Introducing: The unique Israeli holiday celebration you’re not going to want to miss! (with video)

Yes, it’s one of my favourite unique Israeli holiday customs: hakafot shniyot! And I can’t believe I haven’t written about it before (or maybe I have?).

Outside of Israel, most people keep 2 days of chag so they're all partied out by the time Simchas Torah ends. But here, it's all one day, so people want to keep right on partying. Not to mention -- if you wait until AFTER the chag, you can have a BETTER party: one with loud music, live or otherwise, stands selling snack foods, bubble blowers, and other kitschy glow-in-the-dark accessories, and much more. PLUS you can record it on your phone. Which I did last night.

Hakafot shniyot - second hakafot - are pretty popular regardless of how religious the community is. They take out the sifrei Torah and announce which hakafa it is, starting each one with a round of "hosha na"s -- very much like the real thing. I don't know if there's any halachic basis to any of it, but basically it's a lot of fun and not a lot of rules.

That said: This year, they WERE enforcing a very strict "tav yarok" (תו ירוק / green tag) which is basically the green passport system. To get into the area in front of the main shul here, you had to show either the COVID passport app or a test from within the past 24 hours (that's how little kids were able to get in). Even with the COVID passport app, they were making you recite your Teudat Zehut by heart while the guards held the tav yarok so you couldn't see it and borrow your friend's. If you passed the test they were giving out wristbands.

Here's what it looked like around here last night...

Tin-can dancing – Sefardi Simchat Torah style

Some epiphanies come later in life than others, or are only possible in Israel, when you realize that not everybody is Ashkenazi like you are.  One question I heard years ago about Simchas Torah has been echoing in my mind every year, ever since: why is it called “Simchas Torah”? 

(And, yes, in my head it’s still simchas Torah, with a ת/“sav” at the end of the word.  Pronounce it however you like when you read!)

A lot of people lazily refer to the day, when they refer to it in English at all, as “Rejoicing with the Torah,” but you probably suspect this isn’t correct if you know anything about the grammar of possession in Hebrew.  Wikipedia translates it as “Rejoicing of/[with the] Torah,” which I like because therein is the answer. 

The name of the holiday is rejoicing not WITH the Torah, but OF the Torah.  Once a year, the Torah rejoices and we, Am Yisrael, are its arms, its legs, its voice in song.

Why have I been thinking about this this year in particular?  Well, if you’re Ashkenazi, like I am, this picture is probably pretty close to what you think of when you think of dancing with a Torah:

(Skverer Rebbe photo credit Arit126 via Wikipedia)

This kind of Torah is like a baby, easy to dance with.  Just smoosh it flat against your chest and off you go, bobbling lightly and sedately around the shul.

But it turns out that we Ashkenazim are the only ones

Should you change your name when you make aliyah?

For years, I thought this was a no-brainer.  When in Rome, pick a name like the Romans do… or something.

Apparently, I was dead wrong.  It turns out there are a million reasons not to change your name when you make aliyah:

• it will confuse and perhaps anger your family and friends
• people will think you've become more religious (maybe "crazy religious")
• people will think you're turning your back on your old life
• you've built a career and reputation in your name
• you'll have legal problems using the new name
• you'll never adjust to being called something new

Interesting.  Notice that these are the same reasons many people give to not make aliyah in the first place?

Since you're already taking that giant step – or thinking of taking it – it seems a much smaller leap to give yourself a shiny new handle.  Especially one you've chosen yourself, that you'll love hearing every day and seeing on all your shiny new paperwork.

[By the way, the Hebrew words in the image above are “olah chadashah,” which means “new immigrant to Israel” in the feminine form.]

My grandparents’ “aliyah” to Canada

My grandparents were olim, of a sort.  Well, they were immigrants.  Same thing, right? 

Separately, they found a way out of Poland, where they'd grown up as "Wolf" and "Chana Rivka."  When they came to Canada, they morphed into "William" and "Rose."  They named their kids Albert, Charles and Dorothy.

