A Matter of Time

About ten days ago, I found it difficult to figure out what time it was.   That can be -- and was -- very disconcerting.  

The reason for this odd situation is that I went to the Kotel, the Western Wall of the Temple Mount.  

No, it had nothing to do with the timelessness of the prayers that are recited there.  It had to do with the fact that the Kotel is closer to the Palestinian Authority than my apartment.  Let me explain.

It was on Thursday a week ago, Rosh Hodesh Iyar, that I went to the Kotel.  (The reason, briefly, was to observe and to lend support to the efforts of Women of the Wall, "WOW".  I'll say more about WOW in another blogpost.)

As I was preparing to leave the Kotel, I looked at my iPhone and discovered that I had somehow gained an hour.  I had been at the Kotel for well over an hour.  I expected it to be around 8:30 am.  Yet, according to my iPhone, it was only 7:30 am!  The times for all of my appointments had also, somehow, shifted.  I was puzzled, but too busy to do anything about it.  When I got back to my apartment, I took another look at my iPhone.  Miraculously, everything had returned to normal.  

What was going on?  

The answer apparently has to do with Israel, the Palestinians, and Apple.

My iPhone, which is now serves as my watch and my calendar, automatically sets its internal clock according to the local governmental authority.  Most of the time, that means Israel.  After all, that's where I'm living right now.  

But sometimes, when I go close to the borders of the Palestinian Authority, something strange happens.  

(The dotted line on the map above indicates the pre-1967 "Green Line," which is not identical to the borders of the Palestinian Authority.)

My phone behaves as if the Palestinian Authority hasn't yet shifted onto daylight saving time--even though it has.  True, the Authority did not shift its clock at precisely the same time that the Israelis did, but its clock is now officially identical to that of Israel.  But Apple apparently doesn't know that!  Hence, it synchronizes my clock with what it thinks is the correct time in Ramallah or Hebron: namely, one hour earlier than in Israel.  The time on my iphone clock can shift back and forth several times during the day, depending on where in Jerusalem I happen to be.

Is this a metaphor?  Do any of us know what time it is, anyway, in this region?  

The Palestinians -- or, at least, some of them -- act sometimes as though time is on their side -- which, given the demography, may seem a reasonable perspective.  If present trends continue, the number of Arabs living west of the Jordan River will continue to increase.  Soon, it will exceed the number of Jews.  From the perspective of the Palestinians, why not wait until that demographic shift has occured?  Then, they could insist on becoming citizens of a single, unified state -- which would ultimately be Palestinian in character. How could that right be denied them? Why bother to return to the negotiating table until that happens?  (Other Palestinians, who seek to create an independent Palestinian state separate from Israel, are less sanguine, as they witness the expansion of Jewish settlements in the West Bank.) 

On the other side, many Israelis also believe that time is on their side.  They have lost hope in achieving peace with the Palestinians.  They don't believe that the Palestinians will ever be statisfied with anything less than the destruction of Israel as a Jewish state.  They would rather focus on improving Israel's position on the ground by building new settlements and strengthening existing ones, and put off making concessions.  To them, this path, even though it may mean enduring at least a low level of tension and even sporadic eruptions of violence, is preferable to seeking, vainly, to eliminate the tension altogether.  

(Other Israelis realize that it is likely that, eventually, Israel will be forced to choose (a) to exercise political, military and economic control over a hostile population in excess of its own; (b) to grant citizenship to all Palestinians and pursue the "one state solution"; or (c) to withdraw from much of the West Bank in order to remain a democratic, Jewish state.  Those who see such a choice as inevitable, as only a "matter of time," consider option (c) the only tenable and tolerable one, and therefore urge Israel to negotiate now, so as to carry out that transition as smoothly and peacefully as possible.  But that view is a minority one here.)

Hence, each side generally publicly acts as though time is on its side.  

But is it?

The Day After

“Boker tov, Boker tov!  Are these fresh?” asked the handsome, confident, breezy young man as he glided into the bakery and fingered the Danish.  The store had been closed the day before because of Yom HaAtzmaut.

“No,” the attractive young woman behind the counter flippantly responded, as she tapped her manicured fingernails against the glass. “What do you think?  They’re from two days ago.”  Was she bored? Peeved? Interested? Was she telling the truth?

This isn’t the first time these two have spoken.

That’s the kind of place where I sometimes go to get rolls in the morning: very down-to-earth.  This morning was a little different from usual.

