A Long-Awaited Visit
In 1970, before the world fell apart, my parents planned to visit Israel. It would have been my dad’s first trip out of the country since World War II. It would have been my mother’s first trip out of the country, period. Dad died on March 13 of that year, and my mother, though I urged her, was too afraid and heart-broken to travel without him.
Years later, I tried to go to Israel myself. Each time I scheduled something, it fell through, especially since I did not want to travel with people who called Eretz Yisrael the Holy Land and focused on Christian sites. I wanted my own faith and my own life’s history as part of the trip. Otherwise, I would remain home.
In 2000, Mother died. I made the firm intention of going to Israel at some point to say Kaddish for my parents at the Western Wall, which had become a part of Israel after 1967. So I was delighted when Rabbi Jesse Gallop of Temple Israel of New Rochelle organized a trip. We planned on about 30 people.
After October 7, 2023, many people dropped out of the trip, but, in the end, seven people plus rabbi were on the El Al flight to Ben-Gurion International Airport in time for Tu BiShvat. Our trip would also take place during the 500th day of the hostages’ captivity, the release of prisoners, hostages, and bodies.. Release of bodies and prisoners.
So my longed-for trip turned out to be a Shiva call and a pilgrimage. As our guide, the remarkable Uri Feinberg, told us, Israel may be highly technological with wonderful roads and buildings, but it is not a western nation. People’s mindsets are quite different. The people we met in Israel regarded our trip as a family visit, with hints about when are you coming home.
Because of the ongoing hostage crisis, very few flights go to Israel, and they are invariably packed. Among our fellow passengers were very Orthodox men and women with black or fur streimls (or hats) with their own private hat boxes. We all settled into our pods with Prosecco or juice or water and flaked out.
Food was constant and plentiful. I decided that the 787 might as well be called the Ess Ess Mein Kind (Eat, eat, my child). We did our best. But that was one thing I noticed about Israel. Food. Lots and lots of food. Even stopping in a shuk for felafel meant felafel Thanksgiving and you didn’t eat enough.
Our landing at Ben-Gurion International Airport marked the first time I had ever seen Hebrew outside of a prayerbook, in letters. Signs in Israel are typically written in Hebrew, Arabic, and English. It is a shock to see names out of the Torah and have them be directions to locations that were anything but ordinary.
We met Yossi, our driver, and our guide Uri, a paratrooper turned Jewish educator, and part of a family who had made Aliyah from Chicago when he was 10. He now lives in Modi’in (Maccabee territory) with his wife and three daughters. Two of them have completed their military service. The third is a senior and preparing to enter the IDF. She too has requested a combat assignment.
Uri explained security. Secure rooms are built on sidewalks both up north and down south. They are capable of taking a direct strike. There are secure areas in buildings and even homes. If the worst comes to the worst, you get below window level. You get out of the car of van, lie down, and cover your head. It all took me back to Ban the Bomb and Duck and Cover training when I was in grade school.
As we drove into Haifa, Uri explained that Israel has elements of self-segregation, but is more inclusive than other countries in the Middle East. “Segregation,” he hastened to add, is not what it means in the US. Different groups cluster in different areas or villages. This does not mean that one group lives in mansions, the others in slums. What it does mean that Israel has many Arab and Christian citizens, which makes it dissimilar to its neighbors, which expelled the Jews around 1948.
There were many Israeli flags on the highways, accompanied by yellow flags, yellow chairs, and yellow ribbons, including the ones on our van. These commemorate the hostages.
In New York, we had September 11, but that didn’t mean we knew what was going on. We also had a September 12, a rebuilding, and a means for Ground Zero to rejoin New York City. Israel still lives in October 7, without an October 8. Immediately after hearing the horrible news of Gazan terrorists breaking through the barrier, Israelis started setting up defense and healing actions. People drove toward crisis points to see what they could do. One man saved 750 people. Another, a Bedouin, died beside the mother of two children who huddled in the back seat of their car, while their father lay dying outside. Taking action and running toward the scene of trouble is in Israeli DNA, Uri said.
