Holocaust Memorial in Israel: Of Trauma & Trust

Last Saturday night I saw a documentary called Hiding and Seeking which describes the attempt by Menachem Daum to leave his children an ethical legacy in a Shlomo Carlebach ‘love every human because they were all created in God's image' type of style. Overshadowing everyone's relationship in the film is the specter of the Shoah, which destroyed much of the Menachem and his wife Rivka's parents' families (although Rivka's father spent 28 months hidden in a pit under a haystack in the farmyard of a non-Jewish Polish family, the Muchas). And while the past (unsurprisingly) causes their parents to be suspicious of 'the goyim', what worries Menachem is how the Holocaust has also reinforced his children's' ambivalence towards the secular non-Jewish world and anything outside the four cubits of Jewish law.

In a moving journey to discover more about their past, Menachem takes his sons on a pilgrimage to Poland, ultimately finding the family who hid their ancestors and discovering that wars not only bring out the worst in people but also the best. The film concludes with a Yad Vashem ceremony in which Honorata and Wojciech Mucha are presented with a righteous gentile award and the two families forge an inter-generational bond.

While the film deals with the Holocaust's role in affecting individual Jews, the question of how the trauma has shaped us on a national level has also been in the news. Last month Mohatma Gandhi's grandson wrote of how Jewish identity is locked into the holocaust experience and that we have become a nation that believes its survival can only be ensured by weapons and bombs. On a different but related note, Avrum Burg recently argued that the experience of the Holocaust has become the primal, meta-fear of Israeli society and that unless we move from trauma to trust, Israeli society has no hope of preventing national disaster.

One doesn’t have to agree with Ghandi and Burg completely (and I don’t) to realize that our 'checkered' past with the outside world has a subconscious influence on our approach to foreign policy. In fact, early Zionism was an attempt to liberate Jews from what was perceived as an ontological status of exile, of caring too much what the Gentiles thought of us (something Amos Oz describes beautifully in his book A Tale of Love and Darkness).

The creation of the State and a new Hebrew Sabra who would no longer care what the world thought was supposed to finalize this process. As Ben Gurion quipped in the 1950, ‘it no longer matters what the goyim say, but what the Jews do.’ An echo of this approach can still be heard today (often at Shabbat meals I attend) by those claiming that a proud Jewish leadership would stick two fingers up to the world (who stood by as we were being slaughtered) and do what's good for the Jews.

We mark the unimaginable evils of the Holocaust on the 27th January, 10 days after the anniversary of the disappearance of Swedish diplomat Raoul Wallenberg who saved thousands of Jews during the war. Both days reflect the potential of the humanity. Yet we seem to concentrate more on one than the other.

So as Israel marks this years' international Holocaust Memorial Day with continued comparisons between then and now, perhaps we - as citizens of the state with the most powerful regional army, an assumed nuclear capacity and the support of the sole global superpower - should consider whether continued distrust of the outside world is liberating us or actually handicapping us from taking our rightful place in the family of nations.

It’s inevitable that the wounds of the past scar us, and the existential fear of many Israelis (including mine) over our future here is legitimate. But 60 years on, maybe we should harness the memory of Wallenberg and the countless other righteous gentiles like the Muchas to inspire us to become open and confident enough to begin the process of learning to trust again, of believing we can take risks.

Because ultimately, perhaps its this that marks the completion of our ongoing Zionist journey from an exilic past into a genuine independent free and sovereign future.

p.s anyone who thinks this blog should be updated more often should read this story

Myths, Sacrifices & Heroes

The eulogies for Ahikam Amihai and David Rubin - two off-duty soldiers murdered last Friday - focused on their love of the land and tiyulim. Every park supervisor knew Ahikam according to his brother, while David was described as intimately familiar with the Land of Israel, including parts of Jordan.

One friend described the difference between the boys and the youth of the 'lowland state' who care more about draft dodging and pop star Ninet's hairstyle than anything else. Another stated that "This is not just any funeral. And these aren't just any people. They are myths. We have stopped believing in myths and heroes, but they were just that."

Another mythic figure also known for his love of hiking (in both Israel and Jordan) is Meir Har Tzion. Described by Moshe Dayan as the bravest Jewish warrior since Bar Kochba, Har Tzion recently criticized the army for its fear of casualties in the Second Lebanon War, berating the commanders for failing to stick to the goal.

His words are recorded in a documentary film called 'May Every Mother Know' in which the authors interview an army unit (including Har Zion's son) who fought in the war, focusing on the same tension (if not the same dichotomy) described at the Amichai / Ruben funeral; between the values of collectivism and solidarity instilled in them by their fathers, and the culture of capitalism and hedonism that holds individual success as supreme and has grown weary of call-ups and wars.