A few prickly questions– the lie of the sabra

Do you know what a sabra is?

It’s the fruit of the prickly-pear (Opuntia) cactus.  It looks a little like the picture up above.

Ironically, the sabra, the very fruit that Jews around the world identify with Israel is actually not a native here.  It was imported from the Western U.S.

By the way, the word and concept “sabra” are not pronounced “sabra” in Hebrew.  Another of those Big Lies of Hebrew school.  The Hebrew word for this North American transplant, this “oleh,” so to speak, is  צַבָּר / tzabar.

According to Wikipedia, a “Sabra” is an “informal slang term that refers to Israeli Jews born in Israel.”

A few weeks ago, someone I knew decided to make trouble, and at a mixed gathering of Arabs and Jews in Haifa, asked an Arab woman if she considered herself a sabra.  She said, “of course.”  (I love getting to know troublemakers.)

Sanctity vs Cynicism: Highlights of GZ’s siddur party in Jerusalem

My older kids had siddur parties.  Maybe yours did, too?

It’s very cute. 

Once first graders are reading well enough, they have a big ceremony and make a huge deal about handing over their Very First Siddur.  For my big kids, that took about an hour, with refreshments following.

Here in Kiryat Shmuel, in the boys’ school, at least, things get a little more involved.  Like, “involved” as in a 12-hour shlep to Yerushalayim. 

And while you’re shlepping, you’d better not just hand over the siddur.  At least not without a ceremony.  And pizza.  And a Chief Rabbi.  And a visit to the Kotel (Western Wall).

Yup, 12 hours.  Fun, fun, fun.

We just got home, and I decided to write down the highlights of the day while they’re still fresh in my memory.

The main celebration (see blurry photo above) was in the Kehillat Bnei Torah synagogue in Har Nof, where last November, two Arabs walked in and started stabbing Jews. 

Why was that a good highlight?  Because we shook the floorboards with laughter, singing and pizza.  Because Jews support Jews and Israelis support Israelis.  Kiryat Shmuel is the same as Har Nof as far as the bad guys are concerned.  And yet our vibrant Jewish lives here go on and children grow up and receive siddurs.

Two other stops on the action-packed agenda were the Machon HaMikdash (the Temple Institute), where we learned all about the Bais (Beit!) HaMikdash, including grinding our own incense, and then on to the Kotel (Western Wall).

So… what were some of the outstanding moments from today’s long, long journey?

• Discovery.  Like the kid behind me on the bus shouting out "Abba, abba, hinei!" (look!) whenever he saw anything.  It doesn't matter what.  Police, hills, trees; this kid has clearly lived in a box his whole life.

Haveil Havalim, a way-late but not waylaid blog carnival for Parshat Devarim

I signed up to do this… and then things got busy.

Good-busy.  But busy. 

So I’m going to slap this thing together and hope nobody notices it’s slapped together.

What is HH, anyway?

This is a weekly roundup of what’s new and great in the Jewish / Israel blogging world.  If you haven’t checked out these great blogs yet, you really should. 

• Last week’s was hosted by Batya over at Shiloh Musings.
• Next week’s carnival will be hosted by Ya’aqov at Esser Agoroth.
• For more details and a complete schedule, please join the HH facebook group.

As usual, I have split the links up into arbitrary categories, different from the arbitrary category names I made up last time.  Enjoy!

NOTE:  If your post(s) of yours are included here, be friendly and visit 2-3 other blogs listed here.  I’ve done my best to make them all sound tempting and fun.  Leave a comment to let them know you were there.

 

Literally awesome ancient historical places

Some say that Shiloh is the second-holiest place in Judaism, based on the fact that the mishkan (tabernacle) rested there longer than in any other place in our history.  Tons of participants got together there for the 3rd annual Kenes Shiloh, and Batya of Shiloh Musings was there reporting on it.

Is there a prayer when you make aliyah?

Given that there are prayers and brachot for just about every occasion in Jewish life, wouldn’t you think there would be one for when you move to Israel, one of the most important mitzvot in the Torah? 