“Can I help you?”  It was the older woman behind the counter who had turned to address me.  She obviously wanted to give the younger woman and the other customer a bit of “private time” to work on their relationship.

“Sure, I’ll take some rolls.”  As she wrapped them up for me, she said, “Isn’t it awful what happened in Boston?” 

“Yes,” I said.  She knew I was American.  But she didn’t know I was from the Boston area.  When I told her, she immediately became compassionate.

“You’ve been hit hard,” she said.  “9/11: it all started there, didn’t it? Those hijackers, they took off from Boston, right?”

It’s odd to be getting sympathy from Israelis following an attack like the one that took place the other day in Boston. It’s all over the morning papers, of course, so everyone knows about it.  “Terror on the Finish Line” went the headline in Yisrael Hayom, the free daily paper owned by Sheldon Adelson.  A Hebrew word that I couldn’t recognize at first but which is now familiar to me is “מרתון” – i.e., “marathon.”

I myself was going to call the twin bombings on Boylston Street a “terrorist attack,” but I’m hesitating.  In the dictionary, “terrorism” is defined as political violence.  It isn’t yet clear yet who carried out this attack and for what purpose, much less whether it was for political purposes.  So, as did President Obama the other day, I’m not (yet) calling it a terrorist attack. 

But Israelis are less restrained in this regard.  They have no inhibition about calling this a terrorist attack -- whoever may have perpetrated it.  And sadly, they have lots of experience with terrorist attacks.

“It was a pressure cooker, you know,” she said.  “Like ones used in bombs in other places, such as in Afghanistan and Pakistan.” 

The woman proceeded to offer me – and our government -- lots of unsolicited advice on how to address terrorism in our country:  what we could and should -- and shouldn’t -- be doing. 

But she also offered me compassion.  And it was from the heart.  I thanked her.

As I left the store, I noticed that the young man was gone.  But he’ll be back.  

Encountering Two Groups of Women -- on the same day

This morning, Elana and I went to the David Citadel Hotel to meet with a group of women from the Boston area who are here on a CJP women’s philanthropy mission, organized by Debbie Seresky.  There were lots of Needham women in the group, with eight present (and several former) members of our congregation.  Here’s a picture:

I love seeing members of our congregation in Israel.  I cannot overemphasize how important I believe it is for Jews to travel here.  Yes, we can live a full Jewish life anywhere in the world.  But let’s face it: we are blessed to live in an era with a sovereign Jewish state.  Israel is a place where we Jews have the opportunity to express our Jewishness in virtually all spheres of life, including the personal, the professional, and the political.  It is extraordinarily enriching to come to Israel and experience that. 

One of the points I emphasized to the group was how special these next two days will be.  At 8:00 tonight, a siren will sound to mark the beginning of Yom HaZikkaron (“Memorial Day”), the day on which Israelis remember the 23,085 Israeli soldiers and 2,493 victims of terror who have been killed since the establishment of the state.  Ceremonies will be held all over the land, in every neighborhood and community.  We will probably go to the local commemorative ceremony, at a school just down the block. (Coincidentally, it is on the same street as the school that Elana attended when she was an eighth grader here.)   Cafes will be closed, and the radio stations will play only quiet, sad songs.  Tomorrow morning at 11:00 am, another siren will sound, and at that moment virtually every Israeli will stand at attention for two minutes.  It’s similar to but different from the experience of standing for the two-minute siren on Yom HaShoah (which took place one week ago).  After all, in the past year alone, 92 Israeli soldiers who had been wounded in the line of duty died, and 10 Israelis were killed by acts of terror.  This is a weighty, ongoing and deeply-felt sacrifice of which every Israeli family is conscious.  At the end of the day, at the setting of the sun, Israelis will transition from deep grief to exultant joy.  Different people mark this in different ways.  Eight years ago, the last time Elana and I were in Israel for Yom HaAtzmaut, we were in a synagogue in which the congregation solemnly sang “Shir HaMaalot” (Psalm 126) to the tune of Hatikvah.  It was very, very moving.

Outdoor concerts, parties, and fireworks are planned.  Lots of people go out into the streets, and many of them stay up very, very late.  During the day on Tuesday, millions of Israelis will engage in the national pastime of barbecuing “manga” (an assortment of meat on the grill).   I’m delighted that the “Aliyahnikot” whom I saw this morning and their travel companions will have the privilege of experiencing this 48-hour national whirlwind.  It’s a wonderful lens through which to better understand and appreciate the reality that Israelis inhabit. 

