thoughts from London

I'm writing this from the lounge at the Central London Youth Hostel (a lovely place, by the way - would definitely recommend!) - there's a football match on tv (ATH vs. ZAR - side note, turns out ATH stands for Athletic Club Bilbao, which...aren't they all athletic? Is this one team particularly MORE athletic than the rest? If so, shouldn't they have won enough games that I would have heard about them? I'm just saying...), I'm drinking a Samuel Smith, and snacking on a piece of Cadbury chocolate. Yay, London!

I climbed to the top of St. Paul's Cathedral yesterday - 528 steps from the ground floor, all the way up to the Golden Gallery. I almost didn't do it - I had climbed to the Stone Gallery, which is 376 steps up - and I was feeling pretty tired. If you decide to go up to the Golden Gallery you don't get to change your mind - the staircase is too narrow to accommodate people going in both directions, so you have to go all the way up to access the down stairs. About a third of the way up to the Golden Gallery I began to seriously regret my decision when the nice stone steps turned into a very narrow, very winding, very see through wrought iron staircase. I will never understand why people do that - stairs should not be see-through, especially when you are 250 feet up in the air. Anyways, it was exhausting and a little terrifying and absolutely, totally, completely worthwhile. Which is probably the best way to describe this entire trip.

Wednesday night when I was taking a jet-lagged shower at the hostel, I kept thinking about how strange it was for me to get on a plane to London without any real idea of what I was going to do when I got here. It’s hard for me to believe – a few years ago, I'm not sure I would have come on this trip – I think instead I would have decided that it was too expensive, or the timing was too complicated, and let that be an excuse not to do something that might be a little scary. Granted, London isn't exactly a difficult place to travel to - I speak the language and can read all of the menus, which makes things way more comfortable. And I booked a hostel and bought a guidebook before I got on the plane. But I got on the plane without an itinerary worked out, and that's a big step for me.

I should mention, by the way, that the reason I'm here at all is because of the Limmud NY\Limmud UK Exchange. It happens every year - a few of our volunteers come to Limmud UK and a few of their volunteers come to Limmud NY, and we all have a chance to be a part of a broader international community and learn from each other. Or something like that. Thank you, thank you, thank you to Limmud NY for sending me here -I very much appreciate it!

I have done a huge amount of things since I got here on Thursday morning - the Tower of London + the Crown Jewels, Westminster Cathedral + Abbey, a walk through Westminster from Big Ben and Parliament Square to Trafalgar Square, fish and chips at a pub, a huge walk through the City (everything from the Savoy Hotel to St Paul's Cathedral to the London Bridge), afternoon tea at the Tate Modern plus several hours perusing the collection, the British Museum, the British Library, a walk through the West End, and tea at Fortum & Mason [thanks, Mom and Dad, for giving me the means to treat myself to a fancy tea!]). My feet are sore, I am exhausted, I think I may never dry out completely, and I have loved every single moment of it. Except for the steps - I could've done without those.

So, given the extensive list of stuff I've done, I just want to share a few recurring thoughts I've been having while I've been wandering the city.

• I keep finding myself staring at hugely expensive things and thinking, “how many people could they feed if they sold this?” I ask myself this question on a regular basis - I remember having particularly strong feelings about it when I was in the Vatican Museum a few years ago with Jesse. It's the churches that I find especially difficult to reconcile. They are so incredibly gorgeous, and holy - and I appreciate the aesthetic and historical importance of places like Westminster and St. Paul's - but its difficult not to wonder. And the Crown Jewels - that stuff is incredible - it's beautiful, it's historical, it's occasionally even functional - but I have a feeling that the Queen would be able to feed a lot of people with all those diamonds.
• I have been noticing how much differently I feel about cities after living in NYC for two and a half years. I've been riding the Underground without fear; I even took a city bus yesterday so that I could sit on the second level. I navigate crowds with ease - London walkers have nothing on the tourists near the Pardes office in Midtown, or the visiting students at NYU. I don't know when I turned into the kind of person who could just...wander around a city alone for three days - but I am glad that it happened.
• And I have been thinking about how incredibly grateful I am to all of the people who supported me through the last few weeks – phone calls, encouraging words and emails and texts, baked goods – I have such an amazing group of people in the world, and I have no idea how I got so lucky. Seriously. I love you.

So. That's that! It's time for me to get some sleep, so that I can get up bright and early tomorrow and head to Limmud for four-and-a-half intensive days of Jewish learning.

D'var Torah: Bereishit

This is the d'var torah I gave last Friday night at Shir HaMa'alot, a minyan here in Brooklyn. If you've read other things I've written, you might think that some of this sounds familiar - and you would be right, because I completely, unashamedly stole from myself.

Every year, I’m a little surprised by the number of people I see celebrating the end of the chagim. It’s a very specific type of celebration – the closest analogue I have is the way that people celebrate at the end of a session of summer camp. The idea is that Jewish time is over, and now we can get back to the real world and our regularly scheduled lives.

I think I find it surprising because I don't feel like anything is over. When Simchat Torah ends, it’s not like Judaism is over - we just go back to the beginning of the cycle and start all over again with Parsha Bereishit. And it’s not even a new beginning – we’ve heard it all before. “Bereishit bara elohim et hashamayim v’et ha’aretz;" “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth..." and on and on, etc., etc.

To live in the Jewish community is to operate at a heightened awareness of time – we are living in the middle of four concentric circles – the daily rhythm of prayer surrounded by the weekly rhythm of Shabbat, the monthly cycle of Rosh Chodesh, and the yearly cycle of the holidays. I sometimes find that it can be exhausting and overwhelming to contemplate the idea of starting this cycle over yet again. After all, how am I supposed to pay attention to the words of Bereishit, when I’ve heard them at least 25 times before?

There’s a fantastic scene in The Muppet Movie, when all of the Muppets are gathered around a campfire in the desert and Gonzo sings one of my favorite songs of all time: 

     This looks familiar, vaguely familiar.
     Almost unreal, yet...it's too soon to feel yet.
     Close to my soul and yet so far away;
     I'm going to go back there someday.

Clearly Gonzo isn’t singing about Jewish time or the Torah – in fact, he’s an alien singing about an experience of flight – but nevertheless, the words resonate. "This looks familiar, vaguely familiar" - we’ve been here before.

In this week’s parsha, God literally creates time by creating the stars and the sun and the moon, separating between day and night, and dictating that the seventh day will be a day of rest. In this conception, time is a very regular and linear progression. Day by day, week by week, year by year, time passes. But there are other ways for us to conceive of time.

Over the summer, I read an essay from Contents magazine called “10 Timeframes” by Paul Ford. You might have heard me talk about it before, because I completely fell in love with it. The piece covers a number of different topics – but my favorite by far is Ford’s conception of the measurement and value of time. “The only unit of time that matters is heartbeats,” he writes.

“Even if the world were totally silent, even in a dark room covered in five layers of foam, you’d be able to count your own heartbeats. …There is an immense opportunity to look at our temporal world and think about calendars and clocks and human behavior, to think about each interaction as a specific unit, to take careful note of how we parcel out moments.”

It would be reasonable, right now, for me to talk about how important it is for you to value your time, and to use it wisely. But the truth is that I’m not particularly concerned with how you spend your personal time. You are people with gifts – you are skilled and talented and young and bright - and you’re going to make smart decisions. I don’t need to tell you to spend your heartbeats wisely, because I’m pretty sure that you already do.

What I want us to think about instead is, what does it mean that an entire year's worth of time can pass and yet we find ourselves exactly where we started out, at the beginning of Bereishit yet again?

I know that my life looks nothing like it did the last time I heard these words. In the past six months alone I quit my job, attempted to bike from Chicago to D.C., got clipped by a bus in Pittsburgh, and started graduate school. I made new friends, gained new family members, mourned the loss of dear ones, and felt those wounds begin to heal. I feel, in many ways, like an entirely different person.

My point is this: it’s true – the text of B’reishit isn’t any different than it was a year ago, or the year before that, or the year before that – and it’s not going to be any different a year in the future. But maybe the point of reading the same things year after year after year is that they don’t change – but we do. What we’re doing when we revisit the parsha for the umpteenth time isn’t reading the words of the Torah, but rather, we’re reading ourselves.

