...Please don't go, we'll eat you up we love you so...

My reflections on the passing of Maurice Sendak, beloved children's author, can be found on the Times of Israel website:

http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/please-dont-go-well-eat-you-up-we-love-you-so/

After Party

בס"ד

It was Saturday night, and I was tired. Aaron, one of my best friends, had gotten married a few days prior to my late shift. A lot of time that had been set aside for school work had been relocated for the various preparations we had taken upon ourselves for his wedding. This in turn had resulted in losing an incredible amount of time that had been relegated for sleep. Since Thursday morning, the (in)famous DZ and NZ and myself had been hanging out with each other and Aaron in various combinations. Good food, better spirits, and a great time were had by all, but by the time the Motzei Shabbat late shift rolled around, my eyelids were being held open by Olympian will and my liver was still processing the large, high-quality quantities of Thursday’s nuptial cheer.

Which is why at 2:30 in the morning, when I found myself completing the liter of beer I had started two glasses ago, I had to cock an eyebrow at myself. But it was late, and if I was going to be hanging out alone with the taps for another hour and a half, I was going to make the most out of it. For a brief second it had crossed my mind that drinking alone is the first sign of alcoholism, but hey, I’m a professional.

Relative for a Saturday night, business had hit a hard lull- especially considering the perfect jacket weather outside. An hour so before, DZ and NZ had returned for a wedding after-party (sans bride and groom), but since their departure the Slow had really begun to live up to its name. A few other friends of mine had stopped in and then decided it was too late to drink, leaving five minutes after arriving, and taking the last of the customers with them.

Candles from the empty tables cast small flickering shadows on the red walls, and the chairs stood silently, empty skeletons aglow in the permanent dusk of the quiet pub. Moshe forbids us to close before the official closing time (4am weekend, 3am regular days), but I try to leave as soon as the display blinks with the appropriate time, so I began to do whatever I could to hasten the end of the shift. While wiping down the assortment of mismatched café tables, dreaming of cute girls from the wedding and trying to gauge bothmy feelings and chances, my 100 strong “bar appropriate” playlist continued its lengthy shuffle.

Soon, Sublime attacked the stereo with “What I Got”. I shoot a glance around the bar and out onto the street. Empty. The soft acoustic beginning rolled into the song’s famous reggae-rap, and my body, sore and well-worn from the celebration of new love and new life, began to move of its own accord. Nobody was around to interfere, to be stepped on or bumped into. I pranced around the larger area of the bar, in the large aisle that separates tables 9, 10, 11, 12 (whose placement on the computer screen changes every night), breaking moves and popping with the beat. Legs crossed with knees bent, propelling my body with a quick jump. Front leg, back leg, an Irish jig of a shuffle moving me from one end of the small room to the other.

The bar became my ball room, the canvas for my redefinition of movement. With a kick and push, I challenged the wall’s dancing shadows with my creativity. Alone in the Slow, the complex emotions of the week released themselves through my legs for five minutes before I forced myself to stop- I preferred not to sweat into the pints I might have had to pour with the entrance of a last minute customer. But Good Lord in Heaven, I had never danced so well. 

A Slow Purim

BS”D

Every character in Jerusalem was on the dance floor on Thursday night. Moshe had emptied out the tables of the bottom level of the bar, leaving a scant perimeter of chairs around the cramped makeshift dance floor. Stars of film, fiction, and the day-to-day shuffle mingled with the Nachlaot strange-folk (dressed in clothing only slightly stranger than what they might on normal day). While they moved to the reggae-heavy beats that the DJ sent down from the upper gallery, the three of us manning the bar handled a flow of orders, a flow of beer, and a computer controlled cash register that shorted out on us during the busiest night of the year.

From midnight until the six o’clock AM- last customer closing, the crowd’s numbers stayed steady. Every hour and a half we would be granted a fifteen minute lull, catch our breath and a quick dance of our own, and then greet the newest batch of late-night party seekers.

During one such lull, the floor condensed to a ten person circle. As the music slowed from a hop to a reggae-groove, they began a slow dance, a ragga-style conga line around the room. From the bar I noticed that the cute cowgirl who had been doing a reggae-prance since my arrival, had traded her 10 gallon hat for the golden leaves of one of the many Caesars who were drinking Goldstar as if it was ambrosia.

“Hmmm,” I thought to myself as I look her over, focused (for an admitted change) on her head gear, “she’s gone and made herself a queen.”

My brain stopped, spun a fast rewind, and replayed my last thought. Light went off in my brain as I realized that she is a Purim ideal personified.