After bidding goodbye to the group, I headed to the Conservative Yeshiva for my daily Talmud class.  When it was over, I headed home on foot.  I thought I’d get home in about twenty minutes, but I was delayed.

Along the way—and I know that this sounds a little like an Agnon story, but it’s absolutely true—I came upon a group of three nuns who looked lost.  They looked lost because they were lost.  As I approached them, one of them spoke up.

“Escusa,” she said, “Can you help us?”

“Of course,” I said.  “How can I help you?”  The woman who had spoken up, who was clearly a spokesperson for the group, explained that they were looking for “the monastery.” 

“The monastery,” I said.  “Which monastery?  Which denomination?”

Our conversation was hampered by the language barrier.  Their knowledge of conversational Hebrew was limited, as was my knowledge of Italian.  One of them (the spokesperson) spoke a bit of English, and so that’s what we used.  Our conversation was taking place in front of Terra Sancta, a prominent white stone building in the heart of Jerusalem.

I vaguely recalled that this beautiful property—whose exterior was recently sandblasted, and which is lit up at night—was owned by the Vatican.  (I also realized, as I looked up at the building, that although I had passed it hundreds of times, I’d never been inside.  I made a mental note to myself to go inside one day. )

“What denomination are you?” I asked the nuns. 

“Catholic,” they said.

“Are you looking for Terra Sancta?” 

“No, no!” they all said together.  “The monastery! The monastery!” 

We talked a bit: I asked what denomination monastery they were looking for.

“Orthodox,” they kept saying—which confused me at first. (I was distracted by a group of Orthodox Jews who were passing us.)

“Russian Orthodox? Greek Orthodox?” 

“Greek!” they said.

As we continued to talk, it dawned on me that they might be looking for the Monastery of the Cross.  The Monastery of the Cross sits all by itself in a lovely valley at the foot of the Israel Museum.  At first it hadn’t occurred to me that they were headed there because it is in a whole different neighborhood, but the more I thought about it the more sense it made to me.  After all, how many other monasteries are in the western, Jewish part of the city?  And so I took out my iPhone and pulled up a picture of the monastery, and showed it to them:

“Yes, yes!” they excitedly said. “That’s it!”  

“And how do you want to get there?” I asked.  “By bus? By cab?”

“On foot,” they said.

“It’s not far,” I said, “and it’s almost entirely downhill.”  But I was wondering whether they’d be able to get there on their own.  There were a few twists and turns along the way.  

“Let’s go,” I said.  “I’ll take you part way.”

“But you don’t have to come with us.  We’re fine,” they said.

“Oh, but I would be happy to accompany you, at least a little bit, on your journey.” (This is a mitzvah known as "l'viyah," or "accompanying.")

And so we travelled together along Derekh Azza and I got to know a lovely group of nuns.  By this time, I had ascertained that they were from Italy. One was from Rome, one from Venice and one from Turin.  The nun from Turin spoke the most English.  I learned that they live in a convent in the Old City of Jerusalem, and that this was their first trip out of the Old City. 

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

Pointing to the sister from Venice, the spokesperson said, “She has been here for three years.  The two of us have been here for several months.”

Wow, I thought to myself.  They’ve been here for months and they had never been outside of the Old City!

“How do you know English so well?” I asked the spokesperson. 

“I lived in America for a little while,” she said. 

“Oh,” I said, "where?”

“In Boston,” she said.

“This cannot be!” I said. “I too am from Boston!”

She turned to me, looked up at the sky, and said, “Adonai! Todah!  Todah, Adonai!”  She then looked at me, and said, “God has sent you to us!”

I must admit, it sent shivers down my spine: the gratitude they expressed felt so genuine.   We talked about people we knew in common, such as Father David Michael in Needham. 

As we walked down the street, I asked them whether they knew what was going to happen tonight, tomorrow and the next day.  No, they didn’t.  And so, as we walked, I found myself talking about Yom HaZikkaron and Yom HaAtzmaut, about how important these days are and how important it is to experience them in order to understand what it means to be an Israeli. 

We parted at the corner of Derekh Azza and Rehov Mitudela (named after Benjamin of Tudela, the intrepid medieval Jewish traveler whose chronicles provide very interesting information about medieval European life.)  By this time, we felt like old friends.  We didn’t hug, but we felt a real warmth for each other.