My challenge to you, then, is not to celebrate the end of the chagim, leaving Jewish time and returning to the real world. It’s to embrace Jewish time, and let it guide the real world. Whether we’re counting the stars in the sky to calculate the end of Shabbat, or counting our heartbeats as we interact with friends and family - let’s spend the next year eagerly anticipating the return of the chagim, embracing the weekly encounter with a familiar story as a chance to reflect on where we have been and where we are going.

Shabbat shalom.

labour of love

Then a ploughman said, "Speak to us of Work."
And he answered, saying:
You work that you may keep pace with the earth and the soul of the earth.
...
Work is love made visible.

-Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Well, friends, this week has certainly not been what I thought it would be.

When I last checked in, I had been very recently hit by a bus - a sentence that still sounds crazy to me. It's been almost a week, and while most of the swelling has gone away and the scabs have started to peel, my bruises are still colorful and my hand is still in pain. It's incredibly frustrating to be limited by what feels like such a minor injury; my legs are strong and ready to cycle but my hand simply can't bear the weight and constant bumps provided by our routes this week. I'm hoping to take a symbolic final ride into D.C. tomorrow, and then celebrate the accomplishments of my friends at the Hazon celebration at the D.C. JCC on Wednesday night.

As I haven't ridden since last Wednesday, I've been given ample opportunity to experience an entirely different side of life on the Cross-USA Ride. One of the interesting things about this trip has been the sense that we are very much engaged in a learning process; though Hazon did this same ride in 2000, almost all institutional memory of how it was planned has been lost and so our ride started from scratch. This has resulted in some wonderful things, and has also resulted in some challenges. Figuring out the balance of things like nights spent camping vs. nights on various floors or which days are too short, too long, or somewhere in between all require an ability to adjust based on the group attempting the ride. Some pieces have been set in place for months, while others seem to be determined at a whim. It gives everything a bit of a "fly by the seat of our pants" thrill that is both exciting and exhausting.

Still, there's no doubt that whether or not things are running smoothly, our staff is doing a tremendous amount of work. The logistics of a trip like this are very complicated, and Garth, Adrienne, and Steven have been doing their best to make it run efficiently. I've spent the last several riding days in the U-Haul with Garth, accompanying him on grocery shopping trips, setting up temporary offices in coffee shops along the route, and getting to campsites early to start the process of making camp and cooking dinner. I've shifted into a murky territory between rider and staff member where I have more information than the rest of the riders but don't necessarily have the authority to make any decisions or act on that info. It's not always the easiest place to be, but it's giving me a lot to think about in terms of effective leadership, planning, and facilitating group dynamics.

Being in this in-between space has also given me a chance to give back to the group. So many people have assisted me over the past week - helping me carry my bags, set up my tent, wash my dishes - often before I can even ask. So I've done my best to repay that love and kindness with little acts of my own - making sure that everyone has all of the information that they need on their way into camp every night, making sure that there are snacks available for the riders, finding things like sunscreen and detergent on the U-Haul, etc. It's the tedious stuff that falls through the cracks towards the end of a big trip - but I'm happy to do it because I know it helps.

I have a lot of complex feelings heading into the last day of riding. I'm disappointed that things have ended this way, but also proud of myself for diving headfirst into this adventure. I trying not to let an accident ruin the months of enjoyment I've gotten in the planning and training (and shopping!) for this trip. I did things I never thought I could do, including bike 88 miles in one day. I've made some amazing friends, biked some beautiful stretches of the country, and taken a much needed vacation. Though my body is tired, I feel mentally refreshed and re-energized. As I transition from Hazon Cross-USA Rider to Wexner Fellow and then NYU graduate student, I hope I'm able to maintain that feeling of energy.

a story for the grandkids

I'm okay.

It looks and sounds much worse than it actually is.

Yesterday I was hit by a bus:

There's so much else I want to share, though, that this has to take the back seat for a moment.

My week started off with a difficult but amazing day - because we got a little lost heading out of Dayton, I wound up biking 88 miles, the first twenty-five of which were in the rain. It was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying - it's been a long time since I've played in the rain, and it was certainly nice not to be sweating in the heat, but it is definitely a little scary to bike in the rain. The redeeming factor of this extra-long ride was our stay at the Columbus JCC - after the Graeters ice cream welcoming us and a little time in the hot tub with my fellow lady riders, I felt like a whole new person.

Columbus to Zanesville was another great ride - I never thought I'd think of 66 miles as short, but after Sunday's ride, it felt like a piece of cake. I stopped with several riders at a cafe along the way for a latte (my first cup of coffee on the ride - what a luxury!) and what may have been the best cream puff I have ever eaten. We camped out in Zanesville at an RV campground, and because it was a clear night I was able to sleep in my tent without the rain fly, and fell asleep watching the stars.

Tuesday we rode from Zanesville, OH to Wheeling, WV. This was without a doubt the most difficult day of riding - over 86 miles, we climbed more than 6,000 feet - that is a huge quantity of hills, in case you weren't sure. By the time we got to the synagogue, I thought my legs might have turned to jelly. Our amazing burrito dinner and air-conditioned sleeping room did a lot to make up for the tough day.

Ride days are like camp days - each one seems to last for a week - so I feel like I've been here for months already, and am undergoing big changes. In the twelve days I've been here, I think my entire relationship to food has shifted. I eat so much more than I ever have before - we eat five or six times each day, depending on the length of the ride - and my cravings seem to change as the day goes on, letting me know when I need more salt, sugar, or protein. The best part, though, is the moment when I get what I need - taking a bite of egg salad or avocado, it feels like my whole body is happy to get the fuel that it wants.

Sleep is also an increasingly precious commodity. I get around seven hours per night, but can easily sleep for eleven or twelve given the opportunity. Carpeted floors seem infinitely more luxurious than hardwood, beds with real pillows are an occasional dream. I'm constantly reminding hosts that my standards are fairly low - no need to apologize for the freshly cooked eggs and fruit salad for breakfast; yesterday I ate cold cereal out of a mug with a fork while standing around waiting for the sun to rise (to be fair, this has only happened once).

Then there's the question of quality of roads and paths. I've become a little bit of a connoisseur - paved, shady paths through the woods are the best, followed by pavement in the sun. Freshly paved roads are an indulgence; crushed gravel paths are to be tolerated. And then there are the cities - which brings us to yesterday, and the aforementioned bus incident. Empty suburban streets are the best, but we can't always ride through them. And sometimes our directions to the bike paths are a little unclear, and we get hopelessly lost on our way into a city like Pittsburgh.

I was riding with Shira yesterday - we had made it safely through about 60 miles of trail riding, when we lost our way in Pittsburgh. After a few back and forths, we finally crossed over the Birmingham Bridge into Oakland, and started biking up Forbes avenue towards the JCC. We were somewhere between 2-4 miles away when we hit a red light. I stopped at an intersection in front of a bus. The light turned green, the bus and I both started moving forward. I noticed the bus trying to speed past me, and moved over to the right to get out of the way - unfortunately for me, the bus driver misjudged the distance between the side of his vehicle and the sidewalk. I could see my options disappearing in front of me; and then boom! The side of the bus hit the side of my hand and my upper arm, and that was that.

I can't lie, it hurt quite a lot. A Good Samaritan grabbed some ice; an EMT stopped to check me out, and then the emergency vehicles started arriving. Four police cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance later, I declined an ambulance ride and had Garth, my friend and Hazon staffer, drive me to the closest hospital to get checked out. 6 x-rays show almost no damage - there's a possible fracture at the base of my left ring finger, but the probability of that is very low. I've got a pretty big bruise\road rash combo on my upper arm, as pictured above. I'm on a regimen of ice and ibuprofen for both, and instructions to wait it out for a few days and see how I feel. I'm taking tomorrow off from riding, and will hopefully be able to get back on my bike on Sunday or Monday. 

I don't really know what the lesson is here. I was riding safely, and I seem to have come out of things in pretty good shape. Pittsburgh may have fallen off of my list of places to live, but that's not such a tragedy. I already knew that I had an incredible community here, but it has been proven to me yet again how lovely they are.