Israel is in mourning and preparing for investigation, defense, politics, and, if necessary, further fighting. Nothing stops. Nothing dares to stop. They do seem to miss visitors. Lacking the usual mad influx of tourists, they welcome the people who show up now as guests, participants in history, and allies. I had expected them to be brusque and no nonsense. I could not have been more wrong. They were so hospitable and kind, and even thankful that we had shown up. We came because it was time.
Before we even settled into our hotel in Haifa, we stopped at Neot Kudumim. This is a 625 acre Biblical landscape in the Judaean foothills, where trees are planted, pavilions are set up like very old times, and cisterns hold water. It was very refreshing and relaxing and quiet. We planted some trees.
Then, we arrived in Haifa and settled into the Hotel Botanica, a beautiful place located at the foot of the Baha’i gardens, which are manicured and breathtaking in their plunge down a steep slope.
Tel Aviv plays, the saying goes. Jerusalem prays. And Haifa works. Overlooking the basin of the Mediterranean were rows of skyscrapers topped with Israel’s national bird, the steel crane.
We had barely seen Thursday, and here we were in Friday. Time to get ready for Shabbat at Or Hadash, one of Haifa’s Reform Synagogues. Its congregation is composed of people who have resettled in Israel as well as a home-grown form of Judaism that is growing fast in Israel as a choice between pure secularism and the “haredi,” who enjoy great political power in Israel because of their value in governmental coalitions. We were called up and welcomed. The music was different, but familiar enough to follow. Dinner was potluck and plenty of it.
The moon was full. On the way home, we viewed the Baha’i gardens and the gold-domed shrine of the Bab.
I, Herod
Our group was downstairs as summoned, after an immense Israeli breakfast spread across a vast dining room on major counters.
Uri asked us what we were there to see and how it made a difference. These themes carried throughout our entire trip.
We headed to Caesarea, with its roots in Phoenicia if not before, and its “current” ruins from Roman days, when Herod, an Edomite (forcible convert), an ally of Rome, and a superb builder turned this seacoast town into a resort for the Roman elite – which it still is.
We checked out the first of many of the cleanest possible public restrooms I have ever encountered before heading toward the ruins. There were cats in the picnic area, some of the omnipresent, always hungry Israeli cats. A sleek, lean red cat came over and rubbed against my legs. “I wouldn’t,” said Rabbi Jesse. “Too late.” The cat weaved around me, looking for food. Finding none, it retreated to a picnic table to wait for the next sucker.
We headed for the Hippodrome, site of horse races, and where the great sage Rabbi Akiva was executed with the Sh’ma on his lips after the Bar Kochba revolt. Today was day 500 of the hostages’ captivity. Uri’s voice almost broke. So many defeats against superpowers. So long in the diaspora. So many returns through Aliyah. Today, the Sephardic and Mizrachi Jews and the Beta Israel outnumber Ashkenazim like me. Rome drove so many of us out, and now the big lie is that we were never here in the first place.
After our visit to Caesarea, we went to Mt. Carmel to visit a Druze community. They are loyal to the country in which they live. Many are career IDF, and many have distinguished military careers. In Syria, some want to join Israel. We grabbed lunch there and went on to the Mukhara, or horn of the Carmel, a monastery overlooking valleys and far-off slopes.
The next day, after another immense breakfast, counters and counters of it, we headed for Beit HaGefen, which is a site of Israeli and Arab activities and cultural centers. We saw street art and an exhibit, and we met two American volunteers who were happy to be in Israel not at home, though they were quite distressed.
The Havdalah service (note: it closes Shabbat) was held at Hama al Pasha, built by some effendi or other, then taken over by the British, then let to fall into disrepair in an area that is struggling toward gentrification. It was a service with light, herbs, wine, prayer, and a great deal of music.
Now, we run into a problem. I know that the next day, we left Haifa for Tel Aviv, but the days were long, intense, and blended into one another.
We made a stop at Givat Haviva, a center dedicated to teaching and working toward a shared society. Its director is Mohammed Darawseh, whose young relative Awad Dawahseh was a medic at the Nova Festival on October 7. Ordered to withdraw, he pointed out that he was needed and that he spoke Arabic. He died with bandages in his hands. Mr. Darawshe offered us tea, coffee, water, etc. and took us around. He works with US and Israeli organizations as well as a university at which over 90 percent of attendees are Muslim women, many Bedouin.