I didn’t take a picture of them.  On the one hand, I regret this, for I love to document these experiences.  On the other hand, there was something nice about just experiencing our encounter for its own sake. 

I got their address.  They live on the Via Dolorosa.  We look forward to seeing each other again some time soon.  

Who Was Haviva Reik?

Good question.  Why am I asking it? 

Well, here's the story:  My wife and I are renting an apartment in an interesting neighborhood in Jerusalem.  Virtually all the streets in the neighborhood are named after Jewish military heroes.  

The street we live on, Rehov HaPalmach, is no exception. It is named after the Haganah's elite fighting force.  (The Haganah was the Palestinian Jewish community's pre-state defense organization.)  The Palmach (a Hebrew acronym which stands for Plugot Mahatz, i.e., "strike forces") was the military unit in which many of Israel's early leaders earned their stripes, including Yitzhak Rabin.  When Israel declared its independence in 1948, the Palmach was absorbed into the Israel Defense Forces (Israel's army), but Palmach veterans remained prominent and influential. 

Intersecting with Rehov HaPalmach very close to our apartment building is a very small street with the name, "Haviva Reik Alley."  Ever since moving here, I'd wondered who she was.  Today, in honor of Yom HaShoah, I thought I would do some research and share my findings with you. (Much of the information below is available on-line.) 

Like Hannah Senesh, Haviva was a Jewish volunteer who parachuted behind enemy lines during World War II in an attempt to strengthen Jewish resistance and save Jewish lives. Although she never became as famous as Hannah Senesh, her story is no less inspiring.

Haviva Reik was born in 1914 in Slovakia, which is roughly north of Hungary, south of Poland, east of Austria and west of Ukraine.

Although there was a brief period between the two world wars during which Jewish life flourished in Slovakia, by the 1930s, a government with Nazi sympathies arose there.  As it did elsewhere in Europe, anti-Semitism flourished in Slovakia.  Like many of her peers, Haviva became a Zionist. She joined the Hashomer Hatzair socialist Zionist youth group, and prepared to become a farmer in the Land of Israel.  In 1939, she emigrated to what was then known as Palestine.  (It is sad to note that only approximately 5,000 Slovakian Jews emigrated from Slovakia before the outbreak of World War II.  Almost all who remained were murdered.)

Once in Palestine, Haviva became active in the Palmach.  This brought her to the attention of British and Jewish leaders in Palestine who, by 1942, were seeking Jewish soldiers to drop behind enemy lines to develop and strengthen the anti-Nazi resistance.  

Haviva trained to become a paratrooper.  

(Here is a picture of Reik with others with whom she trained: she is seated in the front on the right of the picture.  The other woman, seated on the left, is Sara Braverman.)  

After her training, in September, 1944, Reik parachuted into Slovakia.  She joined a group of American and British officers and engaged in relief and rescue activities.  The group organized a soup kitchen, a community center for refugees, and facilitated the escape of Jewish children to Hungary and from there to Palestine. Through their connections with partisan and resistance groups, they helped rescue allied airmen who had been shot down.

In response, the Nazis determined to supress the resistance.  Haviva and the other parachutists escaped to the mountains with about forty Jews of varying ages from the area.  But the Germans overran the camp and captured Reik and several of the others.  (Only one paratrooper escaped capture.)  Haviva was killed on November 20th in the village of Kremnička.  She and the Jews she had been sheltering were  buried in a mass grave in the village. 

After the war ended (less than eight months later), her body was recovered by the British and re-interred in a British military cemetery in Prague.  Following the creation of the State of Israel in 1948, the Israeli government petitioned the British for permission to re-inter her in Israel.  This permission was finally granted in 1952, and her body was then buried on Mount Herzl together with the remains of Hannah Senesh.

In addition to the street near my apartment, a kibbutz (Lehavot Haviva) and the Givat Haviva institute were named after Haviva Reik.

As I mentioned in my previous blogpost, we tend to refer to this day on the Jewish calendar as "Yom HaShoah," but its full name is, in fact, the Day of Remembrance of the Holocaust and Heroism.  I have a feeling that, from now on, when I think of modern Jewish heroes, Haviva Reik will be among the first who will come to mind.  

A Few Thoughts on Erev Yom Ha-Shoah (Holocaust and Heroism Memorial Day) in the Jewish National Home

Our local supermarket closed early this evening.

So too did the coffee shop, the natural food store, and just about every other store on the block.