So I think I'll end the way I began:

I'm okay.

marking boundaries

"Do you all come here from different places?"
"There are some here from Siberia, some from Lapland, and I can see one or two from Iceland."
"But don't they fight each other for the pasture?"
"Dear me, you are a silly," she said. "There are no boundaries among the geese. How can you have boundaries, if you fly? You humans would have to stop fighting, in the end, if you really took to the air."

—T.H. White, The Once and Future King

I'm sitting in bed in my host family's house in Dayton, Ohio after a wonderful Shabbat of rest and relaxation. The bed was comfortable, the food was amazing, and the company was excellent. Thank you to the Green family for being such great hosts!

I almost don't know where to start this post. So many things have happened over the last few days that it feels like a blog post can't even begin to describe them all.

The last time I wrote, I was sitting on the floor in JFK airport, waiting out a flight delay due to a massive system of thunderstorms. Tonight, I'm waiting with my fellow house guests waiting to hear whether our start tomorrow will be delayed due to weather. It's easy to feel frustrated by the rain - it can be very inconvenient when traveling by bicycle - but after spending several hot, dry days in the drought-ridden cornfields of Indiana, my perspective is starting to shift. I'd much prefer an inconvenient rainstorm if it means that the farmers I've seen will have an easier time of it.

On my second day of riding, I stopped for a break with Joel, one of my fellow riders, to grab a drink of water in the shade. In rural Indiana, shade can only be found in one place - a tree in someone's front yard. Despite the fact that we'd ridden almost 100 miles completely undetected, we managed to pick a yard with people in it, and wound up engaging in a twenty minute conversation about everything from the economics of wind farming to backyard gardening.

What struck me the most about the conversation was how much we had in common. On the surface, we were incredibly different - to them I must have seemed a privileged, naive Yankee while to me they looked like fairy stereotypical country farmers. It became quickly evident, however, that we share a belief that it's important to know where your food comes from and how it's been grown. For them, this means raising five cows every year which they transport to Lafayette, IN to slaughter, and then distribute the meat to various family members to eat during the year. Clearly I don't raise my own cows in Brooklyn, but I do my best to learn how my food is being grown and where it comes from. 

We didn't talk about politics or religion - not polite conversations to begin on the side of the road with strangers - but I feel relatively certain that our opinions on these things were different. Regardless, we were able to share a really lovely interaction because of our shared interests. I wonder if our politicians would be able to create more good in the world if only they could focus the conversation on our common values rather than our differences.

Other ride highlights include a home stay with Philip "Skippy" Schlossberg (Purdue Hillel Director and Camp Judaea staff member from my youth), a dip in the pool at the marvelous BJE\JCC complex in Indianapolis, and an afternoon spent riding from Indianapolis to Muncie with Rabbi Steve Greenberg. This week we'll be crossing through Ohio into West Virginia and then on into Pennsylvania - you can follow the ride on Tumblr for photo updates from the road!

counting heartbeats

Hands down, the most common response to the sentence “I’m biking from Chicago to D.C. with Hazon” has been “You’re doing WHAT?!” It’s often followed by a “that sounds amazing,” but that initial moment of incredulity stands. Trust me, I get it – I often ask myself the same question. I’ve given a variety of answers to the “why” of it, but until I sat down to write this I don’t think I realized how unsatisfactory they all were. So I’m trying again, but this time in writing. Hopefully the drafting process will help.

I recently read an essay from Contents magazine called “10 Timeframes” by Paul Ford. You may have heard me talk about it before, because I completely fell in love. The piece covers a number of different topics – but my favorite by far is Ford’s conception of the value of time. “There are 200 of you in this auditorium,” he writes. “So every minute I don’t talk saves about three-and-a-third hours of human time. That’s a pretty serious ratio. Every one of my minutes is collectively 200 of yours.” If only we could all think of our lives this way – how infinitely more valuable every moment could become. A minute can be worth so much more than sixty seconds.

Within the Jewish community we’re already operating at a heightened awareness of time – our rituals create their own time-frame. To live a Jewish life is to live inside of four concentric circles of time – the daily rhythm of prayer surrounded by the weekly rhythm of Shabbat, the monthly cycle of Rosh Chodesh, and the yearly cycle of the holidays. Halacha is often incredibly specific about timing, and our lunar calendar is a complex system of leap months and precise counting. But knowing precisely when a task is supposed to happen or how long it’s supposed to take has little to do with whether or not you know how to value the experience.

I’ve found myself struggling with these calendars over the last year. Going to synagogue on a Friday night used to be such a pleasure for me, but recently has come to feel like a chore. The time I used to spend reading d’vrei torah and engaging in the study of Jewish texts has slowly been replaced with a Netflix queue and the vast universe of social media (I have, at last count, a Tumblr, Twitter, Pinterest, and Facebook account along with three separate email addresses). While I place real value on working in a Jewish context and living a Jewish life, recently I’ve struggled to live up to that value.

Some of it can be attributed to professional burnout – when your Jewish life and your professional life are one and the same, Jewish experiences become work experiences and finding time for personal reflection can be a challenge. This is a common enough experience among my peers; it’s definitely a topic I’ve discussed before. A part of it can certainly be attributed to the shifting nature of my Jewish identity. The more I have learned and practiced, the harder it has become for me to find a place to pray that meets all of my needs spiritually and mentally. And a piece of it is simply due to social anxieties – sometimes navigating the community piece of a Jewish community is even more challenging than the Jewish piece. 

When I was twelve years old, my parents flew Jesse and I to Albuquerque, rented an R.V., and drove us around the national parks of the south-west for three weeks (we didn’t banish Ari from the family that summer, he just happened to be in Israel). I remember that particular vacation well, and not just because in typical Naomi fashion I came down with Strep throat and vomited on the side of a hiking path in Bryce Canyon (or was it Canyonlands?). I’m not sure I would have been able to articulate this at the time, but looking back on that vacation I feel nothing but awe over the sheer quantity of natural beauty we saw. I hope that while I was standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon I was able to appreciate the vastness of the experience and not just complain about being tired, hungry, or bored.

If you ask me why I’m biking from Chicago to D.C., I’ll probably talk about raising awareness for sustainable agriculture. I will talk about the physical and mental challenge of cycling at least sixty miles a day for three weeks straight. I will probably say something about wanting to go on an adventure. All of these things are true, but the truest truth of all comes back to Paul Ford, who wraps things up in his piece by saying this:

The only unit of time that matters is heartbeats. Even if the world were totally silent, even in a dark room covered in five layers of foam, you’d be able to count your own heartbeats.… If we are going to ask people, in the form of our products, in the form of the things we make, to spend their heartbeats—if we are going to ask them to spend their heartbeats on us, on our ideas, how can we be sure, far more sure than we are now, that they spend those heartbeats wisely?

In the last few months, I have lost perspective on how to spend my heartbeats wisely, and I think the best way I can get it back is to put myself somewhere that I can hear them.

What does that mean in practical terms? I'm not entirely certain. I don't think I can comfortably turn off everything with an off switch and ignore the world for the next three weeks - but I can change the way I interact. As of Sunday, I'm planning on disconnecting from everything beyond my email and this blog. I'm going to surround myself with natural beauty, and I'm going to figure out how many heartbeats a minute and a mile and a day of biking is worth. I look forward to letting you know how it goes.



It's not too late to donate to my fundraising campaign - Hazon and I appreciate the support!

thank you, fred phelps?

It's been a long time, but a few experiences I've had recently are starting to synthesize in my head, and I think writing about them might be useful.

I had a difficult time living in Israel. I don't think anyone finds that surprising. I felt challenged every day, by a multitude of things - the fact that I couldn't buy the cheese I wanted in the grocery store, the frustration of being unable to explain what I wanted to the bank, and things far more serious, like my inability to pray at the Kotel with a tallit and the way the Israeli government treats minorities. I felt angry, all of the time. I wanted to scream at people in the street - how can you live like this? Why don't you do something about it? Can't you see how absurd this all is?

For the past four weeks, I've been reading A People's History of the United States by Howard Zinn. I read part of it my first year at Brandeis, and though it was recommended that I read the whole thing I never did (for those of you reading this who paid for my college education, don't worry - it was an extra assignment, not actual homework). It's fascinating, and I think I appreciate it much more now then I would have then, given the life experiences I've had, and the greater intellectual understanding I have of issues surrounding poverty and the treatment of minorities in the States. As I read about the treatment of Native Americans in the Revolutionary period, and the treatment of African Americans in the post-Civil War period, and the government's treatment of unions and minorities and women and preferential treatment to the rich and to industry, I started to feel a familiar anger. How does something like this happen? How do we let it get so bad?

