poems every day, one more difficult than the next, and where the group prays as individuals with the leader invoking communal singing only occasionally. The sefardim recite everything out loud and do much more group singing. Also, they utilize the same poems every day. Since they are taught these in school, the sefardim know the melodies and words by heart. At the Wall, at any given moment between midnight and dawn, there are dozens of groups of all rites reciting selihot. The result is an atonal symphony, a lively coexistence of musical modes.
The variety of rites is matched by the range of faces. There are hasidim with long sidelocks of all ages, kabbalists with their entourage, lower middle class and working class sefaradim, soldiers complete with their guns, yeshiva students, and children who arrive by the busload. Sometimes the younger boys sleep through the prayers but the teenagers are very alert. Men and women are, of course, separate but it is possible for the women to stand in the open area behind the men and join in. Today a school of very handsome young boys had the very pretty young women with olive skin and brown eyes behind them as they all recited penitential prayers together.
Our group is a sefardi group led by Philippe's kabbalist rabbi. We gather at 4:00 and wait for him to arrive. When he comes, we stand. He nods and the person who chants begins. Most of the chant is antiphonal: he begins a sentence and we complete it. Occasionally, the chant is passed around to others to lead. The music comes from Iraq. It is not in the style of Mozart's Requiem. In fact, once in a while, the leader or one of the others elaborates on the chant and I lose him immediately. As I said to our son, Benjamin, who is being initiated into sefardi music in Bruxelles, you don't have to worry about stealing the copyright on any of this music. Even Benjamin couldn't pick it up, and he is the most musical of us. The group singing, however, is easier -- though, even then, the trills and the rhythms are very tricky. Philippe, who is the least vocally musical of us, feels right at home there. The strangeness of the music aside, these are people of simple faith who come to be together before God as God judges the Jewish people. They come to be in solidarity with one another and with the tradition of their parents that unites us before God. It is very moving, especially to see and hear the young people. During these penitential prayers, the sefardim sound the shofar -- not one shofar but everyone who has a shofar blows it -- while the rest recite the thirteen attributes invoking God's mercy. Philippe and I blow shofar; so do two or three people in each of the other sefardi groups. The sound is overwhelming. Only in Jerusalem could such a thing happen, out of doors, in public prayer to God. We stand proud and loyal, but surrounded by enemies who wish our very death. We blow to make sure God knows this. May God wake up to the dangers God's people are exposed to! Philippe blows very well; they are pleased with him. After they hear me, they acknowledge that he has studied well. When we blow shofar, Philippe calls his grandmothers on his cellphone and tells them, "Just listen." Afterwards, he does not talk to them; we do that later in the day.
Everyone is very, very fond of Philippe. Everyone tells me what a wonderful son I have; that he is gem among jewels, even a righteous person. As we arrive, they begin to come over to him. One Yemenite man is our favorite. He is 95 and I hear that he takes the money he collects and buys sweets for the children he tutors in a small development. He blesses us and we, of course, give him something but he would bless us anyway. I have been given charity money before coming and I gave it all to him. Then, there is another, younger Yemenite man who brings us Yemenite tea each morning. There is Rabbi Porush, an older hasid who is the money changer at the Wall. Many ask for charity and this rabbi sets up shop and will change your larger pieces into smaller ones. He then asks for a contribution. This is not his source of livelihood but it is very helpful to us. There is Rabbi Eisenbach who heads Zakka which is the group of religious persons that picks up the pieces of the dead when there are bombs, car accidents, or suicides. He keeps us informed through the three phones and beeper he has of what the latest carnage has been. In response to my inquiry, he tells me that there are 20-25 dead each week in car accidents and that it is difficult to get all the body parts together. Also, that there are 15-20 suicides a week. There is the rabbi with the beautiful voice who runs a school who would also like a large donation. And then there are the beggars. We do not give to the young ones or the ones we hear are fakes, but we always give to the older ones who have fallen through the cracks of the social system. I get to know the names of a few of those in our group. There is big Barukh, the man who carries the kabbalist's bag and lights his candles for him. There is Moshe Asher, the rabbi's general factotum who fetches tea, prepares books, and does other small tasks. There is Barukh, the French accountant; Abie, the American poet; and David, and Hakham Sasson. And, of course, there is Rabbi Darzy, the kabbalist. He is revered by one and all. The former sefardi chief rabbi comes to him to pray. Ordinary sefardim come up, kiss his hand, and are blessed by him. His eyes twinkle as he engages Philippe, the non-sefardi who says he is a capitalist not a kabbalist.
