This time of year tends to get almost out of control busy. As soon as we pack up our Passover supplies we run right into the time of year known as YomHaShoah-YomHaZicharon-YomHaAtzmaut-LagB'Omer-Shavuot. It's all one HUGE breath that flies by faster than you can imagine. Then add into that things like school and birthdays and this year, a Bar Mitzvah, and it becomes a blur of color and sound.
I meant to sit down and write parts of this weeks ago. I'm finally taking a moment or two as the wind howls outside and the rain batters the house. It feels like we are approaching Halloween or Thanksgiving, except those aren't celebrated here and it's almost May.
A few days later I saw another video announcing their largest event yet marking Israeli Independence Day. President Reuven Rivlin was co-hosting the event with Koolulam and tickets would be on sale shortly.
I couldn't not go, so I bought a ticket with a friend and we made plans. When the event date came I hopped on a bus to Tel Aviv. It was a beautiful day. The sun was out, the sky was blue with gorgeous white clouds and the sea was a delight as my bus rushed down the coast road toward Tel Aviv. It reminded me of the opening of the first clip showing the ride into Haifa. Instead of taking the time to try and capture the beauty on my smartphone camera through the dirty bus windows I just soaked it up and listened to the song I would be singing, over and over and over again.
Needless to say, the evening was remarkable and we waited with anticipation for the release of the video of our singing. The whole experience, from the ride down to Tel Aviv through to the release of the video was one boost of energy. One of the lines from the song that stuck with me was "אל נא תעקור נטוע״ which means "please do not uproot what has been planted". It's a powerful line. If we have put the work into planting something, something that will live, that is alive, we should allow it to grow in its place, give it the time to sink down its roots and push upward to show what good it can bring into the world and for the world. All too often here we spend time working to uproot others, and in the end uproot ourselves.
Fast forward a few weeks and we get to celebrating my eldest son's Bar Mitzvah. It was the first Bar Mitzvah to be celebrated in the Ohel Menashe building - the Masorti (Conservative) community in Yokneam. We chose to do a Monday morning Torah service to help ensure that our friends who live all over Israel could have the option to attend. There are no hotels in Yokneam, and as much as I know our friends love us, the cost of a hotel room or two (depending on how many kids they have) does show a reasonable limit of friendship! It was a beautiful and lovely service and morning. Ari read from the Torah and spoke about his Parsha (weekly reading from the Torah) so well. And we had pictures and videos taken to share with our family and friends who couldn't make the trip.
What does this have to do with connections and divisions? A great many of our friends come from various religious backgrounds, many of whom have never stepped foot in a Masorti synagogue or engaged in a service where men and women are praying together. Our building was full with more than 80 of our friends and family members who came to celebrate; who put any personal preferences to the side to come celebrate with our family this important rite of passage. And the members of our small community saw what can be accomplished when invitations are extended and doors opened.
Israelis are fiercely independent, while at the same time closely knit as small communities, networks, and families. There is a deep-seated fear of being taken advantage of and so everyone is always on the look out and always on the defensive, while at the same time staking out an offensive position. This leads to a deep sense of mistrust and a lack of willingness to open oneself up to the other which inherently makes one vulnerable.
After living here for eight years and trying to figure this place out, I find this contradiction exhausting and frustrating. I am grateful that there are efforts like Koolulam out there, trying to find ways where we can come together and make something beautiful together. I am grateful that there are nooks and crannies here in this crazy country to see that what has been planted is still there, with strong roots, growing tall and strong, reaching toward all that is good. It is precisely the next line of Naomi Shemer's song that we sang - אל תשכח את התקווה - do not forget the hope - that brought tears to my eyes. This country is built on hope. Hope can only be successful when it is shared by others; hope can only be built into something eternal and formidable when many people share it.
For our next 70 years, Israel's challenge, our challenges as her citizens, is to find ways to come together. We must bridge our divides and share our hope to strengthen our future.