Then, we stopped at Kibbutz Ein Hashofet, one of the oldest of the kibbutzim partly helped to begin by Americans. The land was purchased, and we saw the deed, which included a map of the place, terms, and signatures and thumbprints of buyers and sellers. As the new settlers drove toward their fields, they heard Arabs screaming “lunatics, lunatics!” The land was poor and arid, but they made it bloom. We were taken in tow by two men. One was the son of one of the founders. I think he had plans to show us every sheep and factory on the place, but there just was not time. We did visit the children’s library, which was dedicated to Russ’s grandmother. It was full of happy kids, teachers, toys, and books.
The other man showed us the “slick.” After the publication by the Empire of the White Paper, Jews were forbidden to immigrate and to keep weapons for defense, though they were under attack. So, they assembled weapons and hid them in barrels underground. They also took an oath never to reveal the location of this cache. Many decades later, after the War of Liberation that Muslims call the Nakhba, most of the people who had hidden these weapons had died. One man realized that the weapons might degrade and explode, so he left hints for his son, who took three months to locate the stash beneath the health center. It was quite an arsenal.
Giora, our host, took us to lunch at the kibbutz’s now-privatized cafeteria. Another Thanksgiving meal, and “you’re not eating enough.”
From Ein Hashofet, we drove to a very green, very quiet healing space that had been designed for kids who were failing to thrive. As of late October 7, however, it began to repurpose itself as a refuge for exhausted medical professionals, for IDF members suffering from PTSD, for anyone who had seen more violence than they could cope with. The workshop makes and sells pottery, soaps, and candles, and offers healing treatment.
We settled into Fabric, a boutique hotel in Tel Aviv’s fabrics district, a very arty space. Dinner was at an Ethiopian restaurant. First thing: “Falasha” is a very rude word. Ethiopian Jews, part of the Beta Israel community, are said to be descendants of the tribe of Dan, who went into Africa. They honestly believed they were the only Jews left alive, but they never forgot Israel.
Naftlay Aklum was the our host. His brother, Feredeh was contacted years ago by Mossad to help get people who wanted to make Aliyah from Ethiopia to do so. Tens of thousands did. Some walked across the desert. Others made it to Addis Ababa, where the airport was closed for a day so that they could be flown out. They finally made it to Israel and were thrilled to find out that there were other Jews there to welcome them home.
The food? Highly spicy and eaten with fingers and injera, bread that can be torn off and used as scoops once the vegetarians stopped rearranging the seating. We were joined by two former members of Temple Israel, who had moved to Israel. At one point, our host asked for water. “Turning Ashkenazi?” someone asked him because “everyone knows” that Ashkenazim like me have trouble with Ethiopian-level spices.
On bus ride after bus ride, Uri acquainted us with the different Aliyahs, or migrations up to Israel post Theodore Herzl. There were always Jews here, especially in Tzfat (Safed) where mystics and artists lived for millennia. We heard of Joseph Trumpledor, who lost one arm while serving in Russia, but said he had another to give in service: Orde Wingate, who trained the Haganah and was sent to Burma for going over the wall. He died there. Russ and I nodded at mentions of the Sykes-Picot treaty and Lawrence and Allenby. The thing about Uri’s talks was that if you’d read almost anything at all, you could piece together a picture of what happened. He liked THE SOURCE for its description of archeological digs.
Then, we went into the desert to visit a Bedouin community. Some Bedouin in Israel are settled into villages. Others are semi-nomadic or semi-settled on land that is and is not quite official villages. Here, we were taken to an organization run by a woman named Yahel. She led us to a large room in the Bedouin style, where we were served tea. Then, she turned us over to Amal, a Bedouin lady, a superb natural leader, and a revelation to us.
A Tale of Two Amals
If you have not managed to avoid the paparazzi press, you know that Amal Clooney is an international lawyer and one of the glitterati married to George Clooney. Emaciated, aristocratic, rich, and famous, she is a world apart from this Bedouin lady who wore a long, dark dress, an elaborate necklace, plain jihab, and a white blazer. She had a reason for the blazer. When she was a schoolgirl, she much admired the doctor and spent hours observing him. Finally, he gave her a white coat. She made a crude stethoscope to accompany it and announced that she would be the next doctor of her tribe. Her goals? Light-years away from her tribe. She wanted to be a doctor and go to America.