After selihot with the Iraqi, sefardi kabbalist, we switch to the ashkenazi group for prayers. They are busy men. One runs Zakka. Another earned a lot of money and runs a home for handicapped children. Several run schools. One administers the program for training very orthodox boys who want to go into the Israeli army. These men do not waste a lot of time praying. They move quickly through the prayers and they are the first to finish. At the end, Philippe blows shofar alone for them -- the first end-of-service shofar to be heard at the Wall each morning.
The rule is that one may begin morning prayers before dawn which is when it gets light; that one must wait until after dawn to recite the Shma; but one must wait until sunrise itself to recite the Silent Prayer. All, I mean all, the groups at the Wall, have watches on the prayer stands and they all know exactly the minute of sunrise. As we get to that moment, the Wall falls totally silent for the Silent Prayer. I hear only the birds who, at sunrise, being to sweep overhead and chirp. For several minutes, no sound is heard at the Wall -- until one group begins the repetition of the Silent Prayer out loud, after which the cacophany resumes.
One morning, we assemble at 1:00 a.m. and we go in a group with the kabbalist rabbi to the tomb of Rachel, our (biblical) mother. Rachel's Tomb is a Jewish island in a Palestinian sea. It used to be open and one could interact with the Arab merchants but, since the intifada, it has been turned into a fortress. We are inspected several times. Once inside, we recite special prayers invoking Mother Rachel's intervention on behalf of her people. I recite special prayers for my children: Rachel, the barren one who is answered, is the matron of women who wish to get pregnant. Then, we recite selihot. Rabbi Darzy inserts a procession which circumambulates Rachel's grave seven times. Philippe is not there and I must uphold the family reputation for blowing shofar but, without him, I miss my cues. Some of us cry as we implore God to protect us from Saddam Hussein's smallpox, from Hizbullah's chemical rockets, and from Arafat's suicide bombers who maim more than they kill. We return to the Wall for dawn-sunrise prayers and then go to the Dead Sea to cast away our sins. I begin to think I am in a film, the French one about Rabbi Jacob. We leave the Wall in five cars and reassemble in various gas stations along the way. We arrive and go to a beach area on the Dead Sea. Out of the cars pour 20 hot men, most in long black coats with flying sidelocks. I tell Philippe that this episode will be called "The Rabbi and the Bikini." We approach the beach and the one woman in a bikini grabs her beachcoat and runs for the cabanas. The woman owner also clothes herself and demands 10 shekels per person plus a blessing. The meek orthodox factotum who represents Rabbi Darzy to this professional devotee of sunbathing is told to tell her: either the blessing or the shekels but not both. She won't budge. One of the businessmen among us goes over to her and she agrees to 50 shekels ($10) for all of us -- after all we are not going to swim -- plus the blessing. So we gather as a group and pick our way over the rocks to a jetty. We go out on the jetty in our black coats, take a piece of paper with our sins, tie it to a rock, throw it in the water, and recite prayers out loud. I thought this happened only in comic movies. The water looks so clear and inviting that I stick in my hand, and it comes out all sticky from the salt. Eventually we leave and the mistress of the beach establishment, properly covered, gets her blessing.