According to Kabalistic belief, after the creation of man, it was necessary for G-d to reduce his presence in the world. To stand next to eternal glory would cripple man’s ability to exist on his own. G-d’s powers outshine the abilities of man, and required that He shrink his worldly presence so that man might have creative space. In the Purim story that appears in Megillat Esther (The Scroll of Esther- read twice on Purim), G-d’s name is famously omitted. The sages explain that this is to stress the repentance of the Jewish people of the time, something that was done independent of G-d. They continue by explaining that the Big Man appears in a clouded allusion every time the word “HaMelech”(The king appears). His role is the background, as stage crew, pulling the strings for the happy ending at the end of the story. While the newly crowned cow-queen dance around the room, it dawned on me that maybe G-d takes this backseat to allow us the chance to claim our royalty- much like Mordechai and Esther did back then in Persia.

The importance of this coronation is rooted in the controversial holy war that the Jewish people is commanded to wage against the nation of Amalek. Though many have described this as a physical war, Chassidim view it as a war of the spirit. Amalek claimed their “most wanted” status on the Jewish hit-list after they attacked the recently freed children of Israel during their desert trek. By first attacking the weak rear of the young Jewish nation, they anointed themselves as archetypal enemies. Chassidic sages expound on the Amalekite tactics and explain that the trait of Amalek is the destruction of self-esteem; knocking a free man back into slavery, turning king into pauper. To fight against Amalek, according to the Chassidim, is to fight against the instinct to belittle your fellow human being, or in some cases, yourself.

There is always a tikun though, a way to fix troubling instincts. As the great Rabbi Nachman of Breslov teaches:

“As long as the candle burns, one has the ability to fix.”

Slow Moshe’s Purim party ended at sunrise, the dawn of a new day and new opportunities. After cleaning up the sticky layer of dirt coating the bar’s floor, I stumbled through the day’s commandments. Aside from the reading of Megillat Esther, we are required to give both monetary gifts to the poor and edible gifts to friends. Throughout my efforts I was reminded of another story by Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach:

Once, a rich miser was approached by a group of rabbis to donate money for a poor, soon-to-be-wed couple. He responded by offering them a single ruble. One of the rabbis eagerly accepted the meager offering, shocking his disappointed counterparts. Before the rabbi could offer an explanation, the miser returned with more money, eventually giving them all that was needed for a festive celebration. When pressed to explain, the rabbi told his peers that sometimes you just need to help a person learn to give even the tiniest bit. After that, the floodgates of good open with full force.

Though asleep on my feet for most of the day, I could feel those floodgates open and send a surge of blue blood through my veins. I had gone from being a student working late night bar shifts to being the town’s greatest benefactor. It was an intoxicating feeling of power, but one that could only result in good. Looking back on the royal cowgirl, I realized that this was Amalek’s Purim tikun. Kingship affords self-esteem. It enables belief and trust in place of skepticism and doubt, and allows us to channel our new found abilities into the lives of others. When used correctly, wealth and treasure can be the best type of double-edged sword, bequeathing a sense of importance and happiness to both the giver and receiver. 

A crown for all to wear.

Patrons you want to kill, patrons you want to hug

BS”D

Israel’s weekend begins on Friday, in preparation for Shabbat (The Saturday Sabbath), which means that Thursday night is the Saturday night of Israel. Slow Moshe was packed when I arrived at 11. Ron, Moshe’s son, was manning the taps, and I quickly jumped in to help him ease the pressure on the bar. Glasses filled the sink, and others were scattered throughout the dimly-lit room, turning dish-washing into a Sisyphean act of cleaning and collecting. On one of my rounds of collection, the three cute American girls sitting at the mini-bar extended their pretzel bowl. With a smile I knew all too well, they asked for a refill. Every man knows and that look and tone of voice. It is one that says “I’m not actually interested in you, but I know that if I act like I am I’ll get what I want.” Cursing them in my head, my legs turned to jelly, and the optimist in me began his useless wrestle with his realist counterpart.

About a minute after I refilled their bowl (what would prove to be yet another Sisyphean bar task), the girls turned their eyes to a pair of guys who had just entered the bar. They pointed, laughed, and whispered, and I once again muttered a string of choice words to myself. Unphased, the two newcomers shot them a glance, spoke to them for a minute, and began looking for a table.

“Hey man, any room on the bar?”

I responded in the negative, and directed them to the upstairs gallery. Upon bringing them their beer and pretzels, I discovered that they were quick to surround themselves with another group of girls. This barman always seems to go barefoot.  

Glasses came in to be washed, and went back out filled with beer. Two bags of pretzels were finished by hungry customers. The American girls in the corner sat by their table with their empty glasses and sweetly asked for more pretzel refills before paying for a beer a piece. Two hours passed with barely a moment of calm. As the girls filed out leaving neither tip nor numbers, the gallery began to empty out as well. Patrons began a bar-table version of musical chairs, shuffling through the newly available spots. With seats open at the bar, the two guys from earlier on moved in and sat in front of me.