What about visiting Israel?  It’s said that every 4 amos (cubits) you walk in the land of Israel is equivalent to every mitzvah of the Torah… so why don’t we make a bracha before we do it?

The closest that I found was this page wherein a visitor asks if there’s a “mi sheberach” for aliyah – the long monotonic intonation of blessings when a person’s called up to the Torah on a specific occasion. 

And what do you know?

It turns out there is. 

Originally written in 1948, here’s the full text in Hebrew (original source here):

מי שבירך אבותינו הקדושים והטהורים אברהם יצחק ויעקב משה ואהרן דוד ושלמה הוא יברך וישמור וינצור כל אחינו בני ישראל אנשים ונשים וטף זקנים וצעירים ההולכים בים וביבשה ובאוירון לעלות לארץ אבותינו.

מלך מלכי המלכים ברחמיו ישמרם ויחיים, ומכל צרה וניזק יצילם. מלך מלכי המלכים ברחמיו יבטל מעליהם ומעלינו כל גזירות קשות ורעות, ויגזור עליהם ועלינו גזירות טובות, ויגיעם למחוז חפצם לשלום ויאריכו ימים על אדמת הקודש. מלך מלכי המלכים ברחמיו יקרב גאולתינו ועלייתנו לארצנו ונבלה שם ימינו בטוב ובחירות על התורה ועל העבודה. ובא לציון גואל וכן יהי רצון ונאמר אמן.

With the help of Google Translate, here is (loosely) what it means:

May the One Who blessed our holy and pure ancestors, Abraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov, Moshe, Aaron, David and Shlomo, bless and keep and save all our brethren the Children of Israel; men and women and children, young and old; those who are travelling by sea, by land or by air, to ascend to the Land of our ancestors. 

May the King of Kings in His mercy keep them and sustain them, and from every misfortune or harm rescue them.  May the King of Kings, in His mercy annul from over them and from over us all harsh and evil decrees, and pass over them and over us decrees for good, grant their desires for peace and lengthen their days upon the Holy Land.  May the Kind of Kings in His Mercy bring near our redemption and our own ascent to our Land and we will enjoy there our days in good and freedom through Torah and our efforts.  [As it is written,] “And a redeemer will come to Zion,” and so it shall be his will… and let us say, Amen.

Those are definitely some sentiments to get behind.  What was true in 1948, both about the dangers and about the effort that it takes to build this land, is still very much true today.

If you happen to be part of a shul with a creative-thinking gabbai, it might be worth handing him a copy of this text a couple of days before your last Shabbos in your (current) hometown.

True, we may not technically NEED a prayer for aliyah when the Land of Israel is the central longing of every single Jewish prayer already.  On the other hand, it’s a special endeavour, so it just feels right, perhaps, to mark it in a Jewish way.

Certainly, I can’t imagine a more-than-fitting send-off… than having your current spiritual home send you off in style to our people’s spiritual homeland.

What do you think?

Tzivia / צִיבְיָה

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Losing lashon hakodesh, gaining a language.

When you’re religious outside of Israel, especially if you’re a crazy baalas teshuvah like me, the language you speak is usually no longer English:  it’s a weird yeshivish patois of English, along with just enough Yiddish and Ashkenazi Hebrew to get by in the strange world of frumkeit.

You don’t pray, you daven.  You don’t say Grace After Meals, you bentsch.  And you never travel to Israel… you “visit eretz Yisrael.” 

• Growing up Conservative, we had a rabbi.  As an adult, I had a rav and a poseik halacha, and no, they were not the same person.
• Growing up Conservative, we went to shul.  Okay, that didn’t change.
• Growing up Conservative, we took classes and studied.  As an adult, I went to shiurim and learned.
• Growing up Conservative, we went to Hebrew school.  As an adult, I worked hard to learn as much of לשון הקודש / lashon hakodesh, literally the holy tongue, as possible.
• Growing up Conservative, we had a great time.  As an adult, it was sometimes gevaldik, a mamesh heilige farbrengen.

