Normal Time Resumes Today (9/30/02)
Dear family and friends,
It is hard to believe that only another two weeks has passed; so much happens in Jerusalem in such a short time.
YOM KIPPUR
While it was a very broadening experience davening with the sefardim, I really felt that Ursula (and I, too) needed to be in a more familiar surrounding for Yom Kippur. So we spent the Shabbat before Yom Kippur visiting local synagogues. Friday night I chose the synagogue across the street and up the hill, known as the "French synagogue" because of the large number of French families who pray there. Actually, I heard more English than French because the community was established by Americans. It is a definitely middle class, middle age community -- more white hair than black or brown. It has a very nice bourgeois building with a correspondingly bourgeois minyan: not too much interest in praying, pretty fast, sermon in Hebrew not bad but not profound, and a lot of socializing afterwards. Shabbat morning we went to another local synagogue -- all Israelis of the national religious blend and, again, pretty routine services. Half way through, I decided we were in the wrong synagogue, so we left and went to the one I had been looking for. It turned out to be a refuge for Americans from the 60s: some long hair, slow melodies, trying to hard to be spiritual. Amazing how each synagogue has a flavor of its own. There are no very orthodox, hasidic, or sefardic synagogues in our neighborhood; at least none that I know of yet. Philippe knew one of the prominent members of the French synagogue and Ursula and I met a French couple on a Shabbat afternoon walk, so that decided us for the French synagogue for Yom Kippur. (For those of you with web access, I attach a foto of Ursula's outfit; it was taken on our terrace with the Museum of Islam in the background.)
Erev Yom Kippur began with pre-dawn penitential services at the Wall. The traffic was so heavy that Philippe showed me the back way to the Wall, through a valley of olive trees south of the temple mount. The road is so unknown that it is poorly paved. Good for us though, in time of trouble, a little risky. After services, Philippe and I went to the kaparot market. Kaparot (kapores, in Yiddish) is the ceremony of substituting an animal for one's sins and then killing the animal. We drove to the Mahane Yehuda market, a special section of which was opened for this purpose. We walked in and Philippe chose one of several vendors. We each bought a male chicken, took it by its feet which had been secured with tape, swung it around our heads, and recited, "This is my substitution" three times. We then gave the chicken to the ritual slaughterer who slit its throat according to the rules and dumped it unceremoniously into an upside down funnel. Since Ursula was hardly going to accept a chicken in that state, we did what is usually done: we gave it to charity, and some poor person had chicken soup and chicken for pre- Yom Kippur dinner. On the way out of the kaparot market, we saw someone Philippe knew. They had done kaparot with two geese they had raised and, as we watched, the shochet slaughtered them for the family to use. Some of you may have seen the New York Times front page picture of people doing kaparot. Well, Philippe and I were there, though I think Philippe's rationalist ancestors would certainly have objected.
As exepcted, the Yom Kippur services were familiar but otherwise uninspiring but, after two weeks of strange experiences, one comfortable one was not amiss. The most moving moments were the memorials for the boys who had fallen in army service or people killed or wounded in terrorist attacks during the last year. The man in front of me was asked to come forward before the services began and to light the memorial candle: he had lost a grandson in Jenin, the day before the major attack there. I can't even imagine it. When he came back to his seat, I just reached forward and put a hand on his shoulder. There were also moving prayers at Yizkor (the memorial service during Yom Kippur itself) for those in the community who had died fighting to defend Jewish life and liberty. At one point, I left the service to attend a young people's service downstairs. Very simple but, as I looked around, I asked myself, "How many of these young people will not be here next year because they've been killed in action?" We missed Rabbi Langer's ne´ila (concluding service) with his resonant and faith-endowed voice, and we missed Michael Berger's martyrology with its pain, tears, and pleading.
There was practically no traffic anywhere on the streets of Jerusalem during Yom Kippur. There was no mail even to think about. When we stopped for a break, I walked home in my talit (prayershawl) and I think Ursula didn't even notice -- because everyone else did the same thing. Being Jewish is natural here.