We chatted and exchanged information on life. Their names werer NZ and DZ, and though they were not blood brothers they went through the grind of both Elementary and High-School together in Jerusalem, and werepractically related. NZ had a tough week and came to the Slow to let off some steam. He began to tell both DZ and myself what he has been up to, taking advantage of the psychology major awarded to any fool who steps behind the bar.  For the most part I tossed my comments and answered their questions with my back to them, busy cleaning the steady stream of glasses that piled in as our conversation flowed. One of them passed me the bowl for a pretzel refill. Naturally, I complied, but with the pretzels running low I had to skimp a bit. He shot me a glance and said something about me not needing to be a miser. Shaking my head, I top off the bowl.

Thank G-d, business was good and there was not a dull moment. Aside from fetching glasses and lighting candles, I had plenty of order to fill as well. A loud cough sounded from behind my back. Turning around, I discovered an outstretched hand with an upgraded pretzel bowl- DZ had swapped the two person version for the three plus version. His grinning chuckle let me know that he expected it to be refilled to the brim.

This went on for a while. To their credit, DZ and NZ ordered a lot, and began racking up the biggest bill (at least per person) that I had yet to see at the Slow. They also managed to devour full bowls of pretzels within seconds. Every time I turned around they handed me the bowl. When I didn’t turn around, they cleared their throat to get my attention.  A few more drinks, and probably a full bag of pretzels later, they got up and began to do something that nobody should ever attempt- drunken dancing. DZ is a burly guy but had managed to get a few moves down, and NZ wanted to learn from him. Crammed between the bar stools and the stairwell wall, with just enough room for someone to push his/her way through to the bathroom, they began to hop, skip, and jump. After bumping into the dark red wall, each other, and the bar stools,  they fell over into their own seats, reached for the empty pretzel bowl, and asked me for more.

DZ and NZ ended up staying until closing time, sipping high-content cocktails, and of course, munching on pretzels.  At some point they remarked that I probably never wanted to see them again in the bar.

“Ha ha,” they laughed. “He’ll probably hang up a sign with our picture over a ‘Don’t Serve’ caption.”

As if. When our two most obnoxious customers happen to be two of your best friends, well, late shifts don’t get any better than that.

Sparks

Ayal was the only person in the bar. It was eight o'clock, way too early for anyone else to stop in for a beer. I had just finished slicing the lemons and was slightly bored, so I grabbed my glass of Goldstar and pulled up one the metal chairs to his table. He smiled, and looked me over, from my kippa (skullcap) to my tzitzit (ritual fringes). 

"What are you doing working here?" he asked.

I knew what he was getting at. His sad, brown, Yemenite eyes had focused on the fringes sticking out from my shirt. Standard response to my job description by a religious adult is to cock an eyebrow. My Hebrew teacher in the States explained to me that your social circle largely revolves around who you are with, and that rolling with a crew of bartenders looks bad on the shidduch-resume. Others have wondered if I am about to shake my skull loose from its cap, like others in my yeshiva have done since leaving. To me the answer was simple, and a genuine continuation of what I had been taught in yeshiva. 

"Somebody's gotta raise the sparks, no?" I replied. 

An explanation might be required: 

According to Chassidic belief, before Creation, the good of the soon-to-be world was held as a powerful light inside vessels of G-d's making. Like any container that holds an ever-growing energy, these eventually exploded, showering the universe with shards and sparks that fell to the baby world. Our job in the world is to search for the sparks amongst the glass, the beauty and holiness within the mundane and even profane, and to raise them to their deserved level. 

Ayal smiled, and raised his glass in a L'Chaim. 

"This is good," he responded. "A boy like you, with a kippa on his head mingling with people who are different, this is what we need. True love for your brethren. That's what's most important for us, especially with this being the beginning of a month of happiness that was derived from our unity as a people." (The Jewish month of Adar, the month of the Purim holiday as well as important victories of the Hasmoneans of Channukah). 

We sat there in silence for a minute, while I pondered the question that so many ask me, and analyzed my response. I was reminded of a story told by Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, and decided to share it with Ayal.

"One year, as Yom Kippur approached, a little chassid named Moishele packed up his horse, kissed his wife and children goodbye, and set off to see his rabbi. This was the one time of the year that he had the chance to do so, and Moishele was eager to see his spiritual leader's holy face. He spurred his horse passed the Polish forests and countryside, arriving at the Rebbe's house before any of the other followers. Excitedly, he knocked on the door.

The door swung open to reveal the long bearded rabbi, who took one look at Moishele and ordered him away. 

'Leave Moishele. I don't want you here. The last thing that I want is to spend Yom Kippur with you. Get out of my house immediately!'

The words were spit out with such ferocity, that Moishele barely even realized that he has saddled up his horse. Dissapointed and downtrodden, he began his slow journey home. To ease his sorrow, he stopped at the kretchma, the local inn, and ordered himself a shot.  

Inside the kretchma, the chassidim who were on their way had congregated and were drinking, singing, and dancing with a passion. When they saw Moishele's face they had to ask what had happened. After he had unraveled his tale, one of his chassidic brothers clapped him on the shoulders and declared:

'Moishele, this is indeed a travesty, and therefore you must drink a L'Chaim with me.'