But she was pulled out of school after eighth grade. Heart-broken, she crossed into the men’s side of the communal center and pleaded for her future. She wept, she begged, she argued, she threatened to throw herself into a well. They simply asked her to tell them which well, so they could retrieve the body. She never forgot. She accompanied her brother home from school to carry his books and experience advanced education in that way, if no other way.
Then, people like Yahel showed up. Amal hiked over and asked to practice her Hebrew with them. One question led to another, and they offered to help her complete her education. She came back with seven other women and girls. Ultimately, she completed her education with distinction and went on. She is currently working on a Ph.D. in a Jordanian university. She has been honored for her work with the villages and has even visited New York to speak. She thought it was good she had not become a doctor because she had accomplished so much more for her people.
After she spoke and we had politely refused even more tea, we got up to go over to meet the grandmothers in their center. Amal said that these women were Ph.D.s in their knowledge of the desert, of the culture, of food, of weaving. The center was draped with tapestries that represented some women’s dowries. Before we boarded the bus, I went over, called “madam” and said that she was indeed achieving her goals of being a doctor and going to America. She beamed at me.
“Inshallah,” we agreed.
The grandmothers have their own cultural center, a cool, clear space decorated with awnings and trees. We helped them plant more. We ate their cheese and yogurt. They had dressed to meet us in elaborate gowns and necklaces and exquisitely pressed and embroidered hijab and niqab. We got hugged by Amal and the least reticent of the smiling elders, who will cook for themselves until their next excursion. With Ramadan coming up, we wished them “Ramadan Mubarak” and departed.
Why Do You Love the Desert?
Now, the hard things began to happen.
First, we drove toward Sderot, a thriving town until you see the memorial shrine and wall built from the ruins of a police station. On October 7, 2023, Hamas made at least 60 breach points in the barrier between Gaza and Israel. They also tried a sea landing. Some of the terrorists made it into Sderot in white vans and ambushed people in the traffic circles, including the Suisa family – a father, a mother, and two little girls. Trapped at the circle, they tried to run for it. The father fell. The mother ran back to the car. A Bedouin tried to drive her out. Both adults were killed.
Meanwhile, a police officer with sniper training saw a man with a rifle. He asked for it, was refused (“as was proper,” Uri said), acquired it somehow, and went up on the roof across from the police station where 26 terrorists hid out. An air strike was called to implode the building. Meanwhile, people ran to the car with the two dead adults. The little girl raised her head. “Are you with Israel?” she asked, because the terrorists also had acquired IDF uniforms. They told her they’d get her to safety. She reminded them of her sister. The two little Suisa girls are somewhere safe now. Across the street from the memorial is a lunch place. Great felafel and schwarma. Like New York City, Sderot is rejoining the world. But it remembers.
After that, We reached the memorial for the Tazpitaniyot, or forward observers. Fifteen of them were murdered and seven were kidnapped. Overall, 53 soldiers were killed at Nachal Oz, where they were stationed. They are considered heroes of October 7. Unfortunately, though the Tazpitaniyot had seen and reported anomalies, they had not been listened to before October 7. They were overrun before the IDF, embattled along Route 323 (if I remember correctly) could get to them. The memorial overlooks Gaza City, which is less than five kilometers away.
Ceramic anemones with tea light memorial candles in them burn. The memorial has seats that overlook the valley. There are pictures of the young women, one of whom was a day or so away from completing her service.
Then, we drove to the site of the Nova Music Festival that was devastated on October 7. It was one of many raves, like Woodstock or Burning Man, held by the so-called “Nova Tribe” which began in South America and went global. We were told that Hamas had not known about it, but in their push inland, found it and decided it was too great an opportunity not to massacre.
The land has been turned over to the families of those who fell as a memorial. Pictures, flowers, souvenirs, and quotes from each of the people killed are posted, along with crimson anemones and flags. This was the Shivah call we had come to make, like visiting the Vietnam Memorial.