It all came to a head on Saturday afternoon, outside the Sheraton in downtown New Orleans, also known as the current home of the General Assembly of the Jewish Federations of North America. I had a short break from programming for the day, and so I had gone on a walk to Cafe Du Monde for beignets and coffee (never having been to New Orleans before, I felt I had to go straight to the source). The walk was beautiful - the French Quarter is lovely, and the sun was shining. I was feeling incredibly relaxed and happy as I strolled back to the hotel, and then I saw them - the protesters.

A small group - maybe 5-10 people. Men and women, old and young. They all carried signs - "God hates fags," "Jews killed Jesus," "God hates you," "You're going to Hell" - it seemed the Westboro Baptist Church had decided to grace us with their presence.

It was a shock to my system. Thankfully, other than one incident of verbal harassment from an ass on the streets of Manhattan and one unfortunate soul on the El in Chicago, I have had an incredibly easy transition back to life in the States. Everything was exactly as I remembered it when I was feeling so homesick in Jerusalem. But this - this was personal in a way that nothing else has been since I came back. This was very clearly a protest of a positive thing - a gathering of the Jewish community - and it hurt to witness.

When I was living in Israel, I didn't know how to love Israel and criticize it at the same time. I wasn't mentally comfortable with living that dichotomy. But standing outside of the Sheraton, witnessing the Westboro Baptist Church protest and feeling totally blindsided, I remembered the last time I felt that hatred - it was at the Kotel, on Rosh Chodesh, trying to pray while being verbally harassed by Haredim. Yet I do, and have always, loved America - despite our history, despite our faults and missteps and years of uncorrectable wrongs. I am an American, through and through - I love American culture and history and food. And I am completely capable of holding that duality in my head - of hating American manipulation of foreign governments, and our system of capitalism that values workers over families, and our history of oppression of both our own and other peoples - while also loving the Grand Canyon and bluegrass and college basketball. It's okay to do the same thing with Israel.

It's okay.

I can love Israel and criticize it at the same time. I know how. I do it every single day I walk down the street in New York and see homeless men and women sitting on the streets begging for spare change because society has abandoned them.

No one is asking me to accept every action of the Israeli government. I hope that my criticism can be welcomed and used in a constructive way. But I don't have to be 100% unhappy with Israel to do that. I am allowed to think fondly of eating hummus and pita at Hummus talpiot, and of enjoying the beauty of the Mediterranean beaches, and of hiking through the Golan and swimming in waterfalls. It doesn't mean I don't also see the negative. It just means I know how to balance the two.

I don't anticipate an immediate future where I want to pick up everything and move to Jerusalem. There would need to be some major changes on all sides of the equation. But I also know that the self-righteousness I was feeling (and that's clearly what it was, in retrospect) is almost as dangerous as the blind hatred of people like the Haredim who regularly throw chairs at my friends while they're davening and that of the Westboro Baptist Church protesters. Nobody's right and nobody's wrong. We're all just trying to figure it out, one day at a time.

Day 323: Home Again

I’ve been thinking a lot about how I wanted to wrap up my experience of life in Israel. I fell off the blog wagon a few months ago – I simply started doing too many things (a common experience for me in the spring time) and this became a lower priority. But I also really wanted to take some time to talk about what the last few months at Pardes and in Jerusalem meant for me.

As a student, the last few months at Pardes were difficult for me. It was hard to maintain my focus, because I had started to think about where I wanted to be during the summer and in the fall, and that became more of a priority as the semester went on. Some of my classes continued to be stimulating and exciting – for example, my absolute favorite was a class called Critical Issues in Modern Jewish Thought. It was a simple class – we read a different essay each class period, and then came together to discuss it. The essays were divided into distinct units – God, the Torah, Chosenness, Halacha, and Feminism – and at the end of each unit, several students were invited to present their personal views about the topic using the readings as a guide. I appreciated the push it gave me to examine my own ideas – I don’t think we spend enough time talking about what each of us actually thinks about God, and where the Torah came from, and whether or not the Jews are a chosen people. And it’s important to be able to answer those questions – or at least, to start to encounter them – because if we know what we think about the basic concepts, then we can start to structure our answers to the more complicated questions.

I had a lot of beautiful moments during my last two months at Pardes. My parents and one of my brothers came to visit, which was a wonderful ten days. I went on one last Shabbaton with Pardes, to the Galil, where we hiked and swam in the Mediterranean and relaxed in the sun. I celebrated Shavuot at Pardes, where I studied all evening and then prayed at sunrise on the Tayelet, wearing a brand new tallit I had purchased the day before. I became closer with the people around me – had picnics in parks and dinners out, ate amazing salads, ate rugelach and drank iced Aroma’s until I thought I would burst. I helped plan and run a student fundraising campaign as well as a series of programs to help people prepare for life after Pardes. I cancelled a trip to Bonnaroo and planned a trip to Chicago instead.

A lot of people ask me if leaving Israel was difficult for me – and in some respects, it was. There are definitely things I’ll miss, like being able to look out of the Beit Midrash windows and see the sun setting over Jerusalem, or being able to hop on a bus to the shuk and buy halva and olives and cheese. I’ll miss the community that supported me and helped me grow for nine months. I’ll miss the traveling throughout Israel – the hiking, and beautiful wildflowers, and seemingly never-ending sunshine. But then, on the other hand, there are things that are easy to leave behind. I spent the time before my flight back to New York sitting on the floor in a terminal in Ben Gurion, writing a few e-mails to friends and watching a movie. At one point, I looked up from my computer to see a man walking towards me. We made eye contact, I smiled in his direction, and he started to speak, saying “have you davened Ma’ariv yet?” And that’s when I realized that he hadn’t made eye contact with me at all; in fact, he had been looking at the gentleman sitting to my left. It is moments like this that I won’t miss about Israel at all – feeling invisible during what should be heightened spiritual moments, feeling less than or other simply because of my genetic makeup. I don’t like feeling that way, and I still, even after nine months of intensive study, don’t see a reason why there are people in the world who think that Judaism requires such a separation between men and women. I’m ready to leave that behind and look to the future.

And what does the future hold for me? In my last entry, I referenced a job interview that I thought had gone well. It had definitely gone well – after a follow up interview and two weeks of waiting, I was officially hired as the new North American Director of Recruitment for the Pardes Institute, which is a really long and complicated way of saying “person who convinces other people to move to Jerusalem for nine months.” I am incredibly excited about the job – I think it will be challenging and stimulating and a wonderful place to work for the next few years. I’m moving to NYC at the end of June, and starting work on July 1^st.

There’s so much more I could say about my life in Israel, but instead I want to take a moment to think about something else. Five years and eight days, the day before my nineteenth birthday, my grandfather passed away. One year and four days ago, three days after my twenty-third birthday, my grandmother passed away. I think these two weeks will always be a little difficult for me, but I take a lot of comfort in knowing that my grandparents would be incredibly proud of what I have done and what I am planning on doing with my life. This year, right before my birthday, my parents gave me my grandmother's copy of Jewish Cooking in America - I'm looking forward to using it in the future, as I continue to live a rich and fulfilling Jewish life. Much like the nine months I just spent living in Jerusalem, it's something I will carry with me forever.

Day 261: Seven More Weeks

Excerpts from an e-mail that I recently wrote:

Let's see...Purim was quite the experience. A good friend of mine from Chicago, Cara, had been in Israel for about a week at that point, and she came to spend Purim with me in the city, which was really wonderful. Pardes is a good place for holidays; there was a student-written Purim shpiel, a megillah reading, and a great seudah at my teacher Meesh's house. I spent some of the evening on Ben Yehudah, which was a bit of madhouse, but I'm glad I went - it was an interesting evening, to say the least.

I've been on vacation for the last few weeks - today was actually my first day back in class. I went on a three-day tiyul with Pardes to the Golan, which was absolutely beautiful. All of the flowers are blooming, and we had great weather while we were there, so the hiking was a lot of fun. I swam in some waterfalls, which was both freezing and fun. Up until this point most of my tiyulim have been to the desert; I really enjoyed getting to explore a different part of the country.