Alright, maybe I’m kidding.  But here’s an example, from an article on Forward.com on How to Understand Yeshivish, of a passage that the author actually believed was written in English:

“The lechatchila time for shacharis is neitz. B’dieved, if a person davened from amud hashachar and onwards he is yotzei. In a shas hadchak he may daven from amud hashachar and onwards lechatchila…. After chatzos it is assur to daven shacharis. One should wait till after mincha and then daven a tashlumin. The possibility for a tashlumin doesn’t exist for someone who was bemaizid.”

Wish I were kidding.

This coming Pesach season gives us about a million more examples… starting with the word seder, which is used for everything from tidying your room to getting along with friends.

• Growing up Conservative, we celebrated Passover and had no clue what Shavuot was.  If we’d known, we would have called it Shavuot.  As an adult, it became Pesach, and – of course! – Shavuos.
• Growing up Conservative, we commemorated the Jews’ coming out of slavery in Egypt.  As an adult, it was all about bnei Yisrael marching from avdus to cherus – a foretaste of the geulah to come.
• Growing up Conservative (with Reform haggadahs), we talked about the Exodus from Egypt.  As an adult, it became יְצִיאַת מִצְרָיִם / Yetzias Mitzrayim – with no gebrocks, of course.

Crazy baalei teshuvah!

Hebrew is holy, of course.  And using it marks frum Jews in chu”l as holy as well.  Special and removed from the mainstream – even from the Jewish mainstream.

When Elisheva was a little kid, I brought her to what would ultimately become our shul, The Village Shul, for the first time.  Affiliated with Aish HaTorah, its frumkeit credentials are impeccable.

Nevertheless, it has an unmistakeable “kiruv” (kiruv, not outreach!) bent.  And, hearing the rabbi speak about the “Jews” in “Egypt,” she turned to me and asked, “Mommy, is that man Jewish???”

It’s definitely true that the Hebrew words have different meanings, and I believe in many cases we should use them in English to reduce inaccuracies.  For instance, tzedakah has a totally different meaning from the English word charity.  Teshuvah, too, means return, and not repentance, as it’s so often mistranslated.  Even sin isn’t simple; there are several different kinds in the Torah.  And don’t even get me started on “leprosy.”

But here’s the thing that living in Israel has driven home.  If this is to be a living language, then these living Hebrew words must – to some extent – be stripped of their sacred nature.  To resurrect this thing and make it useful in daily life, we have to let go of the sanctity and all of those distinctions between holy and profane.

Yesterday, I caught Akiva looking up the word קַבָּלָה / kabbalah in the dictionary.  Apparently, he’d been in a store and when he left, they ran after him, shouting “kabbalah!  kabbalah!”

Before yesterday, he thought Kabbalah was something only Madonna was into.  Now he knows that it also means receipt.

And by the way, on any given receipt, you could probably find any number of words that outside of Israel only exist in the context of great sanctity.

Welcoming guests, for instance, through  הכנסת אורחים/ hachnasas orchim… well, the word “hachnassa” by itself, in modern Hebrew, means income.

I’m always seeing words on signs or in newspapers that are very, very familiar, just from learning the siddur, saying Tehillim (Psalms) and other facets of religious life.  Except these words don’t mean what I think they mean.

Like how at Sukkos, we welcome Ushpizin, holy guests, into our Sukkah, but in modern Hebrew, the verb לאשפז / l’ashpeiz (from the exact same root) means to be admitted to the hospital.  It was a little tough figuring stuff out until someone explained it to me.

And that sacred Exodus from Egypt, the יְצִיאָה / yetzia that we dreamed of throughout 210 years of slavery (but who’s counting)…? 

Well, that’s just a plain old exit sign around here.

Wishing you all a merry seasonal “exit” from the Holy Land!

We <3 (love) United Hatzalah!

This may be the most important post on my blog.  I hope you read it carefully.