We stood to say Kaddish. Young people close to entry into IDF sat nearby, wearing Israeli flags. As we prayed, they sang Hatikvah, “The Hope,” Israel’s national anthem. I have published many books and pieces of short fiction, but I cannot make this stuff up.
All this happened before we learned the fate of the Bibas family. Every day, we listened to news about those cute red-headed kids and their mother. We hoped against hope, without much hope. Then, we learned. And we learned, as Uri said, “we have a Jane Doe,” delivered in the midst of one of those abominable rallies.
Every evening, Uri went home to his family in Modi’in and rallies in Hostage Square in Tel Aviv, which we also visited and went down into the tunnel model they built. Turning over an unknown Gazan woman rather than Shiri Bibas could have been taken as an act of war. Instead, the country and a lot of the world went into mourning, with orange balloons, batman signals, and lights on major buildings. A great deal has been said about exchanging so many prisoners for so few hostages, alive and dead. Israel wanted its people back, regardless. They would cope with terrorists and criminals later, as they did with Sinwar.
In our time in Tel Aviv, we saw Independence Hall where the state of Israel was announced. and Shalom Tower with mosaics containing mllions of tesserae. The artist, Nachum Guttman, has also worked in Ravenna too where the Byzantine mosaics are.
We walked up Rothschild Boulevard and had lunch at Nachalat Binyamin, an arts and crafts market. Uri had recommended a Falafel place to Russ in 2017. It was still there and produced a Thanksgiving-size lunch with reproaches that we didn’t eat anything.
We visited the ANU museum of the Jewish People. No longer just an elegy to the Diaspora, the museum is filled with light and music.
Just because Israel looks western, it’s still a Middle Eastern country. I am afraid I rather shocked Uri by saying that if I had to be a hostage somewhere, better Israel than the US. The US administration would go all Realpolitik on an older Jewish woman without a trust fund. I also asked about moles. The idea was unimaginable. The thing is, he said, Israel focused on Hezbollah to the North and was lulled by Hamas and Hubris into not expecting this strong an attack.
Jerusalem the Golden
As we drove toward Jerusalem past the burned out trucks and tanks still preserved since 1948, we ran into a traffic jam. Still, we reached the windmill built by British/Jewish philanthropist Moses Montefiore to help Jews move out of the then-dilapidated Old City and paused by the scenic overlook to say the Shehechiyanu.
Our hotel was Harmony, in a very cool, very old district of shops, restaurants, a music center, and alleys. The restaurants were milk and meat. We chose a milk restaurant and went shopping on Ben Yehuda Street. A block up from the hotel, an IDF man was playing Chopin on a public piano and playing very well indeed. I of course had a Quest. At Confirmation, I received a charm bracelet. It’s now about the size of a percussion section, but that doesn’t stop me from getting a charm on major trips if I find out. An Iranian jeweler had a Yemeni star with filigree work and a green Eilat stone in the center. He also had a picture of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, so he and Russ traded Rebbe sightings from when he had lived in Boro Park. immense rainbow.
We prowled further, and that was when the Trouble happened, with the Iranian merchant Shmuel, whose father had emigrated. He had a wonderful pewter plate with characters from the Shah Nameh. He was delighted to see us, saying how great it was to hear English after so long.
The waitstaff at the restaurants thanked us for coming. At one place, we discussed splitting one starter out of five. All five landed on our table! Again, they really feed you there.
Because I am not an especially strong climber, they worried about me about the next day – a prowl past the Jaffa Gate and onto the Old City’s walls through thousands of years of history. We knew that Allenby refused to ride through the gate where Godfrey of Bouillon had walked – unlike Kaiser Wilhelm, for whom part of the wall was torn down. We sat and listened to Uri. Russ was joined by a soft gray cat, who rubbed against his backpack and settled down beside him. From time to time, they would look at each other as if discussing whether some story or other was going to be on the midterm.
In the Old City, I bought Jerusalem crosses of olive wood for friends who are Christian clergy in an Arab store that we passed before entering the Jewish quarter. We went to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which is a kind of theological no priest’s land because all denominations control part of it, and they fight. The actual locks are controlled by two Muslim families. The “sepulchre” is up a spiral staircase with deep indentations from so many footsteps. You could defend that staircase with one sword.
Uri asked about defensibility. I think we shocked him by pointing out the murder holes at the Jaffa gate.