The week before Pesach, Jesse and I were in Rome and Venice. I was originally planning that trip so that I could see Rachel, but her schedule and mine just didn't match up well at all. Nonetheless, it was a great week - I'd never been to Italy before and I completely fell in love with it. The food, the people, the ruins everywhere - I think I could happily spend months just exploring all of the old churches and art museums. (For photos, go here)

I had a bit of a crazy trip back to Jerusalem from Venice (it wound up taking me 28 hours, 2 trains, 2 planes, a bus, a sherut, and a stop in Latvia), but I made it back in time for seder. Being in Israel for Passover was a very different experience from being in the states - I actually went out for dinner one night and had pasta made out of potato flour, which didn't taste all that great but was a cool experience. I went to a seder that was almost completely Pardes students, and it was really amazing to see everyone connecting our newfound knowledge of Exodus with the seder.

I spent yesterday on the beach in Tel Aviv in celebration of the last day of vacation\Duke winning (I chose not to wake up at 4:30 in the morning to watch the game, but I thought about it pretty seriously), and it was a good way to end vacation. I'm really looking forward to seeing my parents soon, and getting to show them a little bit of my life here.

Other than that, I'm looking more and more seriously for jobs for next year. It's a bit of a slow process right now, but as the days go by I put more energy into it. I had a job interview the other day which I think went pretty well, but you never know with things like that. I have faith that it'll work itself out eventually - it helps that I'm fairly open-minded about what I want to be doing and where I'm willing to live.

And, a few days later, here's the update: my parents are coming on Thursday! That's most of what I'm thinking about right now - getting ready to change my schedule for two weeks, and to spend a little bit of time traveling and sightseeing. I'm also working on some things for Pardes - doing some end-of-the-year transition programming, and potentially some fundraising. I'm also thinking about a trip to Chicago at the end of June\early July, and getting ready for Bonnaroo in June!

I have seven weeks left in Israel, and a lot of things left to do before I leave. I'm looking forward to the experience.

Day 197: It's been way too long

On Thursday morning, I was sitting in the Beit Midrash studying Talmud with my chevruta Rachel when we noticed a large crowd of people gathering around the windows. "What's the commotion?" we asked. "It's snowing!" Now, don't get too excited. It turns out that in the Middle East there is no distinction made between sleet, hail, and snow. Anything frozen that falls out of the sky is classified as snow.

This was sleet, and with it came all of the unpleasantness of winter - freezing rain, cold fingers, runny noses, and slippery streets. It lasted through the night last night, and then I woke up this morning to a beautiful, sunny, 45 degree February day. I make it a rule not to complain about the rain here - I live in the desert, after all, and all rain is a good thing. That being said, I do have a preference for rain in warmer weather - I find it to be easier on the body.

Thursday marked the end of the second week of the new semester - I've finally settled into a new class schedule, though I think it's going to take a little while longer before I remember what room all of my classes are held in.

In the mornings, I've moved from Level Bet Talmud and Chumash to Level Bet+, which means that I now spend three days a week studying Talmud and two studying Chumash instead of vice versa. It's a good change for me - I'm with a group of nine other students, seven of whom I was in Bet with before - and the smaller class size makes it easier to get to know people and get focused attention from the teachers.

I'm taking five other classes - Philosophy of Halacha, Women and Mitzvot, Critical Issues in Modern Jewish Thought, Torah Trope, and Hassidut. They're all very interesting, and I think I'm going to learn a lot. I'm especially excited to be studying Torah trope - it's really eciting to think that at the end of the semester I'll be able to chant Torah!

I had some friends over for sushi on Thursday, which was quite the adventure - I hadn't made sushi rice in a few months and I forgot how messy it is! It turned out well in the end, and I think everyone had a lot of fun. Tonight we're going out to celebrate Miriam's acceptance into rabbinical school, which we're all very excited about! And then, in a few days, Cara is coming to Israel! (For those of you who don't know, Cara and I did Avodah together in Chicago last year). I'm looking forward to seeing her face again. For now, though, a nap and a shower, because it's Shabbat, and Shabbat is about relaxing!

Day 177: look how far we've come

I was chatting with my friend Kelly yesterday, and she pointed out to me that today is actually the one year anniversary of our road trip to D.C. for President Obama's Inauguration. Time is funny, because in some ways it feels like it was yesterday, and in others it feels like it was so much longer ago than just one year.

It was such an amazing trip for so many reasons - the sense of adventure and excitement, being able to spend a few days out of Chicago, driving halfway across the country and back in a giant purple minivan... President Obama's campaign was the first Presidential campaign that I really involved myself in, and being able to see it come to fruition was so fulfilling. I got to see Pete Seeger (adorable!) and Bruce Springsteen and James Taylor and Steve Carrell and that guy from Harold and Kumar go to White Castle in concert. I had lunch with Jason, and met the D.C. Avodah-niks, and ate the biggest slice of pizza I have ever eaten (Jumbo Slice. check it out). I watched Senator Obama become President Obama, and then departed on one of the longest car trips of my life, where I heard Fear of Sleep for the first time.

More than anything, though, the thing I remember about that trip is that it was the last time I saw Grandma Marilyn - several of my friends spent the morning volunteering, but I hadn't seen Grandma since the August before that, and I wanted to spend some time with her. My Aunt Susan was there as well - she cooked a wonderful breakfast, and the three of us just sat and talked for hours. I told Grandma that I was learning how to knit, and she gave me some of her old knitting needles to take with me. It's one of the best memories I have of her, and it's also one of the hardest, because for the first time I saw how sick she really was. I can't believe that was a year ago.

I am currently in Jerusalem, on vacation. The first semester of classes ended last Thursday, and our next semester starts a week from tomorrow, so we all have a little bit of a break to take some deep breaths and recharge. I have...very few plans for this week. I'm thinking of going to Tel Aviv on Tuesday as long as it's sunny, so I can wander around Nachalat Binyamin and dip my toes in the Mediterranean, and then on Thursday night I'm heading to Arad with my friend Sharon (Sharon from Pardes, not Sharon from N.C.) to stay with her aunt for Shabbat. I'm looking forward to a few days in the desert - it's always so quiet, which is nice, and the stars are so beautiful. Other than that I plan to read and catch up on sleep and watch a few movies. It should be nice and relaxing!

Day 148: Jordan

Let me start by saying this - I found out yesterday that my apartment has heated floors. A lot of other awesome and important things happened this week, and I plan to write about a lot of them, but I feel that if you learn nothing else about what I've been up to lately, you should know that my apartment has heated floors. My apartment in Jerusalem, where most buildings don't even have central heating, has heated floors. This is a geeky reference, but I feel like my apartment is a bit of a TARDIS - it's not necessarily bigger on the inside, but I feel like I'm surprised that I live here every time I open the front door.

My trip to Jordan with Sara was really, really great. We left last Sunday on a bus to Eilat, where we walked through the border crossing (did you know it costs 90.5 NIS to leave Israel if you go through the Rabin crossing?) and caught a cab to what turned out to be a pretty sketchy hostel in Aqaba. We spent Sunday evening wandering around downtown Aqaba, ate dinner at a falafel place and had some of what is now my second favorite dessert food, kanafeh (my favorite dessert is and will always be tiramisu). Kanafeh is two layers of phyllo dough around a filling of sweet cheese, topped with chopped pistachios and drenched in a simple sugar syrup. It sounds a little strange but it tastes amazing, and I plan to learn how to make it sometime this winter.

Monday we broke my only vacation rule (something that happened several times this past week) and woke up early so that we could get a cab out to Wadi Rum, where we were meeting up with our Bedouin guide Radi. Our cab driver, feeling the early hour, decided to stop for coffee before we left Aqaba, and he must have noticed how sleepy we looked because he kept offering us coffee and tea and despite the fact that we both said no several times, he still came back to the car with a cup of tea for each of us.

We met up with Radi at the entrance to Wadi Rum, and he drove us first to his sister's house in Wadi Rum village, where we were served more tea (this became a theme very quickly), and then we headed out into the wadi. Wadi is basically the Arabic word for valley, though it often implies that the valley contains some sort of dried out riverbed. Wadi Rum is the largest wadi in Jordan, and consists mainly of red sandstone mountains that have been carved into beautiful shapes by the wind. We spent the morning hiking and scrambling up to the Burdah Rock Bridge, which looks pretty much exactly like the arches in Arches National Park, but sturdier.