I meant to sit down and write parts of this weeks ago. I'm finally taking a moment or two as the wind howls outside and the rain batters the house. It feels like we are approaching Halloween or Thanksgiving, except those aren't celebrated here and it's almost May.
A while back I watched a short video about an amazing community oriented singing experience called Koolulam. It's a one year old initiative that has taken on a life of its own. The name comes from a blend of "cool", "kol" the Hebrew word for voice, "kulum" which means everyone in Hebrew, and "lululu" the sound made at weddings in the Middle Eastern and North African tradition. Koolulam brings together Israeli society and connects people through shared music experiences.
A few days later I saw another video announcing their largest event yet marking Israeli Independence Day. President Reuven Rivlin was co-hosting the event with Koolulam and tickets would be on sale shortly.
I couldn't not go, so I bought a ticket with a friend and we made plans. When the event date came I hopped on a bus to Tel Aviv. It was a beautiful day. The sun was out, the sky was blue with gorgeous white clouds and the sea was a delight as my bus rushed down the coast road toward Tel Aviv. It reminded me of the opening of the first clip showing the ride into Haifa. Instead of taking the time to try and capture the beauty on my smartphone camera through the dirty bus windows I just soaked it up and listened to the song I would be singing, over and over and over again.
Needless to say, the evening was remarkable and we waited with anticipation for the release of the video of our singing. The whole experience, from the ride down to Tel Aviv through to the release of the video was one boost of energy. One of the lines from the song that stuck with me was "אל נא תעקור נטוע״ which means "please do not uproot what has been planted". It's a powerful line. If we have put the work into planting something, something that will live, that is alive, we should allow it to grow in its place, give it the time to sink down its roots and push upward to show what good it can bring into the world and for the world. All too often here we spend time working to uproot others, and in the end uproot ourselves.
Fast forward a few weeks and we get to celebrating my eldest son's Bar Mitzvah. It was the first Bar Mitzvah to be celebrated in the Ohel Menashe building - the Masorti (Conservative) community in Yokneam. We chose to do a Monday morning Torah service to help ensure that our friends who live all over Israel could have the option to attend. There are no hotels in Yokneam, and as much as I know our friends love us, the cost of a hotel room or two (depending on how many kids they have) does show a reasonable limit of friendship! It was a beautiful and lovely service and morning. Ari read from the Torah and spoke about his Parsha (weekly reading from the Torah) so well. And we had pictures and videos taken to share with our family and friends who couldn't make the trip.
What does this have to do with connections and divisions? A great many of our friends come from various religious backgrounds, many of whom have never stepped foot in a Masorti synagogue or engaged in a service where men and women are praying together. Our building was full with more than 80 of our friends and family members who came to celebrate; who put any personal preferences to the side to come celebrate with our family this important rite of passage. And the members of our small community saw what can be accomplished when invitations are extended and doors opened.
Israelis are fiercely independent, while at the same time closely knit as small communities, networks, and families. There is a deep-seated fear of being taken advantage of and so everyone is always on the look out and always on the defensive, while at the same time staking out an offensive position. This leads to a deep sense of mistrust and a lack of willingness to open oneself up to the other which inherently makes one vulnerable.
After living here for eight years and trying to figure this place out, I find this contradiction exhausting and frustrating. I am grateful that there are efforts like Koolulam out there, trying to find ways where we can come together and make something beautiful together. I am grateful that there are nooks and crannies here in this crazy country to see that what has been planted is still there, with strong roots, growing tall and strong, reaching toward all that is good. It is precisely the next line of Naomi Shemer's song that we sang - אל תשכח את התקווה - do not forget the hope - that brought tears to my eyes. This country is built on hope. Hope can only be successful when it is shared by others; hope can only be built into something eternal and formidable when many people share it.
For our next 70 years, Israel's challenge, our challenges as her citizens, is to find ways to come together. We must bridge our divides and share our hope to strengthen our future.
Comments
Post a Comment