JJ GREENBERG'S FUNERAL
Just before Yom Kippur, we had received word that the 36 year old son of Rabbi Yitz Greenberg, whom I have known for many years, had been in a very serious accident. Right after Yom Kippur, we received word that JJ had died. Ursula and I went to the funeral. The Bet Hesped (chapel) was packed, with people standing outside, even though it was quite hot. Someone, thoughtfully, passed out water. While we were waiting, I was able to renew my acquaintance with David and Doniel Hartman; the family was late, a combination of distress and traffic.
The body was brought in wrapped in a large talit and set down on the bier. Then, JJ's sister, Deborah, spoke -- just beautifully -- about his presence in the family: always a little wild, "cool frumm" / "frumm cool" ("frumm" = "orthodox"). He would enter the room and people would just light up. The children loved him and he was completely theirs. He clowned with them, did sports with them. (He was killed on a bicycle ride with his brother. They were training for a charity race and someone ran a traffic light and hit him. The internal injuries were simply too great to repair.) Deborah wept her way through most of it; she loved him very much and was able to give us a good picture of JJ as a brother and uncle. She also mentioned his firm commitment to being Jewish.
One of the brothers spoke. The moving moment came when he, as a cohen (priest), blessed his brother with the full birkat kohanim (priestly benediction: "May the Lord bless you and keep you...").
Then Yitz spoke. Typically, he began by apologizing to all of us who had waited in the heat. Then, he talked beautifully about the many, many things JJ had done: the Jewish Life Network, ecological concerns, work with Russian refugees, outreach work, and others I cannot remember. He also said that JJ was very loyal to him, working with him everyday and helping him with advice and just plain support. The fact that JJ always went with tsitsit out and a kippa made his work also a kiddush Hashem (sanctification of God's Name). At the end, Yitz said he wanted to bless the assembled: "May God bless you with a child who ..." and he listed all JJ's qualities, concluding, "And, even if you learn -- as we have -- that it must come to an end after 36+ years, I still say, 'May God give you a child like this.'" Not a dry eye after that.
We accompanied the group to the graveside. In Jerusalem fashion, the body was allowed to slip from under the talit, in tachrichim (shroud), into the grave. A few pieces of dirt and then the lower part of the grave was sealed with flat stones. The group, myself included, filled in the grave. The family said kaddish. We formed lines for nichum avelim (to comfort the mourners) and then davened Mincha. I spoke to Yitz for a few minutes but what can one say to a parent who has lost a child. I find that my heart will not allow me to go to that place of pain.
Strangely, there was no tsidduk hadin; nor did they use the full graveside kaddish. No one seemed to know if that is because it is pre-Yom Tov or whether that is just the local custom here.
The family sat shiv´a (observed mourning rites) at the Bendtheim's and Ursula and I dropped by to pay our respects. We spoke to Yitz and to Blu. Very sad. Yitz wanted to know if I would write another book on the unjust God.
THE PIGU´A
Also, during the days before Sukkot, we endured our first pigu´a (terrorist attack): a bomb had exploded on a bus in Tel Aviv. From abroad, all one hears is the terror but, here, life goes on. Hundreds of thousands of people ride the busses and don't stop just because there has been a terrorist attack. Also, Tel Aviv is a long way from Jerusalem. We heard about it when Benjamin called us to find out if we were safe. (One doesn't get the chance to see much television or hear much news.) The government reacted in what seemed to us to be a confused manner; but that is why they are the government.
Every day there are people killed in automobile accidents and even, as I noted in my last letter, in suicides; and, of course, people die from disease and old age every day. Yet none of this makes the impression on the national psyche that a terrorist attack does. I have been pondering this and I think it is because a terrorist attack, while equally unpredictable and equally senseless, is really an attack on our very being as Jews. A pigu´a is an existential attack, a threat to our survival as a people. Perhaps more important, a terrorist attack is the very embodiment of Jew hatred, of antisemitism in its most virulent form. Sane Palestinians, and there are some, know that nothing can be gained from these attacks; yet they continue. Further, there is no, I repeat no, civil resistance among Palestinians to such terror attacks. There simply is no Palestinian peace movement. No popular opposition to the Palestinian Authority. An occasional spokesperson may express a doubt but nothing in the street. Such attacks, then, become the embodiment of the hatred of the Jew -- the hatred of the very existence of the Jew: irrational, full of rage. These people hate us.