At first it wasn’t clear why, but then it was: with nightfall, Yom Ha-Zikkaron la-Shoah v’la-G’vurah—Israel’s “Holocaust and Heroism Memorial Day” (the day that many colloquially call, “Yom HaShoah”) began.  It isn’t as if every Israeli feels the loss of the six million as a personal loss, but here people don’t just relate to the Shoah as a personal or a religious event.  Rather, it is considered to be a national catastrophe.  So it would make sense that the stores would close early tonight. 

Right now, I’m watching one of the national commemorative gatherings on TV.  I am listening to an army hazzan chant the El Malei Rachamim in memory of the six million.  A few minutes ago, six very frail survivors rose to light six torches in memory of the victims. In the paper the other day there was a very sobering story:  in Israel today, holocaust survivors are dying at the rate of 1,000 per month.  In fact, one of those who had been selected to light a torch this evening died a few weeks ago.  (A younger relative agreed to take his place.)  

What was most moving to me was seeing each of those survivors being assisted by young male or female IDF soldiers.  Those soldiers appear to come from a variety of backgrounds, including Ethiopia, Russia, and North Africa.  Somehow, thinking about how far we Jews have come in seventy years, brought tears to the surface. 

In our apartment, we have cable TV, and there are usually many channels to choose from—but not tonight. Tonight, except for the three main Israeli channels that are broadcasting holocaust memorial ceremonies from around the country and a few foreign channels, the TV is silent. 

(The caption reads:  "Our broadcasting will resume at the conclusion of Yom HaShoa.")

Not everyone is watching, of course. In fact, in the past several years, newer, different commemorations have been created to be responsive to the needs of the “third generation,” i.e., the grandchildren of survivors.  One such program taking place this evening here in Jerusalem is called “Zochrim v’Sharim,” “Remembering Through Song.”  When it was first offered a few years ago, 70 people attended. This year, hundreds are expected.

A moment ago, I was trying to find Reshet Gimel, the channel on the radio where Zochrim v’Sharim will be broadcast.  As I was turning the dial, I realized that, except for the Arabic language stations, all I could hear, on station after station, was the Mourners Kaddish.

Which reminds me:  Do you say Amen to a brachah you hear on the radio?

Earlier in the day, I read that pro-Palestinian/anti-Israel hackers had shut down several governmental websites today, including those of the Knesset.  The Defense Ministry was apparently targeted, but it repelled the attack.  (You can read the story here.)

No long-standing damage was reported.  Was the choice of Yom HaShoah intentional? If so, what does it signify?  (One amusing memory I have of reading that story: when I first saw the headline, “Mitkefet Siber”, I thought for a moment that the article was about “saber rattling.”  It took a moment or two for me to realize that the title referred to a “cyber attack.”)

Tomorrow morning, I hope to go to the Conservative Yeshiva to hear Rabbi Pesach Schindler speak about his family’s escape from Nazi Germany. Later that morning, at 10:00 am, the sirens will sound for two minutes.  Two minutes is an awfully long time for people, cars, trucks, busses and trains to stop—try it, and see for yourself--but stop they will.  Here's one of several Youtube videos that demonstrate the power of that moment:

Then, at noon, there will be a ceremony at Machon Schechter (the Schechter Institute) where I will be attending class.   As I said above, it is impossible to ignore the day. 

I am now listening to Zochrim v’Sharim, and its very affecting collection of songs and reminiscences.  A few minutes ago, Lu Yehi, a poignant Israeli song, was sung.  And then Rabbi Benny Lau, a learned, articulate and engaged community leader, read a beautiful letter he had written to his son on the eve of his son's journey to Poland.  Rabbi Benny Lau's uncle, Rabbi Israel Meir Lau, accompanied President Obama on his visit to Yad Vashem a few weeks ago. 

You can read about the elder Rabbi Lau and his extraordinary experience during the Shoah here.    

One of the blessings of being here in Jerusalem is the privilege of studying with Rabbi Benny Lau, which I've been doing on Shabbat afternoons during the past several weeks.

I am thinking about the joint Temple Aliyah/ Temple Beth Shalom holocaust memorial service this evening, and the Mens’ Club’s yellow candle project.  I hope that through activities such as these, wherever we are, we can feel some of what is so palpable here in Israel: that sense that what happened in the Shoah isn’t a story about something that happened to other people some place else a long time ago; it’s a story about what happened to us, not very long ago--a story that we don't want to see happen to us or to anyone else ever again.