The others agreed, and soon Moishele found himself spinning around the room, rosy cheeked and optimistic, while his friends blessed him with rowdy "L'Chaims" ("To life").

"You know Moishele," the others said to him, "according to Jewish law, anything that the baal habayit (master of the house) says to a guest, the guest must do. Except if he tells him to leave. Come back to the rebbe with us. At the very least maybe he will give you an explanation as to his behavior. 

Clearly at this point Moishele was in no state to argue, so with a little help he re-saddled his horse and began the journey back to see his rabbi. As soon as he arrived on the doorstep Moshe began to tremble with fear.Suddenly,  the door threw itself open.

'Moishele!' the rebbe screamed with delight, enveloping him in a great bear hug, 'I'm so glad to see you!'

Stunned by the rabbi's spit-personality, Moishe stammered out a request for an explanation. 

'Ah, you see my dear Moishele," the rabbi began, "when you had first arrived, the malach hamavet, the angel of death, hovered above your head. I knew that you wouldn't make it through Neila (the closing prayer of Yom Kippur), and wanted you to spend your last hours with your family. But when your friends blessed you L'Chaim, they pushed Death away for years and years. With friends like these, you could live forever."

Chodesh tov! L’Chaim! May it be a month of unity and true living.

Live at the Slow

Recently I began tending bar once a week at “Slow Moshe,” the neighborhood pub in Nachlaot. A recount of the eventful, and retrospectively humorous, first shift in the works. Below is tonight’s experience. Enjoy!

Three in the morning and I’m finally beginning to close up the Slow Moshe. After a disastrous first shift a week ago, which ended with me releasing all of the gas from the taps, tonight was smooth (B”H). Nonetheless, it’s test season, and I’m ready to count out the tips and go to bed. Swiftly, I begin to peruse the bottles, lifting them to the light and feeling their weight, recording those whose time has come. As I begin to suds-up my hands for my next task, Chanan walks in.

Chanan is a Yemenite who was chozer b’sheala (left religious Judaism) and then chozer b’teshuva (returned to religious Judaism). We met the other night as I was re-training to ensure that no issues would occur in future shifts. Somewhere along the winding path of his religion, this Teimani learned to speak Yiddish and developed a taste for chazzanut (cantorial music). Although his favorite is Moshe Koussevitsky (who I have only heard on a few occasions) and mine is Yosseleh Rosenblatt, we were quick to bond over our love of religious music.

“Is it too late to have a beer?” he asks, and the look on his face tells me that I can answer in the negative, but that he would appreciate a cold bottle.

I tell him to have a seat. I have time before I finish closing up. Besides, this is a great opportunity to connect with a customer- an important tool in the world of service.

“Just a cigarette’s worth of time and I’ll be gone,” he assures me.

My hand slides open the fridge and pulls out one of the remaining Goldstars. Upon his request I hand him a glass as well.

Closing hours and clean up require music that gets you moving. As soon as I started moving chairs, I shuffled my iPod to the 120 song playlist of groove music- an eclectic combo of classic rock, blues, funk, emo, and punk. Seven minutes later, the length of a cigarette in legal army terms (for the record), Channan reappears with glass and bottle in hand.

“Tell me,” he says with a chuckle, “you don’t feel like cleaning with Koussevitsky?”

“To be honest, I don’t have any,” I reply, “but if you’d like Yosseleh, I have his whole collection with me.”

His face freezes.

“For real?”

“Sure. I’ll put it on.”

After reassuring him that Yosseleh could never be a bother a clean up session, or any other time of the day for that matter, I make the extreme transition from the Offspring to the greatest cantor the world has known. Ad Heno, taken from the Shabbat morning prayer-service and composed by Rosenblatt in an aria-esque style, is both a personal and family favorite. Rosenblatt’s versatile voice slowly fills the empty bar. He jumps from major to minor, all the while twilling the notes, rising and falling at will. Like a dove on blast of thermal air, he glides and maneuvers seamlessly through a swirling prayer of thanks that is an appropriate end to my successful night.

In between glances at the “to do” checklist, I look over at Chanan. His eyes are closed and his facial expression is one of depth, connection, and concentration.

“Could I have another beer?” he asks. “You put on music that was too good for me to leave.”

Gladly, I reach into the icy heaven of bottles and pop another one open for him.

Chanan’s “just a cigarette and beer” unfolds into six gorgeous tracks. Over the course of two brews and a few Marlboros, Yosseleh manages to wind us through various Sabbath and High Holiday prayers. Each track give off hints of vinyl crackle; cobwebs of a time that met a quick and painless digital ending, but like an old wine cask, always stays relevant and classy. While pushing a broom over the dirty floor, a surreal sensation overtakes me- peaceful and dreamlike. Monday night in a Jerusalem bar, in front of a diverse crowd of two, and over alcohol, tobacco, and cleaning products, the great Yosseleh Rosenblatt returned to life.