Jews, who have suffered for centuries under Christianity and under Islam too, really want to see an end to this Jew hatred. "I am peace but, when I speak, they are for war" (Psalm 120). Arye Mekel, former Consul General of Israel in Atlanta, came for dinner and put it well: The Zionist dream was to establish a Jewish State that would put an end to Jew hatred because the Jews would have their own state and be like other peoples. That dream, however, has failed. The Jewish State has only become the focus for Jew hatred. Every Jew hater in the world can talk out against the State of Israel and the real haters can still kill Jews in Israel (and elsewhere) with impunity. A pigu´a, then, is more than the useless loss of lives; car fatalities are also that, as was JJ Greenberg's. A pigu´a is an attack against our very being. And all our efforts, by doves and by hawks, have come to naught in stopping this. A pigu´a is a terrible thing and everyone here suffers -- which is, of course, the purpose of terror against civilians, which only makes the circle more vicious. I marvel that the Israelis have not retaliated with an eye for an eye: a pigu'a for a pigu'a for, no matter how rough; incursions and arrests are not concerted action to kill civilians.
SUKKOT
Right after Yom Kippur was over, the banging of hammers could be heard everywhere as people began building their sukkot (booths). We decided that, since Philippe has an immense terrace and we have none, we would not build our own but would stay with Philippe for the holiday. Philippe's sukka is about 10 feet by 10 feet, and he has a young man who puts it up for him. So, while Philippe was out of town, I spent a morning watching and helping the young man put it up while at the same time being present as a man installed the new burglar alarm (Philippe has been burgled three times). Great day, except that the young man assembled the sukka wrong and the alarm is not the one Philippe ordered. So, the following day, I came after early services, disassembled the sukka and reassembled it properly. Meanwhile, the young man had gone to get s'chach (covering for the roof of the sukka). The city of Jerusalem bring in tons of large palm branches and deposits them around the city. Anyone can come and buy branches and pay a small delivery fee. However, since Philippe lives in an alley inaccessible to cars and trucks, we had to haul the s'chach the last distance. He had, of course, ordered too much.
The sukka has a painted aluminum frame that assembles, and blue and white canvas sides with doors and windows (which also needed reassembly). Then, one decorates. If there are small children, they paint, cut and paste, etc. We decided to bring in bougainvilias. Those, too, had to be hauled (with dirt for later transplanting). We set up beds in which to sleep and a dining area in which to eat. Ursula cooked and I cleaned, as usual, and we enjoyed sleeping in the sukka. It was a little like camping out. (Picture attached.)
All week, Philippe and I went to pre-dawn services at the Wall with Rabbi Darzy. There were so many people at the Wall even at that time of the day that the police just blocked off all traffic, and we were glad for our shortcut. The service for blessing the lulav and etrog (palm branch and citron) and reciting the hallel (psalms of praise), which normally takes 10-15 minutes, took one hour with Rabbi Darzy. Every time the lulav and etrog were used, we had long kabbalistic meditations. Those who followed the "official" meditations in the Siddur Rashash, did so; the rest of us did our own meditations. It was wonderful to have had the time to meditate as one recited the prayers and did the required movements. In between, there was spirited singing -- Iraqi style: all rhythm and not much melody (in the western sense). We prayed in the sukka on top of the police station at the Wall -- no one else did -- until after the reading of the Torah. Then, we wended our way through the thousands of people to the section in the tunnel opposite the site of the ancient sanctuary where we concluded the services. Always, as Rabbi Darzy walked, people of all ages came up, kissed his hand, and received a brief blessing. Philippe and I were part of his entourage.
Ursula joined us for these early services. She did not follow the services themselves so she went downstairs to the area in front of the Wall where she met people and took pictures. She had a great time. Unfortunately, she had to leave to go back to New York and missed part of the holiday. One day, as we circulated through the plaza before the Wall, we saw an etrog the size of a small watermelon! I'd never seen one that big and the owners were nice enough to let us use them.
