February 26, 2009
It is so different living in Richmond than in the Israeli cities of Ashdod, Ashkelon or the town of Sderot. On Wednesday, February 11th, two buses of Rabbis and some spouses, traveled to the above named localities in southern Israel. Because of possible danger, we signed wavers. I don't think I read the fine print, but I was going anyway and would have signed it regardless. We first came to Ashdod, one of the major ports of Israel. The sea is shining blue, the temperature moderate, and from the coastal highway, the former empty sands have sprouted over the years a beautiful sun drenched city. We were taken to a project funded by the Joint Distribution Committee that provides home housing support for the elderly. We met with several women and with people who support them living at home. It was impressive. Instead of segregating elderly people, they enable them to live in their familiar surroundings, in comfort, yet with all their necessities taken care of. They going shopping for them, get their medications, arrange all necessary transportation, create programs that fill their lives with meaning and purpose and maintain a deep sense of community. I didn't ask them one question: how do you take care of them when the air raid sirens go off? Maybe they rely on prayer as their protection, because there is no way that all of them could get to bomb shelters in time. But they are hardy and sturdy people. Many are Russian immigrants who survived Stalin, WWII and the Cold War. I don't know if I could have their courage and mettle.
Then we went to Congregation Netzach Yisrael, the Conservative (in Israel called Masorti [traditional but not orthodox]) congregation inAshkelon. Before warm greetings and introductions, the Rabbi of the congregation stood up and said: "Everyone sitting on this side of the room will follow that person out that door to the bomb shelter and everyone sitting on that side of the room will follow that person out that door to that bomb shelter, should the siren sound." Then he added the postscript: "And you only have fifteen seconds in which to do it." The obvious reason was because from the time the rocket/missiles/katyusha/mortar is spotted it only takes 15 seconds to hit Ashkelon. That was a very sobering announcement. There was silence in the room. The active war in Gaza to stop this insanity was over but Hamas was still firing intermittently. During the briefing they showed us maps pinpointing every hit on Ashkelon. We have not seen that information in America. Why? Does the international media not care how one million civilians have been living for years under the bombardment of 10,000 such attacks fora decade? Why haven't Jewish media reported this? Does it get boring? Afraid to frighten away American Jewish tourists? And then they took us to see several of the five kindergartens at the synagogue. The children's eyes were so radiant, so joyful, their voices so filled with song and prayers, so happy to see us that you have to stop and pinch yourself and ask "what planet have I come to? They are living under unbearable conditions, at least I couldn't do it, and they look like this?" Maybe God's miracles have not ceased. We visited to two classes. Then they showed us the bomb shelters. Poured concrete reinforced with metal made to withstand everything but a direct hit. Yet amazing: they have loops on all four corners, so that when they are no longer needed, the crane that lifted them from the flatbed and put them there, can one day come and take them away. There are 10,000 such bomb shelters that look like bus stops. May they soon disappear from the landscape.
Sderot has only been a name. Not even a place on the map. Just somewhere near the Gaza Strip. Let me tell you, it is a beautiful town. There are parks with green grass, two story apartment buildings of different vintages, and single family homes with beautiful tiled roofs. Its climate is one you could die for. And if a bomb hits you, you will. With my colleagues we ascended a bluff and looked down into the lions den. Using my camcorder I could look right into the apartment complexes from which the multitude of armament has rained down upon Sderot which is defenseless. It is a small town with its few strip malls, its police station, synagogues, and town center. There are a few restaurants and many small grocery stores. They probably don't have any large ones. It is a completely civilian location. Shooting at Sderot has only one reason: to kill civilians or otherwise terrorize the population. And for years, and with thousands of attacks, the town has refused to die, even if nearly half have temporarily relocated, maintaining ownership of their homes so to return some day. I cannot describe the complex intersection of feelings that I had standing there, looking at Gaza in one direction and Sderot in the other. I am no hero. I didn't want to see anything launched at us. I just didn't understand how these people could live. I just couldn't understand why Israel waited so long and took such a torturous route until they defended these people. The distance between the two is less than from Richmond to Ashland. It is as if someone is lobbing mortars into downtown Richmond from the airport! Who would tolerate that for an instant!