Monday night Radi's cousin joined us for dinner - he brought his oud, and the two of them played and sang for a while. Sara and I also took the opportunity to spend some time stargazing, which was incredibly beautiful - there is zero ambient light in Wadi Rum, so you can see what looks like a million stars. There were a ton of shooting stars, which I now realize was the end of the Geminid meteor shower, and we were in the perfect place to see them. We spent the night in a Bedouin tent in the dessert, curled up under some of the best blankets I've ever used, and then got up early on Tuesday for another climb - this time, we climbed Jabal Umm ad Dami, which is the highest mountain in Jordan. This sounds really impressive, until you learn that it only took an hour to climb, and it's only 1854 meters tall (compare that with the highest mountain in North America, Mt. McKinley, at 6194 meters). Still, it was a beautiful view and well worth the climb.

Tuesday afternoon saw us heading back to Aqaba, where we met up with Sara's friend Sandra, and checked in to the Bedouin Moon Village on the south beach of Aqaba, where we stayed for the rest of our vacation. Tuesday and Wednesday consisted mainly of lounging - in bed, on the beach, by the pool... As Sara puts it, we were growing freckles, and it was wonderful.

Wednesday afternoon contained an attempt at snorkeling. Sandra decided not to go in the water at all - this should have been my first clue that things weren't going to work out well. We walked to the end of a pier, looked out over the water, and our guide told us to jump in. It turns out that diving right in really isn't a good strategy for snorkeling, because my body was not having it - I, having never been snorkeling before, was not really able to adjust to the limited quantity of oxygen I was getting in conjunction with the waves that kept crashing over my head. Sara, being much braver than I, actually swam out to the shipwreck with our guide, only to find that the wind had stirred up the water which had stirred up the dirt which meant that they couldn't actually see anything. All in all, not really a success, but a good attempt.

Thursday was pretty uneventful - we crossed back over the border into Israel, Sara managed to get another three-month tourist visa, and we spent most of the day on the bus from Eilat back to Jerusalem, where it was cold and rainy. Friday morning we returned to Women of the Wall, but I'm saving that for another post, because as always I am processing.

So that's that. Hannukah is over, Rosh Chodesh is over, and tomorrow I am headed back to school. We have four weeks of class left before the semester break, and only one day off, which is pretty strange for us... I guess my time here can't all be spent wandering around the desert. :)

Stay warm!

Day 135: Hebron (well, H2, at any rate), Tel Aviv, and Jordan

The Friday before yesterday, I went on a Breaking the Silence tour of Hebron. I've been trying to write this pretty much since then, but it hasn't gone very well. I had a lot of thoughts about being in Hebron, most of which went something like "this sucks. Israel is doing bad things to people in order to protect a population of 500 extremists and that sucks." Wash, rinse, and repeat. I don't know enough about Hebron to give an explanation of the situation - it's complex, like most things in Israel, and it's bloody and I just don't want to get it wrong. So instead, I will quote Encounter Point

"People on the left and the right see it all clearly. Everything's obvious to them. They have slogans, which they write on stickers and place on cars. But if, like me, your position is a full page, how can you make it fit on a sticker? Who will read it?"

I went to Tel Aviv yesterday for a human rights rally sponsored by the Association for Civil Rights in Israel (ACRI) with Sara, Sharon and Yonatan. Sharon works for HaMoked (The Center for the Defense of the Individual) so that was the group we marched with, but the options seemed limitless - there were feminists, vegetarians, anti-fascists, Arab rights organizations, LGBT groups, and on and on. Ironically, the anarchists had the best organized chants of anyone we ran into - I couldn't tell you what they were saying, but they did it loudly and with conviction. It was a beautiful day to be outside, and was a great way to spend the first day of vacation.

I'm leaving tomorrow for a trip to Jordan with Sara - we're heading to Aqaba and Wadi Rum, where we will do some hiking and some lying on the beach and some star-gazing. I'm really excited to go on a vacation, and to leave Israel, and to spend a few days outside in the sun. I will come back with some new pictures and stories and things to say - but for now, I'm going to make some latkes and enjoy the second night of hanukkah with Miriam and Sara.

Have a wonderful week!

Day 122: taking some time to be less serious

November is almost over, and I for one could not be more excited. This weekend I was reading back over old journal entries from the past year, and I think it's safe to say that in a year full of difficult months, this has been one of the toughest. One of my friends jokingly suggested that I celebrate the arrival of December with a secular Rosh Chodesh celebration, but I think I'm actually going to do it. I'll buy a fancy coffee and take a shower with some nice shower gel and enjoy the fact that in 31 days 2009 will be over and I will never have to live through this year again.

For all of the difficulty, this year has also brought with it a tremendous amount of growth on my part, as well as an amazing group of friends and my current life in Israel, so all things considered it's turned out fairly well. It's taught me how to celebrate the little victories, like successfully baking a Pumpkin Pumpkin Pie for Thanksgiving, or reading through an entire Rashi commentary on a verse without using a dictionary (both of these things happened last week and deserve to be commemorated!), or even just celebrating that it's still warm enough that I can sit outside and eat my lunch, as long as I'm wearing a sweatshirt and socks.

I celebrated Thanksgiving last week at the apartment of my friends Amy, Esther, and Jessica. Miriam was there, as well as nine other people, most of whom are Pardes students and all of whom are lovely. It was a wonderful, wonderful dinner - Esther organized the whole thing and orchestrated the production of a massive quantity of food (including chocolate pecan pie - and I know it might be a betrayal of my plain pecan pie upbringing to say this, but that pie was really good). I was supposed to go to a protest on Saturday night, but I sat it out because of a really bad headache that wound up being the precursor to a rather nasty cold. I stayed home from school yesterday, and went in today for my morning classes. Tomorrow is a half day (as Tuesdays always are) and hopefully by Wednesday I will have fully recovered!

On a different note, I've gotten this question a few times over the last few weeks, and hopefully my answer doesn't come too late. If you were planning to send me things from the States (not that you should or need to, but if you happen to be doing it and would like to be well informed about what I desire), here are a couple of things I would enjoy:

• Good tea - I can buy Wissotzky everywhere, and it's fine, but I wouldn't mind something special.
  
• Burt's Bees Lip Balm
• Lush Rub Rub Rub shower scrub
• Books. Books in English. Books in English that have nothing to do with Jews, Judaism, or the Torah. Or Israel.
  
• A pair of these. Cute and comfy.

If I think of anything else, I will let you know.

Lots of love,
Naomi

this is a post about walls

I originally wrote this post for the Pardes student blog - it covers some of what I talked about in my last post, as well as discussing my trip to Bethlehem last weekend.

Two weeks ago, my grandfather passed away. He had been ill for a long time, and it was not a sudden death, but it has been nonetheless a difficult experience. At his funeral, my uncle shared a story about my grandfather that has become something of a mantra for me in the last few weeks:

“My last conversation with him was two weeks ago. I went to him and he gave me a kiss and hug and a brilliant smile. And then he said to me, “Bob, I have to talk to you about the garbage.” I said, “Dad, the garbage??” And he said, “Yes, the garbage!” Then he raised his hands, and got a rueful expression on his face, with a little smile. “It is not our garbage, but it has fallen upon us to take care of it…” and he pointed to himself, “so I am going to send your mother out for the supplies, and later, we will take care of it.”

This was my father, Max Singer. He knew there was garbage in the world. It did not matter to him that it was someone else’s garbage. He felt a responsibility anyway, and willingly took on the obligation to heal the world without complaint, without objection, with equanimity and grace. He wanted to help without fanfare, and he did the right thing because it needed to be done.”

I want to share two stories about powerful experiences that I have had in the last week. Both stories are moving, in very different ways. Both stories involve experiences I shared with multiple other Pardes students, who I know have their own opinions and reactions about what happened. Both stories touch on difficult political and religious issues. And, most importantly, both of these stories involve walls.

By now, hopefully all of you have heard about what happened with the Women of the Wall at the Kotel last Wednesday (in case you haven’t, I wrote a blog post about it here). The short version of the story is that a woman named Nofrat Frenkel was arrested for wearing a tallit and holding a sefer Torah, and is now under investigation, with criminal charges pending. If convicted, she faces up to six months in prison and a 10,000 NIS fine, as well as serious repercussions to her future medical career.