One who never grew weary of such call ups was Ehud Efrati, a 34 year old combat reserve soldier, killed during a firefight with Hamas on October 29th.

An agronomist by profession who worked in his family's orchards in Zichron Yaacov, Efrati's death has largely been forgotten coming as it did on the same day a more famous Ehud announced he was suffering from prostrate cancer, news that relegated Efrati's death to the back pages. "Just Plain Ehud" is survived by his wife Miri, their five-year-old son Tomer, three-year-old daughter Shai and four-month-old baby Raz.

When the children were told of their father's death, Tomer asked if he was an angel and whether angels could speak on the phone while later suggesting they buy a spaceship to fly to the sky and bring Daddy back. When Miri explained that Ehud was not in the sky but in their hearts, Shai suggested opening up their hearts to take him out.

It's probably true that Israel enters 2008 as an increasingly post ideological, de-mystified State in which the individual often trumps the collective. Aliya is on the wane and the upcoming Winograd report casts a shadow over public trust in our leadership.

Yet perhaps because of that, it's even more inspiring to come across those who reject the ideology of the 'lowland state', and still believe in the idea of self-sacrifice for the collective good.

So as we (justifiably) celebrate the 'record low' number of Israeli fatalities from Palestinian violence since 2000, let's hope the memory of those not here to usher in the new year with us will serve to renew our beliefs - not only in the myths and ideas that make this country's raison-d'etre so powerful, but in the many heroes whose sacrifice continues to secure our existence here.

Happy 2008

Of Limmud and Long Tails

Even working on Christmas day doesn’t make me miss being Jewish in England. And while its neither good manners nor fair to bite that hand that raised you, the 'shul Judaism' of the motherland - mainly bland and uninspiring (for both religious and secular) - is not a great advertisement for religion.

Yet for one week a year, between Christmas and New Year, Anglo Jewry provides what remains one of the most amazing occasions of diverse Judaism I have ever experienced; the Limmud Conference.

Over 2000 Jews from different continents and denominations meeting in Nottingham to enjoy Shiurim on Gemara, discuss philosophy, debate social issues, dance to Jewish rap, experience Torah yoga…14 sessions a day, each with over 20 options.

And while there's many I wouldn’t necessarily recommend, the overall diversity, dynamism, and feeling that one is engaging in a 'live religion' has no parallel.

A book I recently read called the Long Tail describes how the rise of the internet and ensuing option of infinite choice has shifted us from a mass to a niche culture.

If the search for popularity previously required looking for the lowest common denominator - 'dumming down' in order to appeal to the masses, creating a 'one size fits all' product - the new situation has shattered the mainstream into a 'zillion different cultural shards'.

And when more choice and more opportunities are offered, the most exciting, inspiring and intellectually attractive choices rise to the top.

Jewish life in some areas of Israel reminds me of the Long Tail. If in England, Judaism needed to be 'one size fits all' in order to appeal, the critical mass of Jews in Israel provide an opportunity to move into 'niche Judaism'. Take the issue of minyanim in the Katamon neighbourhood as an example; Whether its Bratslav, Carlebach, Sefardi or Ashkenazi, traditional, egalitarian, or kinda egalitarian - whether the mechitza looks like the entrance to a medieval castle, a gallery, transparent or invisible, whether it goes between front and back or down the middle, its all here - somewhere in the infinitesimal sea of opportunity and options of Judaism.

Outside those few square miles of Katamon, Baka and Rehavia however, religious tolerance and diversity are not a highlight of Israeli life. And even many secular Israelis believe that the only legitimate shul they don’t go to is an Orthodox one.

The return of sovereignty has given us many challenges, not all of which we are able to solve. But it would be a shame to miss this opportunity for utilising the critical mass of Jews to create a long Jewish tail, a Judaism of different shades and sizes, in which the cream rises to the top to the benefit of all of us.

And in this context, there's actually a lot we could learn from those who are spending this 'festive' week locked in thought and discussion in the good ol' English countryside.

Aliya: Two Years On

Two Fridays ago, on a sun-drenched November morning in Jerusalem, I had one of those untypical 'typical Israeli moments'.

On one side of Emek Refaim stood 40 crimson clad protesters of all ages whistling loudly and calling on drivers to hoot their horn in support of better conditions for teachers who have been striking for the last 2 months.

100 yards down the road opposite Café Hillel the noise of car horns persisted, but this time due to a traffic jam caused by a chefetz chashud, a suspect package.

In many ways, that scene is Israeli society in a nutshell. Two problems – one social, the other security; Both central to our future and ability to live prosperous and happy lives. Neither with simple answers.