Monday was the annual blessing of the community by the priests. Maybe one hundred thousand people -- I can't even estimate the numbers -- assembled. The Old City was closed to all but bus, taxi, and military traffic from way before dawn for crowd control as well as for security reasons. Every person who entered the area of the Wall went through metal detectors, search of bags, and could be summarily detained. The numbers were impressive though I think the ceremony was too massive to be really meaningful.
Every evening of Sukkot, there are parties all over town. Even in the ultra-orthodox neighborhoods, they hire bands and (the men) dance and sing a good part of the night. We went to one in Ir David (the royal City of David) which sits under an Arab village. Slowly, the people living there have been buying houses and excavating the area, especially around the Shiloah spring where the kings of Israel were crowned. Philippe has been very helpful to them and so we were invited to their Simhat Beit Hashoeva. It was very appropriate because, during the time of the second temple, water was drawn from the Shiloah spring, brought to the temple, and poured on the altar. So we were where it all began. We arrived and the band had amplification that was so powerful it made my heart skip beats. In addition, there was very heavy security, including men with tear gas guns, because we were in a valley with two Arab villages on either side of us. The local population, however, was just curious: the children and the adults too came out to hear the music and watch us. I remembered the time I was here in 1958-59 when we were all halutsim ("pioneers") in shorts, sandals, and the funny blue hats. We danced and danced and danced, and we knew we were building the land. I felt some of that at this celebration too -- except that only the men danced, there were so many children we couldn't really get a fast hora going, and the music was modern, almost Israeli religious rock. A weird juxtaposition for me. The mayor of Jerusalem and the chief ashkenazi rabbi came, which was much appreciated by the group.
The seventh day of Sukkot is a special day. I was too sick to stay up all night and study but Philippe did so. On this day, we do the final set of meditations on the lulav and etrog, and we circle the Torah seven times. According to the Zohar (the key book of Jewish mysticism), God has ten dimensions to God's person. Ritually, one usually meditates on seven of them. Since there are seven days of Sukkot, one has time to meditate on the relation of each of the seven to all the others. Thus, on the first day, one meditates on the energy flowing from A to A, A to B, A to C, ... and, on the second day, one meditates on the energy flowing from B to A, B to B, B to C ... One completes the cycle of meditation on the seventh day. (Rabbi Darzy's meditations does are even more complicated.) On Hoshana Rabba, I was so into this that I even got dizzy and almost fainted, but it was well worth it. So were the seven circumambulations of the Torah where, again, each one represents one of the seven sefirot of God's person. The melodies were very lively.
The end of the holiday is really a separate festival: Shemini Atseret and Simhat Torah. In the exile, they occupy two days; in Israel, the two fall together. Unfortunately, I was not able to be in Jerusalem for this but Philippe reports that it was a stunning experience, a fitting consummation of the holiday season -- the point where all the penitential prayers are over and one can wholly rejoice in God and in God's Torah.
THE AFTERMATH
I spent the final holiday weekend with our very good friend, Benny Hary, and his family and friends in the Galilee. We celebrated his 50 th birthday. On the way back, I stopped at the Mount of the Beatitudes, Tabgha (where Jesus walked on the water), and Capernaum (a beautifully preserved synagogue where he preached). These place are so peaceful that it is hard to think why the Romans would bother to persecute him, or why there would be war in the region today. But Iraq is just over the hills. No tourists.
I then went to Tiberias to visit the grave of Maimonides who has been the center of so much of my work. While there, I also visited the graves of some of the rabbis of the mishnaic period, especially those who were martyred by the Romans. I prayed there for my rabbinic friends and their families.
ONLY IN JERUSALEM
Two young girls clad in very tight clothes with more belly showing than covered leave the house and kiss the mezuza on the way out.
The policeman refuses an irate driver entrance into to Old City which is closed for Sukkot to vehicular traffic: "But, sir, I really want to let you into the City but I can't. Why do you argue with me? Just drive a little further, make a left turn, go up the hill, and park there! Happy holiday."
Today our study group meets for the first time. Normal time (is there such a thing) resumes today. Love from Jerusalem, U&D