The Price Tag of the Price Tags

Periodically I look around Jerusalem and try to understand what it must look like from an outsider’s perspective. My neighborhood specifically, Nachalaot, offers a plethora of diversity. Black cloaked chassidim pass the colorful hippies and hipsters on the street. Secular students head for a beer in the same direction that the religious students walk towards to pray, while other religious students try to figure out where they can catch a service that is quick enough to allow them to catch up to their beer-swilling friend. I take it for granted that there is such a variety here, but every once in a while I peel my eyes open and am amazed.

Clothing to me does not make the man, but often times I take things to a higher level and try to understand the true differences between us. For some reason I seem to understand people who wear heavy layers of clothing in the summer out of a religious belief more than I can people who dress like me but hurly their heavy layers of religious beliefs at others.

Recently, one of my campers from two summers ago emailed me to ask me about my experiences and feelings with regards to the disengagement of 2005- a topic that was and still is very confusing for me. That was a summer that found me caught in a conflict between a belief in the inherent holiness of Israel’s land and a desire for peace and security for the Jewish people. As I recounted to my chanicha, for me a Jewish soul was more holy than the Jewish land, which is why I was not completely against the disengagement. To be clear, I was not for the disengagement either, especially because it involved uprooting fellow Jews from their homes, something that infracted upon my previously mentioned belief of caring for others. Nonetheless, as the rabbis who would become my roshei yeshiva would tell their students serving in the army at the time, I believed then that (theoretically speaking) I would not disobey orders. If told to do so, with a heavy heart I would remove Jews from their homes.

The hitnatkut took place over six years ago already and in many ways my view has changed. Hindsight, as we all know, is 20-20 (or 6-6 in Israel), and it has affected my stance. Last year during a car-ride that I had hitched from Latrun to Jerusalem, the drivers routinely asked me a bit about myself. When I mentioned that I was in a Hesder yeshiva (a program that combines yeshiva learning with army service) they asked me what the “hesder” (Hebrew for arrangement) was- would I or would I not participate in pinuiim. My answer was no, but my hesitation revealed that I had not completely accepted my new answer. They warned me that those few seconds of thought would be my undoing if faced with such a situation, and that a Jew should never uproot another Jew.

Yesterday’s events in the Efraim territories have once again caused me to question my stance. Personally I do not think I could participate as a soldier in removing someone from their home. I also cringe at the thought of giving up land. It failed in the past, and yes, I believe that we have a claim to Israel and should be living in all of her nooks and crannies. For me it is hard to point fingers in this situation. Truth be told I wouldn’t mind letting whoever wants to camp out on a hilltop do so (provided they understand the security risk that they put themselves in). It hurts to hear about another evacuation.

But the behavior of the noar gvaot, the hilltop youth, hurts more. At the end of the day, unity as a people takes priority and demands sacrifice. Five families do not compare to the communities that were destroyed in Gush Katif. We elect our leadership and grant them executive decisions. If the majority of the people chose a leader who takes a stance that I don’t agree with, then I will yell and protest, but when the day comes, I will not fight them. A holy land without a united people is worth nothing.

Noa Mandelbaum, an expert in special needs education, once taught me that we all have eyes, brains, and hearts. The difference between a good teacher and a bad teacher is in knowing how to use them. One who knows how to look around, analyze a situation, and understand the emotional intensity of a situation is the one who will be able to give the proper response. I see and feel anger all around me. Not just with regards to the debate over land rights and security, but in debates about other religious issues (the most prominent being those of women’s rights and modesty laws in Judaism).

Back in 2005 we feared that the disengagement would lead to civil war. We were granted about five year of quiet, possibly out of the shock and trauma of that summer, but the fear and frustration that were planted in the Gush Katif uprooting have begun to sprout into hate. Jewish soldiers have been attacked with rocks, Molotov cocktails, and the rest of the DIY arsenal, and forced to counter-attack fellow Jews. Religion, what should be the bond of the Jewish people, has once more become the ironic source of rift. The dati leumi (“Modern Orthodox”) world is tearing at her seams- and this is only one faction of the religious world in Israel!

The easy path is to protest the protesters, funneling all of the aggravation that they are causing us back at them. Justice is served and all of the injured, be it physically or egotistically, are avenged. Our challenge is to analyze the dynamics of the struggle and keep our emotions in check; to add thought to sight and emotion. Stay cool, boy. There is a big picture that we must be mindful of; a nation whose survival and being revolve around unity.

Living with people whose opinions are far more radical than yours is much more difficult than living with people who dress in a different fashion. Should we let rioters walk? Absolutely not! But at the same time, these are people whose roots, both physically and spiritually, are the same as everyone’s, and both sides are hurting. Few of us will actually stand face to face with a protester from the other camp, whatever side it may be, but every day we battle them in our discussions with friends. How we describe them and relate to them in words is what paints our vision of reality. Demeaning them in thought and speech will eventually result in a tangible hate, something that we just cannot afford.