SETTING UP
The apartment is beautiful. It is in a very nice neighborhood: around the corner from the President's house and across the street from the Islamic Museum and the Jerusalem Theater. The street names are lessons in Jewish history. The apartment itself is all white, three porches, five rooms plus kitchen and bathroom. It's a little noisy for us suburban types but it is a neighborhood, as I noted above. I arrive a day ahead of Ursula and, since she is very nervous about the political situation, about being so far from her mother, and about not knowing the language, I want to make it as nice as possible. So, I spend a frantic eleven days shopping. Fortunately, my hosts have made some money available in advance and, in any case, I feel I am supporting the Israeli economy. So I buy: a drying rack, an iron and ironing board, a hamper, a garbage container and bags, little rolling carts to create shelf space in the kitchen, household tools, vases, a juicer, a bathmat, wastebaskets, salt and pepper shakers, a serving tray, and more. Fortunately, Jonathan has done some advance food shopping and has agreed to kasher the stove and sink. He also gets and puts up mezuzot on all the doors. I also have to figure out how to operate the stove and the laundry machine, and how to activate the mail. I have to set up my own desk with a printer-fax-scanner and speakers. I need to rent a car and open a bank account. Naftali Stern gets us cellphones but the instructions are in Hebrew; so I have to talk to Cellcom several times to get matters straight. I explain to them that they cannot afford to have us on a system that does not allow international calls. The owner of the local hardware store loves me. I still have not found a proper dictionary and an electric pencil sharpener. Meanwhile, Ursula, who loves the apartment, gets to know the neighbors and actively looks for (and finds, in less than a week) some household help. She does quite well with her Hebrew though shopping when you cannot read what is on the label is disorienting. Not to worry, she is managing well.
To make matters more complicated, we discover upon visiting Philippe's apartment, that he has not had household help in several months. SoUrsula talks to the neighbors and an "ozeret" shows up. After three visits and some active supervision from Ursula in broken but effective Hebrew, the apartment looks clean and livable again. Setting up two apartments was not in my plan for my first ten days here. Philippe has also been burgled yet a third time and is swept up in the details of filing police and insurance papers, as well as in the chagrin of suspecting who the thieves are and not being able to do anything about it. His friends at the Wall are philosophical: the robbery will be his bad luck for the year. Considering where we are, that is not so bad.
I go to the Institute for Advanced Studies which is housed on the old campus of the Hebrew University (Giv'at Ram), though it is an independent, national entity. The folks there have been most courteous in all matters: travel, tickets, monetary advance, and checking on this and that for me. They receive us with open arms, register me, and show me my office. For me, this is very moving because I find myself in the very building where I studied as a college student in 1958-59. I think of how proud my professors (Kutscher, Goldberg, Stern, Plessner) would be that I, who came as the lowest of the low on the academic totem pole, have returned as the highest of the high: a member of the Institute for Advanced Studies, invited to particpate in a year-long seminar on Jewish and Islamic mysticism. I walk the campus and remember back almost a half a century ago.
FAMILY AND FRIENDS
When I arrived, the Institute sent a driver to pick me up but Philippe met me at the apartment and, the first day we were here together, both Jonathan and Philippe came over. We see Philippe every day -- I meet him at the Wall for prayers and he often returns with me for breakfast and/or we meet him for lunch or supper. Jonathan and Rachel came by together and we speak almost every day. Ursula can scarcely believe it; we've been empty-nesters for so long. Last year, we were spoiled by having Benjamin and Alexia around the corner; this year we have three others in very close range.
We have not lacked for people to contact here. Naftali Stern of Bar Ilan picked up Ursula at the airport and then visited us with his wife. We have dropped by to see Ruth and Menachem Elon, the former Deputy President of the Israeli Supreme Court; we go there tonight for Shabbat dinner. We stopped by to see Aharon Lopez and his wife, the Israeli Ambassador to the Vatican when I taught there some years back. Ruth and Aryeh Mekel came for dinner. He was Consul General in Atlanta and is about to assume the post of Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary, i.e,, the top civil servant, in the Israeli Mission to the United Nations. We stopped by to see Gabriel Barkay, an old friend and prominent archaeologist. We have spoken to the Fentons, colleagues and friends from Paris, and with Mrs. Bendtheim, an old friend of the family. Malka May, daughter of good friends from Atlanta, dropped by. The list of people we have not yet called or seen is even larger.