Then they took us to what they fondly call "The Katyusha Museum." It is a space behind the police station where they display a fraction of the katyushas and Grad missles that they have cleaned up. Irony is that the katyushas are made from metal fabricated in Israel with Israeli markings that were sent into the Gaza Strip to be used for building homes and schools and hospitals. Instead Hamas uses them to shoot at Israel. The Grad missles are made in Iran. They have the markings. Who cares? I have never served in the military and have never been under fire. Standing in front of those shelves was a reality check and shock. These were not words in a dispatch like this. These were real. They were meant to kill me and any others like me. I took pictures but had nothing to say. Afterwards we walked around this area of Sderot but we were told: always know where the nearest bomb shelter is located. It's like the announcement on airplane that "the nearest escape hatch could be behind you." I paid attention. Nothing happened. We ate lunch outside the bus and departed fro Beersheva and a visit to the Conservative/Masorti Congregation Eshel Avraham. They too are under the gun. There they spoke about dealing with post traumatic stress syndrom which is just not "post." Then we returned to Jerusalem much later in the evening.
I write this last installment thousands of miles, thirteen days and light years away from Israel, in the comfort of my home in Richmond, Virginia. It is hard to verbalize the cross currents that run through me. I have never known an unembatled Israel. I have never lived without the State existing. I don't know what that means and never want to. I was born in New York, English is my native tongue and I route for sports teams far away, the Dodgers and Mets. Yet I live in two realities. I spoke in synagogue last week of the last episode of Voyager in the Star Trek series. Its Captain Janeway is trying to bring it safely home but cannot. At the last minute, Enterprise captained by Jean Louc Picard (pardon my spelling) comes from another time through the worm hole to save the Voyager. How can these two coexist? The Enterprise preceeded the Voyager. Picard is dead and Janeway is alive. And yet, for this instant, they both existed! There was no past separate from a present and it impacted on both their futures.
So I live. I wear two watches. One set on Eastern Standard Time. One set on Jerusalem time. One keeps me on target here. One keeps me rooted in Jerusalem. One tells me what time to be in the office. The other tells me what time it is to call our daughter. I live with two realities constantly present, just one more up front and the other not too far back. I see tiled roofs in Richmond. I see the tiled roofs of Sderot. My street is peaceful May their be too.
The next time I write a column will be next summer when I will walk the streets of Jerusalem and visit the village of Sderot again. Meanwhile I pray for peace. For everyone. In every language. Wherever they live.
Shalom from Jerusaelm, but written in Richmond.
It is so different living in Richmond than in the Israeli cities of Ashdod, Ashkelon or the town of Sderot. On Wednesday, February 11th, two buses of Rabbis and some spouses, traveled to the above named localities in southern Israel. Because of possible danger, we signed wavers. I don't think I read the fine print, but I was going anyway and would have signed it regardless. We first came to Ashdod, one of the major ports of Israel. The sea is shining blue, the temperature moderate, and from the coastal highway, the former empty sands have sprouted over the years a beautiful sun drenched city. We were taken to a project funded by the Joint Distribution Committee that provides home housing support for the elderly. We met with several women and with people who support them living at home. It was impressive. Instead of segregating elderly people, they enable them to live in their familiar surroundings, in comfort, yet with all their necessities taken care of. They going shopping for them, get their medications, arrange all necessary transportation, create programs that fill their lives with meaning and purpose and maintain a deep sense of community. I didn't ask them one question: how do you take care of them when the air raid sirens go off? Maybe they rely on prayer as their protection, because there is no way that all of them could get to bomb shelters in time. But they are hardy and sturdy people. Many are Russian immigrants who survived Stalin, WWII and the Cold War. I don't know if I could have their courage and mettle.
Then we went to Congregation Netzach Yisrael, the Conservative (in Israel called Masorti [traditional but not orthodox]) congregation inAshkelon. Before warm greetings and introductions, the Rabbi of the congregation stood up and said: "Everyone sitting on this side of the room will follow that person out that door to the bomb shelter and everyone sitting on that side of the room will follow that person out that door to that bomb shelter, should the siren sound." Then he added the postscript: "And you only have fifteen seconds in which to do it." The obvious reason was because from the time the rocket/missiles/katyusha/mortar is spotted it only takes 15 seconds to hit Ashkelon. That was a very sobering announcement. There was silence in the room. The active war in Gaza to stop this insanity was over but Hamas was still firing intermittently. During the briefing they showed us maps pinpointing every hit on Ashkelon. We have not seen that information in America. Why? Does the international media not care how one million civilians have been living for years under the bombardment of 10,000 such attacks fora decade? Why haven't Jewish media reported this? Does it get boring? Afraid to frighten away American Jewish tourists? And then they took us to see several of the five kindergartens at the synagogue. The children's eyes were so radiant, so joyful, their voices so filled with song and prayers, so happy to see us that you have to stop and pinch yourself and ask "what planet have I come to? They are living under unbearable conditions, at least I couldn't do it, and they look like this?" Maybe God's miracles have not ceased. We visited to two classes. Then they showed us the bomb shelters. Poured concrete reinforced with metal made to withstand everything but a direct hit. Yet amazing: they have loops on all four corners, so that when they are no longer needed, the crane that lifted them from the flatbed and put them there, can one day come and take them away. There are 10,000 such bomb shelters that look like bus stops. May they soon disappear from the landscape.