Today was “We <3 [love] United Hatzalah Day” for our family!  We learned so much, but this shouldn’t end with us.  I believe that every oleh, tourist, heck, Jew, must know about this organization, which saves countless lives each year not just in Yerushalayim, but throughout the country.

We took the bus down to Yerushalayim for a dedication ceremony on behalf of a Canadian friend who donated an “ambucycle” – a motorcycle ambulance – and who couldn’t travel to be there for the dedication in person.

I thought we’d go, see the motorcycle, shake a few hands (Akiva) and, as we say in Israel, zehu – finished.  But oh, no.  The five of us (big daughter Elisheva skipped classes to join us, for which I’m very grateful) were given the total red carpet treatment.

Saving a single life?

Later on, after we got home, I did some Googling and discovered that the big news for United Hatzalah this month (though nobody mentioned this while we were there) is that a New York millionaire has donated FIFTY ambucycles, at a cost of about $1.3 million. 

Which is fabulous and all, I mean it, but my heart beat proudly, seeing that, to realize that “our” donation of a single ambucycle (it wasn’t really even ours!) was not treated as any less significant… as if they really do give credence to the Talmudic dictum, “he who saves a single life, it is as if he has saved the entire world.” 

Just one ambucycle can save thousands of lives, and they know it.

And oy, what a setup they have there!  I’ve walked past their building maybe dozens of times while in Yerushalayim, and never, ever had a clue as to everything going on behind those doors.

Our tour began with the ambucycle itself, dedicated by our friend in Toronto.  It was clearly brand-new – it still had the plastic wrap on the seat and its supply box was empty.

We then went into the supply depot to see what goes into the kit that all the United Hatzalah volunteers (currently over 2000) take with them everywhere they go.

A lot of stuff to carry around.

So what’s inside the big box in the back of the ambucycle?  A little bit of everything, it turns out.  “It’s got everything an ambulance has, except the bed,” says founder Eli Beer.

There’s a portable bag containing everything from a drug box to bandages to a childbirth kit, all in big, padded red compartments.  There were a few items that our host decided not to pull out, concerned that they might alarm the children.  Good call, I think, especially since GZ is creeped out by all things medical.

Here’s the childbirth kit:

(Of course, to my homebirthed kiddoes, the first question was, why do you need supplies to have a baby?  When I looked at the contents list and explained that there was a blanket inside, they remained unconvinced.)

To show us exactly how much equipment is involved, he started loading Elisheva up, starting out by kitting her up with a bulletproof vest and helmet – I suppose for heading into still-active trouble areas.  These aren’t worn every day, but they’re a fun part of the demonstration.  After that, he added a backpack, supplies bag, defibrillator… as she staggered under the weight. 

 

It’s a lot of stuff to carry around, but the mobility and portability are the secret to United Hatzalah’s success.  In years of driving an ambulance, Beer says, he never successfully rescued a patient until he responded on foot to a call he’d overheard on a police scanner in his own neighbourhood… and actually saved a life for the first time.

Motorcycles, scooters and medics on foot are nimble in a city, a country, where being nimble can mean the difference between a response time of ten minutes (dead on arrival) or ninety seconds (good chance of resuscitation).

Command and control:  hand in hand

From the supplies room, we headed into Command Central – the hard-core control room from which United Hatzalah responds to nearly 200,000 calls a year. 

*** YOU CAN REACH UNITED HATZALAH WITH A CALL TO 1221 (no star) FROM ANY PHONE IN ISRAEL.

*** FOR MAGEN DAVID ADOM (regular ambulance), DIAL 101.

“Jews and Arabs don’t always get along,” says Beer.  But today, “hand in hand… Jews and Arabs are getting together for the purpose of saving lives.”  When Beer’s own father collapsed a few years ago, the first responder at his side was an Arab medic from East Jerusalem.

In addition to complex mapping software which can plot the arrival times of the five nearest United Hatzalah responders (which is calculated intelligently based on whether they’re coming on foot, by car or on a motorcycle!), our host pointed out the central computer which is hard-wired to Home Front Command, the central Israeli agency which sends out missile alerts.  If there is anything going on, anywhere in the country, these guys will know about it first.