After seeing the Church, we headed toward the Temple Mount, where we were carefully searched and questions. One of our people had a flask of oil confiscated so he wouldn’t be tempted to use it to anoint anything. From time to time, urgent, insistent Orthodox boys pushed through. The cop rolled his eyes.
Finally, we cleared security and climbed up to the Mount, a flat, clean, windy place. The Dome of the Rock is a dome on top of an octagon from about the eighth century. The mosaics in extraordinary calligraphic patterns came later. We were not permitted into the mosque, but we were lucky we were admitted onto the Mount where many women prayed, prostrating themselves. To my limited knowledge, the Dome structure is modeled after the mosques built by the geometry scholar Sinan, who modeled his mosques after Hagia Sophia (now Ayasofa Jami again and reconsecrated for prayers). I suspect that it was based on Roman originals like the Pantheon.
Then, we descended and headed toward the Western Wall. After 1967, when Israel won it back from Jordan, it is no longer called the Wailing Wall. It is not so much a part of the Second Temple, but part of its support. It is enough. Today, the Wall is divided between men and women – not a fair divide, but I had promised that I would say the prayers for my parents. There I was, in a hat, a long-sleeved jacket, and a skirt brushing my ankles. You could still tell I was American (“Hello, Americans!” teens shouted cheerfully at us), but I was a respectful one. I sat down and collected myself, then took out my notes and went up to the Wall.
Because Israeli youth do not have a cult of “okay, Boomer,” as an elder, I had a fair place in line and found myself facing the Wall. I placed my note in a crack, said my prayers, and bent forward to kiss the stone. Then it was time for the other women to take their turns.
The next day, we got up and out of the hotel at Zero Dark Thirty to leave for the Judaean Desert, where
we drove past Jericho and the Dead Sea, astonishingly so close together, until we got to Masada, which is amazing. I didn’t climb all the way up, but enjoyed what I saw, including the immense prosperous Holy Land tour that was marching up with selfie sticks, hats, staffs, backpacks, and delighted grins. As I sat waiting for the tram, a lady asked me a question. I answered in abominable pidgin that I did not speak Hebrew, whereupon, she decided I was American, from New York, and her son had lived there, but was home now, and that was better. She had been a schoolteacher for many years. Now she volunteered with youth who wore pink and black hoodies. On their backs were pictures of missiles, with the legend “Even though missiles fall, we still live our lives.”
We had had plans to go to Qumran, but they were afraid of flash floods in the wadis there. Not a good idea.
Jerusalem IS gold. The limestone facing gleams in the sunlight. We saw an immense rainbow betweem the valley and the mountain.
We found dinner and collapsed. The next day was Yad Vashem, past the Avenue of the Righteous Gentiles. What makes someone decide that they are not going to tolerate the murder of Jews? And who does it? A Japanese diplomat, a Swedish aristocrat, a Dutch woman, a crooked industrialist, a Muslim farm woman in Central Europe, Pole who became Pope, an English knight? They are all among the people who saved Jews. This is not a “white savior” narrative, but a wonder.
We entered a concrete building sprawling over a cliff and say many exhibits. I can’t remember them all. I remember the shoes, piled together under a glass floor. I remember the cobblestones and rails from what had been the Warsaw Ghetto. We saw the photograph from which my uncle did his lithograph. We crossed beneath the Arbeit Macht Frei gateway that imitates the thing at Auschwitz. And we wound up at the Hall of Names, a beehive structure that stretches up and up, with faces and names. Below is a railing. Below the railing is a ragged pit. Beneath the pit is water.
The exhibit closes with something that left me gasping: the shattering conclusion to Andre Schwarz-Bart’s THE LAST OF THE JUST.
“And praised. Auschwitz. Be. Maidenek. The Lord. Treblinka. And praised. Buchenwald. Be. Mauthausen. The Lord. Belzec. And praised. Sobibor. Be. Chelmno. The Lord. Ponary. And praised. Theresienstadt. Be. Warsaw. The Lord. Vilna. And praised. Skarzysko. Be. Bergen-Belsen. The Lord. Janow. And praised. Dora. Be. Neuengamme. The Lord. Pustkow. And praised…”
The bookstore was guarded by feral cats. I went pspsps at a gray cat, but the dominant black cat chased it away and sat in its place. It didn’t want tourist attention, but it didn’t want anyone else to get any. The rain had started by the time we went to Mount Herzl. I was wiped out so I didn’t go down the slippery steps. The group visited the grave of Yonatan Netanyahu, who died at Entebbe, as well as the graves of those who had been killed defending their country since October 7, 2023. ere at this particular juncture.
