Unrest on Sukkot

At the moment I'm writing this, just a couple of miles away there are riots. An Israeli security guard shot dead a Palestinian man last night in Silwan, and it seems that things are now escalating. Palestinians have apparently been dropping stones on Jews at the Kotel from above, and the police are dispersing them.

It's strange to be sitting in a quiet neighborhood in Jerusalem when just a twenty minute walk away the existential conflict of the last century simmers on.

Let's hope it ends soon, and without further casualties.

I hope that all my friends and family enjoy this Sukkot (or, for my non-Jewish friends, the weekend). We'll be sitting in our tiny sukkah on our balcony, beautifully decorated by Toby, Beruria and Kara. Here's a pic of Beruria with some paper chains she helped make for the sukkah.

Hag sameach...and may we all soon see a lasting peace.

Thoughts that occurred to me in shul on Rosh Hashanah

Although the long prayers of Rosh Hashana can grate, I do find that I enjoy the unfettered time sitting in one place (more or less, and children permitting), for usually three or four hours, surrounded by the sounds of the holiday. Usually these include: the hazan, the guys talking, kids running in and out of shul, those same kids being shushed by the guys talking, etc.

But mostly I find that it gives me a good opportunity to think about the themes of the day. And perhaps my favorite thing to think about almost every Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, is a prayer that forms the heart of the piyyutim (liturgic prayers) in the opening of the hazarat ha-shats (the cantor's repitition of the Amida), an elegant piece written in medieval Germany, "Unetaneh Tokef," ("And let us now recount...").

The main part of the poem deals with the theme of judgment -- it is a dramatic narration of the way that the judgment of souls happens on Yom Kippur. First there is the sound of a shofar, which is described surprisingly as "d'mama daka," "still and thin," and then the souls are shepherded (literally, they are compared to sheep) to be judged.

Ok, all well and good, but the part of the poem that always gets me is towards the end. Here is what it says, in translation:

"Man's origin is dirt and his end is to dirt
with his very life he brings home his bread
he is but a broken shard, dried-out grass
a fallen flower, a passing shadow
a dissolving cloud, a passing breeze
a puff of dust, a fleeting dream."

Every year, and this one is no exception, this affects me very deeply. It says it all, I think; it is, in its simple list of really admittedly trite metaphors, speaking the most profound truth: that this is all there is. Or, to put it in succinct Hebrew, "מה זה יש." This life is what we are given, and we must account with our very souls for its meaning, because, in all the millenia of those who have come and gone, the end of us all is the same.

This year, I brought to this prayer something new. Lately I've developed something of an interest in the history of Mahayna (especially Zen) Buddhism, and in my reading I discovered a very fascinating resonance to this passage, both in the literal content and in the meaning of the passage in the awakening of a central figure in the history of Zen, no less than the Sixth Patriarch who is credited, in some traditions, with the establishment of the fundamental form of Zen meditation, that is Zazen, or sitting meditation, the monk Daijan Hui Neng.

Hui Neng came from modest origins. In fact, he had no formal training as a monk at all. He was illiterate, an orphan, and a laborer. One night, he heard a group of monks chanting a central piece of Zen writing, the Diamond Cutter's Sutra (so named, I've been told, because it cuts through the hardest of illusions to reveal the truth -- and I think that's an apt description). Listening to the monks chant the sutra, they came to the final passage. When Hui Neng heard it, he was struck, and achieved a moment of clarity, a glimpse of what is described in the Zen tradition as "satori," or, as we tritely translate it, "enlightenment." He then went on to become the key link in the chain of transmission of the dharma. Here are the words he heard:

"Thus shall ye think of all this fleeting world:
A star at dawn, a bubble in a stream;
A flash of lightning in a summer cloud,
A flickering lamp, a phantom, and a dream."

Even as I write this, the recognition of how similar the two texts are, despite being written thousands of miles and hundreds of years apart, makes me shiver. The traditions are so different and yet come to the same conclusion in this instance, even the same words.