The other cool thing is that if you have donated an ambucycle (and really, you must if you can!), they can find it for you anywhere, anytime.  Just punch in the number and their computers can tell you instantly where it is.

Because the rescue workers with United Hatzalah are all volunteers, the ambucycle essentially becomes their best friend – they take it with them everywhere they go.  The volunteers are essentially on duty 24/7 – yes, that’s 7 as in “seven days a week,” unlike a lot of other things in Israel, which are 24/6. 

Anytime, anywhere, they could get a call.  And no matter what they’re doing – our host told us about a time he was in shul on Simchas Torah and had to leave right before the big aliyah he’d paid a lot for – they drop everything and run.  (He said he also had a newborn baby at the time – but that doesn’t matter when you’re a United Hatzalah volunteer.)

When I mentioned that you’d have to have a pretty understanding employer, he told us about a United Hatzalah volunteer who worked as a delivery guy for a meat store.  The boss apparently started getting sick of not knowing when his employee would have to leave, abandoning his chicken deliveries (“He delivered chickens… he delivered babies.”).  But, since they were both religious people, the meat store owner consulted a rabbi who said that he may be losing a reliable delivery guy but he was gaining a half share in the zechut, the merit, of the lives that the delivery guy was saving.  The delivery guy kept his job.

Ambucycles save lives:  the too-scary-for-kids video

After our visit to Command Central, we went inside to watch a video about United Hatzalah and its activities. 

I’ll warn you now:  this video is too scary for children.  And maybe too creepy for adults. 

A father basically dies during his young daughter’s birthday party because the conventional ambulance can’t get to him on time.  Then, the scene is replayed, except he is saved by an ambucycle that arrives within 90 seconds of the call (based on an actual call to United Hatzalah).

Our host realized after the video started that the kids probably shouldn’t watch the guy (actor, but hey, they’re young kids) die, so he fast-forwarded to the triumphant ambucycle scene.  Nevertheless, they were both quite troubled afterwards. 

As with seemingly every event of this type, there were tasty pastries and soft drinks, and we were even presented with “swag” in the form of magnets, brochures and some nifty-cool United Hatzalah hats.

A country run on donations.

On our way out, we waved to “our” ambucycle, while I silently resolved never to drop in on the Command Centre to find out where it is at any given time.  The work these guys are doing is just too important to interrupt.

But that idea, of pandering to demanding American donors, got me thinking hard about the donor-recipient relationship between Israel and chutz la’aretz, which has gone on since even before the state itself was founded. 

A few weeks ago in my Hebrew film discussion class (what?  you didn’t know I was taking a film discussion class?), we explored this issue as part of the classic 1965 film Sallah Shabati (סאלח שבתי) (excerpt here, captions in French only), in which early pioneers are planting a forest.  When wealthy American donors drive up, their fancy-looking Israeli host hammers in a sign dedicating the forest as the “Birnbaum” forest.    But later, after they’re out of sight, he comes with a new sign proclaiming it to be the “Mrs. Pearl Sonnenschein” forest. 

“What can I do?” he asks.  “It’s tourist season.  They all want their own sign.”

Of Yissachar and Zevulun.

Modern Israel is littered with signs, acknowledging all the Birnbaums and Sonnenscheins, generous donors all, over the last century.  Before I came, I admit, I was more cynical about this phenomenon.  If they care so much about Israel, why don’t they move there?  I wondered. 

I still don’t have an answer to this question, but I don’t ask it so much anymore.

Now that I’m here, I’m grateful every time I see an ambulance going past with its dedication, whether from the Canadian Friends of Magen David Adom or from Australia, the U.S., or the United Kingdom.  I’m grateful for every hospital, clinic, and ambucycle bearing the name of somebody outside of Israel who cared deeply about the wellbeing of the people here.