This week’s parasha (weekly torah portion) deals with the first Jewish family to be torn apart by anger and frustration. Both Joseph’s slandering and his brothers’ jealousy and hate were guilty in causing the rift that lead the first Israelis into Egypt, the original diaspora. Years later it is our responsibility to fix their mistakes.

Thanksgiving

"How did you come out with the idea for this cocktail?"

How do you explain these things? How did someone figure out that honey and hot sauce work so well together? How do feet seem to move on the dance floor out of their own free will, dragging, pushing, coming together to create fluid movements? There's a feel for it, a touch. Somehow you know when things work together.

"Could you explain to us what's in it?"

When you're living as a bachelor in Israel, tehina is the new ramen. It's cheap, it's healthy, it can be spiced in different ways depending on your mood. You want me to bring you in something to make a cocktail with? I'm gonna open up my pantry and see what we have. Tehina, it's what's for dinner. And lunch. And breakfast. Why wouldn't I drink it as well?

"Just tehina?"

Tehina, water, silan (date honey), milk. I was going for halva, and it's not too hard to do. Especially when you have roommates who have been showing you for three months the best way to prepare the pasty goo.

"Oh, yeah, how's it going with your roommates? Isn't it hard to live like that?"

Rooming is a relationship in every way, and you have to have chemistry. Even after the chemistry, you have to keep working at it.

"Ok.... so back to the cocktail. What's it called?"

"Agrippas 115." New digs open new doors. Roommates who cook, roommates who clean, roommates who you feel you can talk with, everything changes. Old ideas turn new, and there's a constant input from free flowing good vibes, and plain old advice and brainstorming. Raw tehina is no longer just a gunk. It's dressing, dip, candy, and cocktail. Potential in the rough.

What's the point of this jumble of words spewed out at 2 am? This Thanksgiving I'm sending out thanks for my family and friends, as usual, but the big one goes out to the roomies who make this apartment feel like a home. Last night's victory comes, unknowingly, from months of teamwork. Thank you brothers!

Well this is a pleasant surprise

Nefesh B'Nefesh, the organization through which I made aliyah (moved to Israel), has asked their olim (new immigrants to Israel) to submit their favorite story from their aliyah experience. After flipping through my archives I decided to abandon the "inspirational" type story and go with something more humorous. I thought it was the best of my army stories, but that certain nude aspects of the story (relax, it's about taking a cold shower) might render it inappropriate for a family-friendly website. My fears were unfounded, and today I was informed by NBN that my story was chosen for their inspirational portal. Big thanks to Laura Ben David and the rest of the NBN crew, not just for this selection, but for everything that they do in helping the Jewish people and state. Keep up the good work!

Now gimme a read! http://inspire.nbn.org.il/aliyah-stories/369-sometimes-youre-hot-and-sometimes-youre-just-plain-freezing.html

More to come soon... I promise.

REMories

BS”D

Sixteen or so years had passed since the last time I saw her. She and her family lived on our street in Cleveland Heights, one block down from us, or up depending on how you looked at it. Her father was the principal at one of the local Jewish day schools, and our parents had known each other for a long time. Years before they moved to Cleveland, apparently, our families spent a summer together, while both sets of parents helped run the educational departments at a popular Jewish sleep-a-way camp.

Short hair that wasn’t even a bob-cut, she played hockey in elementary school, and, according to what her father told us over one Shabbat meal at my childhood home, she could terrorize the rink.

“At one game she checked a guy on the other team, stole the puck, and drove it in for a goal. I jumped to my feet yelling, ‘THAT’S MY GIRL!’ and was met by startled looks of confusion,” he would recount.

She was as Tom as a Tom-boy could be. Hanging out with her, we would discuss Charles Barkley’s impending retirement, and then head down to the garage to look at her hockey sticks. In all honesty, back then I was still playing with Barbie dolls. If she had any of those they must have been decked out in hockey pads as well.

Winter of ’96 gave the youth of Cleveland three consecutive snow days. As it grew whiter and whiter outside, with snow eventually piling past the door of our Fisher Price playhouse (at least a foot and a half deep) I spent my free time in her front yard building snow whales, snowmen, and other various sculptures with her and her brothers. Back then I was still innocent. I vaguely recall feeling a slight tingle around her, the tiniest of inklings that she was interesting, or more correctly, that I was interested, but for the most part I was there to hang out with her two brothers. And for all intents and purpose, she was really one of the guys.

It had been sixteen years since that wonderland of a winter. Her family moved to Cincinnati a year later; one more victim of the rabbinic familial lifestyle- the constant hop up the ladder of opportunity and around the map. Over an NCSY Shabbaton a few years later I ran into her sister and father. Seeing them was nice, but there was nothing that I felt that I was missing.

Last night she made a cameo in my dreams. After years of not missing her, of barely remembering of her family, she reappeared. And somehow I recognized her. In this particular eyelid film she grabbed the lead role. For some reason the girl I held in my arms, the one who made me complete until my REM cycle ended and the sun came up, was her. Not once did she mention her name, and her father was replaced by someone with a different face, but her features were unmistakable.