What does it all mean? I don't know, and to be honest, I'm not even really interested in figuring it out. I'm simply pleased to experience the sentiment, to distill the truth of both expressions, because what they both reflect is the very basic sentiment:

Life is short. It is also precious. Don't forget.

Shana tova.

שנה טובה ומתוקה

Our first yom tov in Israel! Managed to finish the shopping and cleaning, and now we're getting ready for the onset of Rosh Hashanah.

Just a quick observation. It is strange, and I have to admit pleasant, to be in a place where the Jewish holidays are...well...the holidays. All of the Egged buses, in addition to their normal routes, have "Shana Tova" flashing on their signs; the whole country (or at least the part of the country I am seeing) seems to be settling in for time with family, on holiday, or in shul.

It's strange, and Kara and I (or at least I) were not really prepared for it. I'm still pretty much in an American mindset -- the Jewish holidays in the States are usually something we kind of have to rush through, at times even apologize for. Apologize for missing work, having to explain to our friends and co-workers why we can't do such-and-such. Even for me, working at a Jewish institution that closes for all the holidays, it feels like I'm in the minority.

I'll just say it straight: the holidays in the 'states are, regardless of your religion, the Christian/national ones. Those are the ones during which the country itself seems festive, where time seems to bend around the festivities. It is really fascinating to be in a place where the festivities of note, to everyone, are the Jewish ones.

Anyway, wishing a pleasant, meaningful and fulfilling new year to all my friends and family, those who celebrate the Jewish holidays and those who don't.

Thoughts on Hebrew Slang

So, as some of you may know, I've been spending the last several days on a killer intensive ulpan (= class for Hebrew study) for the sake of improving my conversational skills. It's been great; I'm feeling much more confident in my use of the language...the biggest problem I've had is really lack of confidence and a memory like a sieve, but this really seems to be helping.

At any rate, my instructor, Noa, and I have discussed on a couple of occasions Hebrew slang. Since I've been here, and especially since I've been watching the awesome Israeli drama Asfur (on Hot 3 at 1045 pm, Sunday-Thursday), I've really gotten obsessed with Hebrew slang. (By the way, Asfur is a pretty fun show...If your interested, here's the Hot 3 link with info about it...and here is an English Wikipedia article about the show.)

So, one very interesting thing about many popular Israeli slang words is that they are, in fact, not Hebrew but Arabic. Some examples:

Sababa = Probably the most well-known word, meaning "OK" or "B'seder" in Hebrew
Achla = meaning fantastic or really first-rate
Ala kefakh = meaning terrific
Yallah = actually, this might be more widely known than "sababa" -- "let's go" or "come on, let's get going" or, in some case, just sort of a general "ok, let's move on to the next thing"
Wallah = a more elusive term for me; I've seen it in a number of contexts, seems to mean something like "alright," "ok," "great," "whatever"
Mavsut = I just heard this one for the first time today; means "ok, I'm satisfied" with something.

Of course there are many other words that have entered common parlance.

Now, one of the more interesting discussions on the subject I had with Noa was the very obvious point of just how much the appearance of Arabic in commonly spoken Hebrew reflects a real paucity of engagement. One might think that these terms -- which, like most slang, are a kind of "cooler" vocabulary, the sort of thing that reflects a certain degree of hipness or with-it-ness on the part of the speaker, thus perhaps reflects a more open attitude towards Arabic and perhaps Arabs. And perhaps it does.

But, as Noa pointed out quite correctly, in fact there is a rather patronizing aspect to these words, in that they are for the most part the entire engagement of many Israelis with the Arabic language. This despite the fact that a significant proportion of the Israeli population speaks Arabic as its first language (primarily Palestinian and Israeli-Arab Muslims and Christians, but also the older generation of Jewish olim [=immigrants to Israel] from Arabic-speaking countries). In a way, what seems (and seemed to me, I admit) a kind of cool attempt at some kind of openness to Arabic culture, is in fact a sign of just how far we are from each other. Most Israelis, Noa pointed out, study Arabic not because of its incredible history and literature, but rather so that they can serve in Mossad. Arabs, for their part, are expected rather blithely (on the part of Israelis and Jews in Israel in general) to either be able to communicate with Israelis in Hebrew or English or not at all.