And in the background, regular Israelis trying to maneuver between the noise and enjoy a relaxing day off in a café.

The first night of Chanukah marked two years since my arrival in Israel. And while I’m sure I’ll be told by those Israelis who disagree with my political views that I haven’t been here long enough to ‘really understand’, time has undoubtedly eroded the ‘chadash’ part of being an ‘oleh’.

In many ways, my Aliya has been a process from ideological fervor and excitement – appreciating the grocer's Shabbat Shalom wishes, Shai Agnon's Nobel Prize speech on the 5o Shekel bill and countless other small things Israelis take for granted - to simply living life, with all its disappointments and excitements, its ups and downs.

If new immigrants get off the boat feeling Israel is their oyster and that the country offers a wealth of possibilities, a 'veteran oleh's' experience is generally more sober, maybe even more jaded.

Two years on, life in Israel is normal, regular. Like a long-term relationship, it's often harder to maintain constant romance. One doesn’t necessarily start every morning excited. Faults become more apparent.

Yet every now and then, things happen to remind you why you are still in love, why you choose to stay.

And when all the thrills are taken away, the commitment remains as strong as ever.

Despite all the changes, most of my thoughts regarding this country remain the same. I still don’t enjoy being asked why the hell I moved here. I continue to be excited by the uniqueness of how religious festivals are marked as national holidays, or amazed by the opportunities, challenges and responsibilities that power and sovereignty provide us, the Jewish people, with.

And despite the issues whose solutions remain somewhere over the beautiful Mediterranean horizon – of territory and terror, of education and economics, of settlements and society – I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be.

Because whether we like it or not, here is where things of importance to the Jewish people are being played out. This is the front line in shaping all of our futures. And why wouldn’t I want to be a part of that?

And even for those who find ideology and idealism passé, there's always the attraction of relaxing with some toasted bagels and coffee in the November Jerusalem sunshine.

Hanukkah 5768 - Between Judaism, Hellenism and Peace

Hanukkah is always a wonderful time to be in Israel – the doughnuts in the bakeries, the lights in peoples' houses, the sense that this is a national holiday, shared by the majority of the country. (Where as Adam Sandler sings, you don’t need to feel like the only kid in town without a Christmas tree) The festival celebrates both the military victory of the Hasmoneans over the powerful Greeks as well as the ideological victory of the Jewish way of life over the alien culture of Hellenism. If on Purim we were saved from physical destruction, Hanukkah marks our victory over the evils of spiritual assimilation (something I was taught in primary school was much much worse, although I'm still not convinced).

Last weekend’s Jerusalem Shabbat table discussions were filled with debates over the Annapolis Summit and the political process. While I find these conversations often go round in circles (and it’s uncomfortable to disagree with people you happen to personally like) one comment really stuck in my head: That bearing in mind both keeping the territories and giving them up have risks, the best option is to be ‘Torah true’, i.e. to continue to hold onto the land of our forefathers.

I’m still unsure exactly what ‘Torah true’ means. Are human rights and sympathy for the ‘other’ alien, non Torah values? Is worrying about the moral and physical toll soldiers pay by controlling a belligerent civilian population un-Jewish? Is feeling Israel can’t survive without the support of the international community assimilationist? Is modern day Hellenism reflected in those who call for an Israeli withdrawal to the armistice lines, as Avigdor Lieberman recently quipped?

In his laws on Hanukkah, Rambam describes the importance attached to publicising the miracle of a military victory of the few against the many; "the commandment to light is an exceedingly precious one…even if one has no food to eat except what he receives from charity he should beg, or sell clothes to buy oil and lamps" Yet despite this, someone who only has enough money to either buy a Shabbat candle or a Hanukkah one should choose Shabbat because of what Maimonides terms ‘Shalom Bayit’ between husband and wife.

As the British Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes "The implication is simple. Even the smallest peace (between husband and wife) takes priority over the greatest victory in war."

The debate about peace with the Palestinians will go on for a few more Shabbat meals yet. And while Abbas is weak, the sides remain far apart on core issues, and no one particularly fancies evacuating 80,000 Jews from their homes, perhaps we should be more careful deciding what actions constitute Jewish values.

Here's to hoping that this Hanukkah takes us away from spiritual assimilation and closer to true Torah values, (whatever they may be) and to achieving Shalom – both with our neighbours and between ourselves.

Chag Sameach

Kaf Tet Be'November: 60 Years On

60 years after the UN voted to partition Mandatory Palestine into two states, it's not uncommon for questions to be raised over the relevancy of a Jewish State. In this context, I'd like to share a beautiful piece of literature from Amos Oz that reminds us of the inherent problems statelessness brings and why, as Israeli commentator Amnon Rubenstein writes, "I prefer the dangers that face us in Israel to the humiliation of being a Jewish minority even in the enlightened West."