Yeah, it would be incredible if everybody could come live here.  But as in the case of the chicken seller and his ambulance/delivery driver, the Torah speaks of the “Yissachar / Zevulun” relationship, in which one of these tribes (Yissachar / Issachar) worked hard to learn Torah, while the other (Zevulun / Zebulon) became sailors and traders to support them.

I am so, so grateful to our friend in Toronto, and everybody like her who – although they cannot live here – have taken on the role of Zevulun to those of us who are working hard, like Yissachar, to make this a liveable homeland.

Thanks to them, it is a safer home, where lives are saved in a way that respects the land’s holiness, the honour of all its inhabitants… and cashes in on the enterprising high-tech spirit that has made this the “Start-up Nation” we all know it can be at its best.

For more about the spirit behind United Hatzalah, I really recommend watching United Hatzalah founder Eli Beer’s TED Talks video, The Fastest Ambulance?  A Motorcycle.

Did I mention that United Hatzalah emergency responders, thousands of them, are all volunteers?  That they’re on duty 24/7?  That, Muslim or Christian or Jew or whatever, they will save your life for FREE if you ever need them?  Even if you can’t afford a whole ambucycle, do something today to help them out!!!

*** YOU CAN REACH UNITED HATZALAH WITH A CALL TO 1221 (no star) FROM ANY PHONE IN ISRAEL.

*** FOR MAGEN DAVID ADOM (regular ambulance), DIAL 101.

A mashal – a fish

Before they left for Israel a couple of weeks ago, my friend Rachel’s husband Ariel, a wonderful rabbi, mechanech (educator) and all-around mensch, spoke in our shul about “Top Ten Obstacles to Making Aliyah (and a response).”

I have the notes here and want to throw them away – but can’t until I share two things he said.

The first is a mashal, pretty much the way he gave it over:

“There was once a fish that lived in water.  He had all the food he needed, all the space to swim in, and was protected by a protective barrier.  His life was fine, consistent and easy.  But something was nagging at him.  He just didn’t feel at home, for he was living in an aquarium.  Sure, the ocean is more dangerous and presents greater challenges and hardships, and it’s very difficult leaving the bubble he is used to living in, which is the only home he knows.  But deep down inside, the fish knows that he was not meant to live in a tank.  He was meant for the open waters of the ocean.  The Jewish people were meant to live in Israel.  That is our true home.

The second thing I took away from the talk (among many, many wonderful things) was from the section on “obstacles” – objections and excuses people give about why they’re not making aliyah. 

There were ten of them that he listed, and this was, “#7:  It’s not my time.”  This is about frum (religious) people who say, “Hashem just doesn’t have a plan for me to go to Israel (right now…).”  And his response, well, one of his responses is, “would you say that ‘it’s not my time to keep Shabbat now?’”

In other words:

You may not be ready / willing / able to live in Israel, BUT that doesn’t mean it’s not part of Hashem’s plan.  Don’t write it off the “bucket list,” even if it’s out of your grasp right now.  Even if it’s waaaaay out of your grasp.  Even if you don’t think it will EVER be within your grasp. 

The mitzvah to live in the land of Israel is on the books, whether we can live it yet or not.  (To be fair, views on this mitzvah within the Torah world range from “it’s optional” to “it’s mandatory” and everything in between.) 

What we should never ever do is suggest, even for a second, or fool ourselves or anyone else into believing that Hashem doesn’t want us there. 

He does.

… All of which said, now that I have recorded this and shared it, I can advance the cause of packing / clearing off my desk by throwing away this piece of paper – so we can get over there and actually see these wonderful friends again in person!!!

Saying goodbye…

So it hit me the other day – we’re leaving, and our extended family isn’t coming with us.  My sisters, who have been around for every major milestone… well, they won’t be.  This isn’t really news to anyone, and this isn’t the first time it’s come to me in a sudden, shocking moment of panic.  I expect it’ll keep hitting me, over and over and over, until we actually leave.