(And need I add, sourly, that the Hebrew of MOST Arabs living between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean is far and away superior to the Hebrew of many, many American olim, especially of late?)

A big part of me can't help but think that we might be doing ourselves a big favor -- and not just from the Mossad-security perspective -- if we spent a little time understanding more Arabic than "Yallah."

(Pic is of Sholem Aleichem Street in Jerusalem. Significance to post: Sholem Aleichem, or Sholem Rabinovitsh [1859-1916], formerly of Kiev but buried in Queens, New York, spoke Russian in the home, is known as one of the great Yiddish stylists of all time (he wrote the stories Tevye der milkhiker, Tevye the Dairyman, upon which Fiddler on the Roof is based), and was not a bad Hebrew writer either. I doubt were he ever to have settled in Israel, he would have remained ignorant of Arabic. His nom de plume, meaning "Peace upon you," a traditional Yiddish and Hebrew greeting, is literally the same as "A salaam alekhem," the traditional Arabic greeting. I'm embarrassed to say that I don't even know enough about Arabic letters to be able to say if the street sign's Arabic is a translation or transliteration!)

Not so great Shabbat

Well, I hate to say it, but I'm in a funk. This Shabbat which just ended was pretty much a bust.

Wait -- I take that back -- we enjoyed a wonderful lunch with Jeff Pearlstein and Nancy Dallek, of White Plains, who were gracious enough to invite us over for a very nice lunch in Baka. Thanks very much!

No, the real problem was shul. We (or at least I) have not found a shul that really works. Last week we were at this place which was ok, but met the gym of Toby's high school. It was also a little on the dead side, and we didn't really connect with anyone per se.

This week, Toby and I tried a shul, the Ramban shul in Katamon (not to be confused with the shul of the same name in the Old City). It is pretty well known because its rabbi, Beni Lau, is a big deal in the whole Tsohar movement, and also a pretty well regarded writer and speaker.

Ok. As for Rabbi Lau, I was impressed. He was quite a presence, and his drasha (betach b'ivrit) was a very good workout for my Hebrew, and I enjoyed it.

As for the shul itself, what a bummer. Packed to the rafters (which is fine; Toby and I were late, and so can't really complain that we had to look pretty hard for seats), the shul had a mixture of New York-y Americans (I'd say "Teaneck-y" to be more specific) and dati leumi Israelis. A mixture of Hebrew and English in the peanut gallery talking. Toby and I finally found a seat, right smack in the middle of the right hand section of the shul. We davened, we listened to the k'riah, and to the drasha, and I tried to keep up a good face.

After davening, while trying to make our way out to the courtyard by the shul, that was where the annoyingness began. Obviously new, obviously not knowing a soul nor where anything was, Toby and I, I would think, should attract at least one friendly person asking us who we were. But no. Nothing. Not a look, not a "Shabbat shalom," not even a nod or smile.

It's been a long time since I've felt so alienated at shul. Once upon a time, as a young couple in New York, Kara and I felt like we didn't know anyone at the Lincoln Square synagogue. But even there, the resident "good Shabbos - are - you -new - here - where - are - you - from" guy came up and greeted us. Here, shum davar. Nada. Nothing. I felt like I was invisible.

It's a really yucky feeling, I can tell you.

Kara, who went to Shira Hadasha, had a better experience. At least people talked to her there. I think it is the place probably we would gravitate towards, but for reasons related to my profession (ha-mavin ya'avin) it's difficult for me.

I swear, I'm about ready to just crash the Hasidic shtible next door to our apartment. At least when they ignore me there it will be for reasons I can understand.

Oh, and we still have no idea where to daven on Rosh Hashanna, which begins in four days.

Sorry to complain again. Next post better, I hope.

At least here's a nice pic of my sweeties to offset my griping.