I woke up lost, spending my first morning minutes trying to understand what I had just seen. Angered by the fact that I had once again held her, my one and only, in one of her many forms, only to wake up to a shadow of a memory. I craved her touch and that feeling that I had dreamed of, the one of finally allowing myself to let go, to disregard the restrictions that I took upon myself for all of these years and to finally hold and be held for the rest of my life.

Her name moved quickly from its place in a cranial pocket to the tip of my tongue. Sixteen years it lay there dormant. Sixteen years it sat biding its time. I whispered it, her full name, shocked by the fact that I could place her face so fast and that I had no doubt as to whom I had seen. How did I remember her family’s name, let alone her own name?

“It must be a sign,” I thought in my typical manner.

Before I lay myself down to sleep that particular evening, I had gone out on a blind-date with a sweet girl who was very much not my type. I was ready to move on. The regular cast of characters, the crushes that came and never seemed to go, the names that cause me to sigh with regret of having never taken a shot, had all returned to my mind. Out of all of those girls the one whose basketball cards I had drooled over was the one to haunt me. If all of these years later she had returned with such a force, then this must be a prophecy some kind.

What-ifs rushed through my brain:

“What if she moved to Israel?”

“What if she’s single?”

“What if she dreamed something similar?”

I resigned myself to making contact with her if she was living in the country, and then opened up facebook.

“How did she spell her name? Am I wrong? Did I make a mistake with her last name? I remember the first three letters for sure, let’s see what the search engine gives me. Please Marc Zuckerberg come through, this could be it.”

Quickly I scrolled through the names and faces. Nothing. I typed again, varying the spellings, changing letters, praying silently that this would come through.

Success.

Her face was the same as in the dream, her hair longer than the last time I had seen her and her eyes were brighter than I could have remembered, especially because I never recalled looking into them when I was eight years old. There was no doubt- she was the one who had haunted my sleep last night.

I looked at one picture of her and then another, and then one more. All with the pure intentions of confirming that this was indeed her.

And then he appeared.

She stood behind his chair beaming, and the comments left by her friends leave no room for mistake. She’s taken by someone else. My eyes scan the information bar at the top. She still lives in the US.

Fist and table meet. One bang then I’m done. The hour is late, and Queen Mab already lies in waiting with her dust. Tonight I will dream again, a bit heartbroken, but one step closer to the truth.

Winter

Winter's chill has moved quickly from my bone's to my mind, numbing my brain and slowing down my reflexes. Day move to night much faster and the accompanying darkness weighs down on me. My animal instincts are attacking every fiber of my body- "SLEEP!"they scream. "Curl into a ball, fetal position, and just close your eyes..."

Yesterday it was summer, or at least fall. Now I am struggling with schoolwork, bar-tending classes, job hunting, and the regular grind of day-to-day errands.

Brown, gray, black. I look around, nostalgic for the yellow, orange, and blue. Morning, afternoon, and evening, when I wake up and before I go to sleep, I scour the Indian's website for my recently-departed summer, frantically clinging to the digital diamond, the green grass and pale brown dirt. When the Tribe offers no news I move onto the MLB site. Highlight reels, historics games, whatever I can get. Baseball diamonds have become an opiate for me. Seeing one calms me, withdrawal depresses me. The boys of summer have gone.

When Jerusalem is lit up she sparkles, shining like the beacon that she is to the world. Winter's early gloom in the holy city cuts even harder. "A few weeks," I tell myself, "in a few weeks you will have gotten used to the idea of long nights and short days. Quilts will once again become a comfort and not a necessity. Your bed will release you from its grip. A few weeks."

For now, my nesting instincts are go. Cooking has become a new joy in my life, a new distraction from the work and responsibilities that I have or am supposed to acquire. Corn bread, onion jam, even a quiche. It can take me hours, but I pull it off in the end, and smile with the realization that I can still learn new tricks.

Maybe I'll learn to let winter's opening days not stew my brain.

This too will pass.

"It's Hard not to be Romantic About Baseball"

"It was really depressing, "he answered me, "they really didn't deserve it. There was no reason for the Cardinals to be champions this year."

There are few people in my Jewish teachers college who I can speak baseball with. For that matter, other than the ex-pat Americans, there is nobody in this country who talks baseball. Israelis can't wrap their heads around the game. Baseball, with its pitch-dependent action, is too slow for the revved up soccer-heads in this country. They prefer the fast paced shell games, where you have to keep your eye on the ball as the clock runs, or is run down; complicated plays thought out to give the team that millisecond of distraction needed to place the ball in its respected net, goal, basket, what have you. American sports, be it baseball with its endless innings or football with its long breaks in between plays, just doesn't make sense to them. And if they had to choose between them, well at least in football they beat each other up while running the clock.

"Baseball's like a social get together. You sit, drink beer, eat junk, schmooze with friends, and once in a while clap your hands for your team," a good friend of mine once commented after his first baseball game.