Things were different twenty years ago when I first decided to make aliyah.  My sisters were annoying teenagers and I was somewhat estranged from my non-religious extended family in general.  Plus, I had grandparents and great-uncles and great-aunts and I don’t know how that made it easier, but I guess I figured with the kind of momentum you feel in a big extended family, they would all go on without me and I’d move on to fabulous new adventures.

There’s no big extended family anymore.  I guess it was an illusion, those 20- and 30- person seders and memories of childhood events surrounded by semi-strangers.  The older generation, my grandparents’ generation of great-uncles and great-aunts, is almost gone.  And with the loss of my father and his brother, even my mother’s generation feels shockingly depleted. 

The family seders are very small nowadays – and my own nuclear family too big to slip away without anyone noticing.  That’s the other thing that’s different:  back then, it was just me.  If you’re single, you can slip away more easily.  Now it is me with Ted and four beloved nephews, nieces, grandchildren, great-nieces and so on.  Our little 6-person family generally constitutes the bulk of any family event we turn up at.

Despite a couple of cousins who have figured out a way to reproduce, the rest of my generation have been pretty slothful about getting on with the task of producing the next generation.  Will there even be any family left, once we’re gone? 

If you are considering making aliyah, do it before you have kids the rest of your family becomes attached to.  And before your sisters grow up into amazing, accomplished, kind women of substance.  And before your mother is both widowed and orphaned in the same month, so she’s left coming to you every Shabbos for dinner and hoping every Shabbos and Yom Tov afternoon that you’ll drop by to invite her to the park or out for a walk (at least, I hope she’s hoping for it, as opposed to dreading it!). 

Do it as soon as you can – before you grow up, because it is a Very Painful Thing.

Friends of ours made aliyah to Mitzpeh Netofa (where we’re NOT going, but close by!) this week, and the husband spoke at shul before they left.  He mentioned the much commented-upon verse where Hashem first speaks to Avram in parshas Lech Lecha, saying, “לֶךְ לְךָ מֵאַרְצְךָ וּמִמּוֹלַדְתְּךָ וּמִבֵּית אָבִיךָ”, get up n’ go from

• your land
• your birthplace
• your father’s house

This friend pointed out that the order seems reversed.  When you’re travelling, what order do you do it in?  You leave your house, your city, and eventually, your country.  This is the logical order, the physical order.

But emotionally, the order is different.  It’s easy enough to leave your land – file the paperwork, tell Revenue Canada you’re not going to be filing Canadian taxes anymore.  Whatever it is, you just fill out a form; it’s simple to do. 

Leaving your “birthplace” is a bit more of a hassle – at a time when many of us don’t live in our actual birthplace, this involves selling or subletting a house, transferring utilities, selling the car, cancelling your phone.  You have a lot more local ties, there’s a lot more paperwork.  This is also the level at which you say goodbye to your community, your shul, so it’s a bit more painful.

But leaving your family, your “father’s house” – well, that’s the really wrenching part, and it’s nowhere near as neat as packing up your household worth of stuff.  There are loose ends you can never tie; old people you’ll never see again; young people it may be years before you meet again; stories you’ll never really know the end of (will they get the Eglinton Crosstown LRT built or not?!?  well, okay, maybe that’s more city-oriented).

The comfort is that there are things like Skype and cheap long-distance phone service and facebook.  It’s still expensive to fly, but it’s safe, and in so many ways, Israel has never been closer. 

My great-grandparents never got to Israel; they would have needed to travel for weeks, maybe months, to get there, and the route would have been dangerous.  If they arrived safely, it would take weeks for a letter to get back home letting everyone know they were okay.  Or not okay, starving or malaria-stricken, I don’t know.

My grandmother told me that after she married my grandfather, they sent wedding pictures back to Nowy Korczyn (Neustadt), his hometown in Poland.  They never got a reply – almost the entire family died in those fuzzy years of no contact, the black box that was WW2 Europe.  But at least we know with a reasonable degree of certainty that that extent of losing-touch can never, will never happen again.

At least if I have anything to say about it.