And very late, at a time when this child had never been allowed not to be fast asleep in bed, maybe at three or four o clock, I crawled under my blanket fully dressed. And after a while Father’s hand lifted my blanket in the dark, not to be angry with me because I’d got into bed with my clothes on, but to get in and to lie down next to me, and he was in his clothes too, that were drenched in sweat from the crush of the crowds, just like mine (and we had an iron rule; you must never, for any reason whatsoever, get between the sheets in your outdoor clothes). My father lay besides me for a few minutes and said nothing, although normally he detested silence and hurried to banish it. But this time he did not touch the silence that was there between us but shared in it, with his hand just lightly stroking my head. As though in this darkness my father had turned into my mother.

Then he told me in a whisper, without once calling me Your Highness or Your Honour, what some hooligans did to him and his brother David in Odessa and what some gentile boys did to him at his Polish school in Vilna, and the girls joined in too, and the next day, when his father, Grandpa Alexander, came to the school to register a complaint, the bullies refused to return the torn trousers but attacked his father, Grandpa, in front of his eyes, forced him down on the paving stones and removed his trousers too in the middle of the playground, and the girls laughed and made dirty jokes, saying that Jews were all so-and-sos, while the teachers watched and said nothing, or maybe they were laughing too.

And still in a voice of darkness with his hand still losing its way in my hair (because he was not used to stroking my hair) my father told me under my blanket in the early hours of the thirtieth of November 1947, ‘Bullies may well bother you in the street or at school some day. They may do it precisely because you are a bit like me. But from now on, from the moment we have our own state, you will never be bullied just because you are a Jew and because Jews are so-and-sos. Not that. Never again. From tonight that’s finished here. For ever’

I reached out sleepily to touch his face, just below his high forehead, and all of a sudden instead of his glasses my fingers met tears. Never in my life, before or after that night, not even when my mother died, did I see my father cry. And in fact I didn’t see him cry that night either. Only my left hand saw. (A Tale of Love and Darkness - Amos Oz p346)

Thanksgiving, Partition and Showing Gratitude

Tonight I'm off to my maiden Thanksgiving Party courtesy of the lovely Maayan and Susi. Meriting as I did to grow up in the north-western suburbs of London, the Thanksgiving experience is new to me.

Yet no one needs an excuse for a party. And giving thanks is something we probably don't do often enough.

In fact, the Talmudic Rabbis teach us an important lesson on this issue in a discussion over how much one needs to eat before reciting grace after meals. Whereas the Torah in Devarim suggests we only need to 'Bensch' after being satisfied (ככתוב ואכלת ושבעת וברכת ) the Rabbis conclude that Jews should say 'grace' after only eating a Kezayit (about 30 grams.)

In other words, one doesn’t need to be full to express thanks for food.

Falling as it does on the 4th Thursday of November, Thanksgiving weekend always comes around the same time as the anniversary of the UN Partition Plan that promised a sovereign part of Eretz Yisrael to the Jewish people for the first time in two millenia. Next week on the 29th November we mark its 60th anniversary.

And like the declaration of independence, the words 'The Temple Mount is in our hands' or Hatikva sung in a full football stadium, hearing the British accent announcing how those votes were cast in the UN General Assembly is one of those things that send shivers down my spine;

"Afghanistan…no.
Argentina…Argentina? abstention.
Australia…yes.
Belgium…yes.
Bolivia…yes…
Yugoslavia…abstain.
The resolution was adopted for 33 votes 13 against with 10 abstentions".

As I wrote last year, the Partition Plan wasn’t ideal by any means - it didn’t even include Jerusalem as part of the proposed State.

But in many ways, I think its acceptance by the Yishuv is what Zionism is about – being satisfied with something less than our dreams – and making reasoned decisions of what is achievable at any particular time given the circumstances.

At its core, Zionism and Rabbinic Judaism teach us that life is about giving thanks even when we aren't completely satisfied, when we eat yet aren't full, when we dream yet experience only partial ful-fillment.

At last years Thanksgiving, President Bush declared that "We give thanks to the Author of Life who granted our forefathers safe passage to this land, who gives every man, woman, and child on the face of the Earth the gift of freedom, and who watches over our nation every day."

We celebrate this year in the lead up to a peace Summit in Annapolis that will inevitably lead to concessions over what many Israelis believe is rightfully theirs.

Yet perhaps we should be happy for the sovereign recognized State we do have, for the safe passage to places generations of Jews could only dream; give thanks, even if the compromises we will need to make (to provide another people their freedom) aren't necessarily what we would have ideally wanted.

And pray that the Author of Life continues to watch over our nation every day.