Sderot has only been a name. Not even a place on the map. Just somewhere near the Gaza Strip. Let me tell you, it is a beautiful town. There are parks with green grass, two story apartment buildings of different vintages, and single family homes with beautiful tiled roofs. Its climate is one you could die for. And if a bomb hits you, you will. With my colleagues we ascended a bluff and looked down into the lions den. Using my camcorder I could look right into the apartment complexes from which the multitude of armament has rained down upon Sderot which is defenseless. It is a small town with its few strip malls, its police station, synagogues, and town center. There are a few restaurants and many small grocery stores. They probably don't have any large ones. It is a completely civilian location. Shooting at Sderot has only one reason: to kill civilians or otherwise terrorize the population. And for years, and with thousands of attacks, the town has refused to die, even if nearly half have temporarily relocated, maintaining ownership of their homes so to return some day. I cannot describe the complex intersection of feelings that I had standing there, looking at Gaza in one direction and Sderot in the other. I am no hero. I didn't want to see anything launched at us. I just didn't understand how these people could live. I just couldn't understand why Israel waited so long and took such a torturous route until they defended these people. The distance between the two is less than from Richmond to Ashland. It is as if someone is lobbing mortars into downtown Richmond from the airport! Who would tolerate that for an instant!
Then they took us to what they fondly call "The Katyusha Museum." It is a space behind the police station where they display a fraction of the katyushas and Grad missles that they have cleaned up. Irony is that the katyushas are made from metal fabricated in Israel with Israeli markings that were sent into the Gaza Strip to be used for building homes and schools and hospitals. Instead Hamas uses them to shoot at Israel. The Grad missles are made in Iran. They have the markings. Who cares? I have never served in the military and have never been under fire. Standing in front of those shelves was a reality check and shock. These were not words in a dispatch like this. These were real. They were meant to kill me and any others like me. I took pictures but had nothing to say. Afterwards we walked around this area of Sderot but we were told: always know where the nearest bomb shelter is located. It's like the announcement on airplane that "the nearest escape hatch could be behind you." I paid attention. Nothing happened. We ate lunch outside the bus and departed fro Beersheva and a visit to the Conservative/Masorti Congregation Eshel Avraham. They too are under the gun. There they spoke about dealing with post traumatic stress syndrom which is just not "post." Then we returned to Jerusalem much later in the evening.
I write this last installment thousands of miles, thirteen days and light years away from Israel, in the comfort of my home in Richmond, Virginia. It is hard to verbalize the cross currents that run through me. I have never known an unembatled Israel. I have never lived without the State existing. I don't know what that means and never want to. I was born in New York, English is my native tongue and I route for sports teams far away, the Dodgers and Mets. Yet I live in two realities. I spoke in synagogue last week of the last episode of Voyager in the Star Trek series. Its Captain Janeway is trying to bring it safely home but cannot. At the last minute, Enterprise captained by Jean Louc Picard (pardon my spelling) comes from another time through the worm hole to save the Voyager. How can these two coexist? The Enterprise preceeded the Voyager. Picard is dead and Janeway is alive. And yet, for this instant, they both existed! There was no past separate from a present and it impacted on both their futures.
So I live. I wear two watches. One set on Eastern Standard Time. One set on Jerusalem time. One keeps me on target here. One keeps me rooted in Jerusalem. One tells me what time to be in the office. The other tells me what time it is to call our daughter. I live with two realities constantly present, just one more up front and the other not too far back. I see tiled roofs in Richmond. I see the tiled roofs of Sderot. My street is peaceful May their be too.
The next time I write a column will be next summer when I will walk the streets of Jerusalem and visit the village of Sderot again. Meanwhile I pray for peace. For everyone. In every language. Wherever they live.
Shalom from Jerusaelm, but written in Richmond.
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