We talk to Ursula's mother every day, and also to my mother. Various relatives are sick. The worst news was that Deborah Lipstadt had a serious hip problem and was hospitalized, transferred to Atlanta, operated on, and then had complications. She is doing better, and we have stayed in close touch. Deborah's operation has complicated the Jewish Studies situation at Emory and I remain in close touch by email. Benjamin and Alexia are in Bruxelles. They went to the sefardi synagogue where they were married (if you haven't read the letter or seen the pictures, go to <http//:www.emory.edu/UDR/BLUMENTHAL/benalexiawedding.htm>. They received him royally, seating him in the second row on the aisle. The family purchased an honor for him, one that had been held by Alexia's maternal grandfather. They offered to let him sing but even Benjamin found the sefardi music strange and asked for a year of "sefaradization" before doing a solo. In typical style, Benjamin took Alexia with him to blow shofar in the local hospital. He had done this as a teenager with me and decided to do it now as a married man. European hospitals, however, do not list patients by religion. So Benjamin asked them to look through the list of patients for Jewish names. When they remained puzzled, he asked if they had seen "Rabbi Jacob," a very funny, very Jewish French film. The staff really got into it after that. There were also large family dinners for which Benjamin did kiddush, though he had no idea what to do with the sefardi tradition of a ram's head.
ROSH HASHANA
For the New Year, we moved into Philippe's apartment which is in an old Arab neighborhood opposite the Jerusalem municipality. He has a very large terrace and is within walking distance of the Wall and of the yeshiva of Rabbi Darzy. For evening services, we went to Rabbi Darzy. The women's section is a very small room behind the synagogue. Mrs. Darzy came because she knew Ursula would be there and they talked. We walked home through the ultra-orthodox neighborhood. Everyone was on the street and, of course, there was no traffic. The kids are so sweet with the girls all dressed up in matching dresses, clean and happy looking. For morning prayers, Philippe returned to Rabbi Darzy because the prayers are very slow and deep. But that service and the women's room was not for Ursula, so we went to the Wall. I found the minyan that Philippe and I sometimes attend on Shabbat. It is a sefardi group and they move at a pretty quick pace. They recognized me and gave me the appropriate honors. Ursula had not been to theWall yet and, instead of going to the women's section which is also at the Wall but separate from the men, she decided to be in the plaza area behind the men. From there, she could see everything. Again, because services are in the open, there are many services going on simultaneously and in all rites. After services, we went to the top of the police station for quick refreshments with Philippe's group. They have preference at this place. Next time, we will bring them a bottle of Arak, Iraqi absinthe, to contribute to the offering.
The second evening, we went back to Rabbi Darzy and walked back again through the ultra-orthodox section of town. The second morning, Philippe again went to Rabbi Darzy and we went to the Wall. There had been no blowing of the shofar the first day because it was Shabbat, so Ursula first heard the shofar at the Wall on the second day, and she heard the mulitple yet simultaneous blowing. Quite an experience. It is also the custom that the priests bless the people at almost every service. Since Ursula was at the back, she felt blessed many times. During the afternoon, we wandered down to the spring in ancient Jerusalem called the Gihon to throw away our sins. We met person after person, including the group that is settling the old royal city of David and doing the archaeological excavations there. For the third evening, we returned to the Wall where, among others, we ran across a group of Bratslaver hasidim who danced up quite a storm. When we left, they had been dancing two hours and were going strong. Meanwhile, Ursula at her post in the area behind us has met several very interesting women.
All in all, a very exciting holiday. I didn't get to say so many of the prayers I usually say because I was with the sefardim. But I learned that it doesn't make any difference. There are many, many rites and they are all valid. Interestingly, religion as practiced at the Wall is very tolerant of these divergences. For instance, one does not blow shofar after Rosh Hashana but some did it nonetheless. No one objected; everyone just continued on with his own practices.
On the evening after Rosh Hashana, at the end of the fast for that day, Philippe and I went to the dedication of a house that had just been purchased in a small Arab village south of Jerusalem. The purchase, as all purchases from Palestinians today, was very difficult because the Palestinian Authority opposes such sales. Still, it went through and we were there to celebrate. It was moving to realize that we were there for the opening of yet another Jewish neighborhood in the Jerusalem area.
Ketiva vahatima tova to everyone, best wishes for a healthy and peaceful New Year. David