Then, we headed to an open air market where Uri recommended “Fish en Chips,” founded by two enterprising Israelis after their walkabout year. I turned out to have a gift for finding and claiming tables, so I got one for five people. Great fish and chips.
We prowled admiring piles of spices, bowls of nuts, blocks of halvah, trays of dried fruit, and vegetables for regular cooking. The cats avoided us because we had eaten all our fish. That night was Shabbat at Kehillat Kol Haneshema, which is a combination of Reform communities, some Ashkenazi, others not. The next day, Jerusalem is mostly shut down. One elevator ran all the time on automatic. The other didn’t. Several people went to the Tower of David, also shut, but decided to climb the walls. With the help of a sabra, Russ and I claimed Avi the cabbie, who pointed out the Knesset and the King David Hotel, then headed off for the Israel Museum and saw evidence of how civilization grew in this area over tens of thousands of years. Another cabbie, who told us he had lived in “Joisey,” drove us home. Havdalah services were held on Ben Yehudah street before a rally.
The rest of the group returned to the US. Russell and I kept going with Uri, who took us to what’s called the Yitzhak Rabin museum, which combines his life with the development of Israel and the political history in the rest of the world. Then, we went to the Palmach museum. The elite unit of the Haganah was merged into the IDF but maintains its identity. We toured with about 20 very young IDF recruits and their weapons. They always have to carry them or secure them behind two locks, with the firing mechaism stored elsewhere.
Uri took us to see Tel Aviv street art. The signs were only in Hebrew because this is a place that only Hebrew speakers go to. We saw faces, caricatures, weird animals, and tags like subway graffiti. Then we saw the big pictures: forward observers wearing mustaches. A Jewish boy and a Muslim boy, arms about each other’s shoulders. A 24-year-old kibbutznik, like a superhero, who saved her kibbutz by ordering people to the armory and holding out until the IDF got there. We saw a tribute to Pink, which is the street name of Inbar Hyman, a university student and a street artists. She had been serving as a helper at Nova, where she was murdered. And we saw a portrait of five people, one of whom was Awad Dawahseh, whose uncle we had met, the boy who had died with bandages in his hands.
The day after, we drove out to Belvoir Castle, a huge, twelfh-century ruin built with a huge moat and a double wall. It went unconquered until Saladin reached an agreement with its defenders that allowed them to march out after an 18 month siege, with all their banners and their arms, provided they go straight to a seaport. Richard I retook it, but not for long.
We stopped somewhere on the road for lunch and saw an enormous red cat with one deformed paw watching a bunch of IDF soldiers. When they finished their lunch, the cat leapt to the top of their table and ate the leftover French fries. Another cat peeked out and was driven back. The red cat saw us, engaged in a conversation in Feline, jumped down, saw no evidence of fries, and after scent marking the posts holding up the roof, jumped back onto the table to wait.
Then we stopped in Modi’in to see a temple dating from about 70 CE and to see Uri’s home, then drove back to Jerusalem to pick up our luggage and wait for the car to take us to the airport. I felt no fear. Instead, I made notes for this trip report, fearless about who might say what to me.
They were happy to see us in Israel. We were family. It was good to be there.
Since we returned, we observed the orange commemorations of the Bibas family worldwide, a major break in the Palestinian PR machine, and the jockeying back and forth regarding the cease fire. At least, those abominable rallies have stopped.
How long will people decide to love us or at least our martyrs? I don’t know. To quote Dara Horn, people love dead Jews. Pathos, you know, not ferocity and the determination to survive that led T.E. Lawrence to speak of the “eternal miracle of Jewry.”
I have seen it now. I fulfilled a promise I made. And I am very happy and thankful that I was privileged to do so. I hope to go back.
– Susan Shwartz