The (slightly) longer version is this. On Wednesday morning, I woke up early and got into a cab with several other Pardes students. We arrived at the Kotel bright and early to join the Women of the Wall in their Rosh Chodesh prayers. After twenty years of fighting for equality at the Kotel, the Women of the Wall have been granted the right to gather for one hour each month to pray in a group, as long as they adhere to the “customs” of the wall. I arrived at the Wall with my friends expecting verbal abuse and potential physical abuse, however, we prayed our morning service completely under the radar of the people around us.

Because of this success, we decided to attempt to read Torah at the Wall, rather than to relocate to Robinson’s Arch, as is the usual Women of the Wall practice. What seemed like a beautiful, successful morning quickly soured and was desecrated by shouting and threats from assorted officers, culminating in the arrest of Nofrat Frenkel, our shaliach tzibur (prayer leader), who also happened to be visibly wrapped in a tallit and holding a Torah when we were joined by a police officer.

There are several articles discussing these events, my own blog included, and each one of them talks about a different thing. Some of them focus on the history, others focus on whether Nofrat was practicing her religion or making a political statement. There are articles that talk about Robinson’s Arch as a perfect substitute for the Kotel, and articles that quote the Chief Rabbi of the Kotel as saying that “They behaved like [biblical] Korach and his assembly.”

What I struggle with is what comes next. With December will come another Rosh Chodesh, and another meeting of the Women of the Wall. What will we find, when we arrive at the Kotel on December 18^th? Will I be brave enough this time to wrap my tallit outside of my jacket, as opposed to under it, as I was instructed to do last Wednesday? Will I, too, be brave enough to stand up in the face of angry, powerful men and respond to questions about my tallit by saying “I wear it because it’s a mitzvah. Where is yours?”

My second story starts in a similar fashion – I woke up (considerably later, this time around), and met two of my friends on the corner of Derech Hevron and Ein Gedi, where we got on the 21 bus to Bethlehem. We had been invited to spend Shabbat with another friend of mine, and I for one had leapt at the chance to visit. It was my first trip to the West Bank, and therefore my first trip through a checkpoint, and my first chance to examine Israel’s second famous wall.

In my head and when I speak, the security barrier is always referred to as The Wall – capitalized and bolded for emphasis. I remember learning about the fence as a teenager in a Young Judaea program, when construction had first begun in earnest, and spending two hours arguing about why it was being constructed and what we should call it. The terminology seemed incredibly important to me at the time, and it still does – you’ll notice I’ve called it three different things in two sentences, and each title carries a different weight and connotation.

You can read and talk about life in the West Bank until you’re blue in the face, but you’ll never understand what it’s actually like until you travel there yourself, and even then you will only understand a fraction of what there is to understand. The same goes for seeing the wall – it’s easy to sit in my comfortable Jerusalem apartment and argue about the benefits of a security barrier vs. the flaws of a security system that creates and maintains human rights violations every day, and an entirely different one to see the benefit of a physical wall that separates families from their land, cities from civilization, and human beings from control over their own lives.

The first thing I noticed about the wall was the graffiti – it’s difficult to notice anything else, because it’s so bountiful and beautiful and powerful. Some of it is professional, some of it is casual, but all of it means something. I took picture after picture; if I could capture the entire thing I would, and I hope that someone in the world is taking on the project of documenting the artwork. This is the first picture I took, of a tic-tac-toe board and the words “this is not a game.” The image brings to mind a lot of things – the futility of the struggle between Israelis and Palestinians, the recognition that the wall has a serious impact on the people on either side, and in one of the more petty parts of my brain, the movie War Games.

I saw another section of wall graffitied with the following words – “here is a wall at which to weep” – and it was at this point that the connection I had been making in my head between the wall in Bethlehem and the Kotel that I visited last week snapped in to focus.

These are walls with multiple meanings. On the one hand, they are about safety and protection – safeguarding a people, protecting a religion. But on the other hand, they are about power – they are about showing the world who is in charge, and who holds the upper hand. And it is that part – the usage of these walls as methods of control – that I simply cannot stand for. How can I live in a country that does not support my right to pray the way that I choose, in what many consider the holiest part of the holiest city in the world? And how can I love a country where the government is allowed to illegally seize land by building an impenetrable barrier between itself and some of its citizens?

I live here because this is where Jews are meant to live. For all of my doubts about whether or not the Kotel is a place I want to pray, and for all of my frustrations with the actions of the Israeli government, I live here in this place because it is the land of my family and my people and my ancestors. But I refuse to simply live here and accept the status quo. This Israel, that protects men who verbally and physically abuse women who simply wish to pray in the holiest fashion they know, can never be my Israel. This Israel, which builds walls to protect itself and in the process commits human rights violations, is not a country I am proud of.

It would be easy to simply leave. To make a phone call and change my plane ticket and go back to a part of the world where things make relative amounts of sense, and the problems that need to be dealt with are problems that I feel I have at least a chance of solving. But Israel means too much to me to do that. And so, next Friday, I will travel to Hebron on a Breaking the Silence trip, to learn about the culture of silence surrounding military corruption in Israel. And on December 18^th, Rosh Chodesh Tevet, I will go back to the Kotel with the Women of the Wall, and I will pray wrapped in a tallit as I believe I am commanded to do. It’s time. I am cleaning up the garbage.

Day 110: the Kotel

This is not the post I intended to write today.

I planned to write about the tiyul I went on to the Negev last week. I planned to write about my volunteer experience singing at Beit Reuven yesterday. I planned to write about how things are going in classes, and the trip I have planned to Bethlehem this weekend.

And then something happened. I woke up early this morning to attend a Rosh Chodesh service at the Kotel, run by a group of women who call themselves Women of the Wall, and everything changed.

Women of the Wall is a woman's prayer group that meets at the Kotel once a month for Rosh Chodesh services. Ostensibly they are just a prayer group, however in reality they're something much larger than that - they are a group of women working for women to have the right to hold organized prayer services at the Western Wall. They've been fighting this fight for twenty years, and in that time, they have been granted almost nothing - they are allowed to gather for one hour a month at the Kotel, however they are not allowed to wear tallitot or to hold a sefer Torah, let alone read a sefer Torah - for this, they must relocate to Robinson's Arch, a nearby plaza.

The group chooses not to identify itself as a minyan, instead identifying as a woman's prayer group - a choice that is well within their right to make, but one that I find degrading in the same way that I find praying with a mechitza degrading - being told that my presence and intention to pray isn't enough to make me count as a part of a minyan is incredibly frustrating. Logistically, what this means is that there are certain prayers that we could not recite this morning - like the Barchu, and more importantly to me, the Kaddish. I think it undermines most of what they're fighting for - if we don't think that we have a right to count ourselves as a minyan, than what are we doing here?

Let me make one thing clear right now - I appreciate the work that Women of the Wall is doing. I understand that as an outsider coming from a different society and culture, where I have never had to worry about being arrested for my religious practices that it is unfair of me to hold Women of the Wall to my standards of prayer. What they have achieved is amazing - to go from being beaten and abused by police every month to receiving at least some level of governmental recognition and protection is amazing.

However. As I stood at the Kotel this morning, the frustration began to rise. It started when I arrived - "Put your tallit on under your jacket," I was told, "so you don't get arrested." Inside my jacket? At the "holiest" place in Jerusalem, I am not allowed to wrap myself in a sacred garment to make my prayer even holier? This is something I will never understand about Israel (like the fact that it is illegal to immerse in a mikveh in Israel if you're not married - why on earth would you make it more difficult for people to have a sacred experience?).

It continued as we began to pray - we huddled together in a group at the back of the women's section of the Kotel, being as unobtrusive as possible. At times I could barely hear the service that was being conducted. I prayed quietly along with the group, but inside my heart was shouting out the words of the shema - "hear, o Israel," a prayer that is meant to be joyfully declared, not mumbled under one's breath.

No one spoke to us. No one shouted at us, or threw rocks at us, or gave us dirty looks (at least that I saw) - all things that I had come prepared to deal with. We were ignored. And so, as it came time to read Torah, we had a quick conversation - "It's quiet today. Can we just read here?" Anat Hoffman, director of the Israeli Religious Action Center, and member of the board of Women of the Wall, took a quick poll of other board members, and consensus was quickly reached. I began to feel excitement building among the group - an energy that I felt was lacking up to that point suddenly began to hum through the assembled women. "We have a new Torah!" Anat declared, "that was given to us by the Women of Reform Judaism at the Biennial in Toronto. It only weighs four kilos!"

Nofrat, a fourth-year medical student in Beer Sheva, who wakes up every month at 4am to get to Jerusalem in time for the service, was to read. She wrapped herself in her tallit (outside of her jacket), and we began the Torah service. And then everything started to go haywire. At first, there was just one police officer - a woman who looked Ethiopian to me, but might not have been. She loudly and abruptly asked us what we were doing, and demanded that we return the table we were using for the Torah. She disappeared, and we gathered two smaller stands and joined them together to use as a makeshift table. We began the Torah service again - Nofrat carried the Torah around our group in a hakafah, and then placed it on our new table in preparation for the reading. And then the men appeared - three or four male officers demanding to know what we were doing. Things escalated rather quickly - one of the men began moving the tables we were using, so quickly that Nofrat barely had time to gather up the Torah before it fell to the ground.

Another officer appeared, this one in body armor. He demanded to see Nofrat's i.d., and then proceeded to escort her away from the wall. "Follow the Torah," Anat commanded us, and so we followed as quickly as we could. Nofrat didn't even have time to gather her jacket or her bag - we carried her things with us, in hopes that she would be released quickly.

At first, we were informed that she had been detained but not arrested, and that we would have to wait to see what happened. Anat asked the group to stay and sing in support of Nofrat - we stood for nearly an hour, singing Hebrew songs and talking with each other - the group consisted of ten Pardes students, 15 women from Bnai Jeshurun in New York, and a group of teenage participants in Netzer, as well as several Israeli women. Finally, we recieved news - Nofrat had been officially arrested, and was being charged as a criminal with wearing a tallit and holding a sefer Torah at the Kotel. What world do we live in where this is a criminal charge?

We followed Nofrat as she was moved to the closest police station, where we were informed that she was being investigated on criminal charges. "Investigated?" we said, "what investigation? Why haven't they questioned any of us? We were all there." Anat called a lawyer, and by 9:30, Nofrat had been let go. We joyfully sang "btzeit Yisrael m'mitzrayim" (when Israel came out of Egypt) as she walked out of the police station - she's still being charged, and who knows what will happen to her.

I feel so many things about what happened this morning that I don't even know where to start. I am angry. I am hurt. I am energized. I am worried.

The Kotel is a place I have a lot of difficulty connecting to. It bothers me because as Jews we are told not to pray to idols, and I think in some ways the Wall has turned into an idol. I dislike the misogyny practiced there. I appreciate the holiness of the place because of the quantity of prayer that has happened there, but I don't think that holiness is inherent in the structure of the wall. And yet, I am angry that I am not allowed to pray there. I am angry that I watched someone get arrested for daring to hold a Torah - not even to read it, simply to hold it in her arms. I am hurt that the country I am supposed to consider my own land doesn't recognize my right to practice my Judaism the way that I choose. I am energized - before Nofrat was arrested, I had decided in my head not to return to Women of the Wall. Now, however, I think I owe it to her to be there - because if she is willing to be arrested for this cause, then how can I ask any less of myself? And I am worried, because I do not know what will happen to her. I don't know her, but I feel connected to her, and I think in some ways the future of Women of the Wall is now tied to her future.

I know the situation is complex, and I haven't addressed all of those complexities here. Maybe next week, when I've had more time to think about it and process what happened, I'll be able to do a better analysis of what happened today. For now, I'm going to take a shower, drink some tea, and eat my lunch.

If you want another look at the situation, several articles have been written today:

"The rav stated the women cause a chilul Hashem, and a chilul to the Kosel, comparing them to Korach and his followers."

"Rabbi Ovadia also said about the groups' custom to pray at the Western Wall that "there are stupid women who come to the Western Wall, put on a tallit (prayer shawl), and pray," and added that they should be condemned."

"This is a prayer meant to bring strife and disagreement," he said on Army Radio. "Even if it is allowed according to Jewish law, the Kotel should remain out of disputes."

Day 99: Not All Weeks Are Created Equal

This is another long one - mostly because this week has had some amazing ups and some distressing lows and it's hard to talk about either one briefly. Bear with me.

I have always enjoyed cooking and baking - when I was younger, I remember loving when I got to pull out the step stool in the kitchen so that I could see the counter tops and help cook dinner. I learned how to make all sorts of good food standing at that counter next to my mom - meatballs, spaghetti sauce, snickerdoodles, macaroni and cheese, steamed artichokes, a good grilled cheese and a great egg in a raft. And I distinctly remember when my father decided he wanted to learn how to bake - I learned right along with him, acting as sous chef and getting to do all of the fun things like crack eggs and dump flour into the mixer.

In the last two years, cooking and baking have become something of a stress-relief activity for me. I enjoy the process of finding a recipe, shopping for ingredients, preparing and assembling a great meal or a wonderful dessert. It's something concrete - the steps don't change, no matter what you're putting together. I also get a lot of joy out of providing food for others - it's such an easy way to make people happy, and I've found that my friends are always grateful when presented with a cookie or a cupcake or a really well made salad.

It makes me so happy to learn that this year at Pardes I'm gaining a little bit of a reputation as a baker - it's not something I purposefully attempted to do, but knowing that the things I've been putting effort into have been making people happy is a really great feeling. I love that in the past few weeks I've brought two different people over who wanted baking lessons (once for challah and once for cupcakes) and that both times, they've left with new knowledge, a good memory or two, and some delicious baked goods.

Another thing that I've always gotten a lot of joy out of is sewing and making clothing, a talent which has been a little underutilized since I came to Jerusalem because I left my sewing machine behind in Chicago. A few weeks ago, however, I was approached by a friend looking for some assistance with a clothing related project. In Numbers 15:38-40, God commands the Israelites to bind a fringe to the corners of their garments; this fringe is called tzitzit, and it's found on the corners of tallitot. In many observant communities, it is a custom for men to wear not just a tallit, but also a tallit katan (basically an undershirt with four distinct corners and tzitzit tied to each corner). It is becoming more and more common for women to take on this mitzvah as well, however, it isn't something that has hit the mainstream and so it is difficult for women to find tallitot katanot that fit them well.

My friend asked me for assistance in converting some of her form fitting tank tops into tallitot katanot - a process that involved opening up the side seams to create four distinct corners and sewing a buttonhole into each corner so that the tzitzit would have a finished hole to be tied through. We spent a really lovely evening together figuring out the logistics of completing this project, both in terms of the halacha involved and the construction steps necessary. I was really glad to be able to help her take this step on her Jewish journey, and also really enjoyed getting back into the simple rhythm of using a needle and thread.

And now for the not so great stuff. On Tuesday of this past week, I woke up to the news that my maternal grandfather had gone off of dialysis. In conjunction with this came the realization that my mother had a major surgery scheduled for Wednesday which could not be rescheduled. My grandfather passed away on Friday, and the funeral will be tomorrow (Sunday) afternoon.

It's really difficult to be away from my family during this time. I want to be there for my mom, and my grandmother, and to be with my dad and my brothers and my extended family of aunts and uncles and cousins. We're taking great advantage of Skype and cell phones and gchats but it's not the same as getting and giving a real life hug or being able to hold someone's hand.

My friends here have been amazing - calling to check up on me, offering hugs and condolences and prayers. So many people have asked if I needed anything, and simply been present when I've needed a shoulder to lean on or a friendly face. The same goes for my friends in the States - offering up words of wisdom and listening to me talk about my Grandpa Max.

I have a lot of really complicated thoughts about everything that's going on with my family. Suffice it to say, this has been a very difficult year, and while I appreciate the lessons I've learned in stress management, resiliency, and grieving, I would also really appreciate a few months where nothing crazy happens in my life. I wish that I were able to go home, and I struggle with the fact that I was pretty sure I was going to face this situation before I left the States. Mostly, though, I'm just really sad, and while I know it will get better in the long run, it's not so easy right now.