Of course that was his response. The first time he saw a double play was when we diagrammed it on a pizza pie earlier that day. Israel is a beautiful country, but when you have to give three years of your life to the army and have your bag X-rayed when you enter the mall, you lack the patience to appreciate the thumping but slow-paced thrill that baseball offers.

But how could I not celebrate the Cardinal's incredible victory? How could I not seek out a fellow fan of the sandlot to discuss Freese and Albert? More than them being my second favorite team (I'll clarify: nothing makes me happier than an Indians' win, after which the next best thing is a Yankees' loss, followed by a victory by STL- my grandmother's team- if all else fails I root for the Jays- my grandfather's team) their ride, or more correctly, flight this season and post-season is at the heart of what makes baseball special. Which is why I disagree with one of the few people at the Herzog College in Israel who understood what those three red letters on my blue hat stood for.

Fan-hood is a strange phenomenon. Every jersey that we don makes us a member of the team, secures us a spot on their roster. It gives us the opportunity to be part of something bigger than we are; a member of the "Fenway Faithful", or of any other "Nation." Loyalties are passed on from father to son, or sometimes (as is by me), son to father, or just through the drinking water.

If you ask me, baseball fans can be divided into two categories: competitors and romantics. Competitors want the W, and nothing more. For them the end-result are the only thing that is important. Number one in the win column or bust. Like someone who guzzles through a bottle of fine wine because of the price tag and the status. They'll grow quickly into front-runners, fast to discard their hometown or familial loyalties for a team that will provide them with more bang for their proverbial buck.

Romantics are the exact opposite. To them the price tag is nowhere near as important as the label on the back of the bottle- the one that explains the process and flavors that were cultivated. As my mentor in wines and spirits once said, "Some people know brands, other people know wine." Somebody who understands wine will pay the price for a good bottle, but they also have the ability to find equal, if not better, wines at better prices. The process is almost all of the fun for the baseball romantic. The means and not the ends.

Which is why I root for Cleveland despite the fact that it is almost always guarantees me heartbreak, and why I believe that the Cardinals deserved the Commissioner's Trophy more than any team that has played since the Cardinals last took it in 2006- and even more than that incarnation! A team must be developed financially. I won't argue this, and hold this against the Dolans and the way they manage the Tribe. However, the Indians' front office, since the 90's, has been responsible for cultivating players, coaching them from the start of their young careers until they mature into the robust players who deserve big numbers on their price tag. Manny Ramirez, CC, and of course, Jim Thome, among others rose to star quality while playing for the Indians. The 1995-1997 lineup was definitely bolstered by some good business moves on the part of Jon Hart, but the heart of the lineup was young talent that was being raised in CLE. Since those days of glory Cleveland has served as a farm team for the entire MLB. Despite the heartbreak of losing the stars because they become expensive, those few seasons watching them break out are incredible. The scrappy taste of hard earned victory is ambrosia for the gods of baseball. Even if it's for only one game.

Of course, a competitive fan doesn't care. At the end of the season, if their team hasn't won, they throw them to the dogs. Star players who are payed millions in order to keep them from leaving, are booed when they screw up (A-Rod, I'm looking at you and smiling real wide). This is a business and their team is supposed to win. Period.

Don't get me wrong, I was disappointed by the poor performance of the Tribe in the second half of this season. But I made a promise that no matter what happens, win or lose, I was going to revel in that first half tromping that the "48 million dollar payroll that could" delivered to the Majors. Because to a romantic, a Cinderella story remains a Cinderella story even after the fat lady sings.

Which brings me to the MLB champion Cardinals. Hard earned, sweaty, seat of your pants wins. Late inning heroics. This is what they game is about. This is what makes it the American past-time. Is there anything that serves as a metaphor for life more than being down to your last strike (twice!) and pulling through? Is there anything more romantic than a come from behind victory? Only when the man responsible for his team's victory cheered for that same team as a kid.

Baseball is all about second chances. There is no clock on this game- it ends when you decide that you can't connect wood to rawhide anymore, when you stop believing that with bases loaded you'll turn the double play to get out of the inning, when David loses to Goliath. As long as you can make the play, you control the fate of the game. The beauty of baseball is in those long innings that so bore the natives of my beloved homeland. You don't need fast action to get your heart pumping. You just need to understand that nothing is guaranteed until the final out is made.

By all logic the Cards should not have even made the postseason. But baseball's not about logic. A team that never says “die”, that claws away until they've used their last breath to take that of another team, which turns from harmless to fierce once September begins to close, deserves the W. What they went through, the story on the back of their bottle, is worth more than the win. This game is not about putting up numbers. Numbers belong on clocks. This game is about gravity defying acrobatics, grass-stains and slides, stolen bases and stolen thunder.

This is what the romantic fans understand that the competitive ones do not. Baseball is not a business- it's life.

1:15 Rant

Sometimes you realize that things don't work out the way they should have. Sometimes the right changes come five minutes too late. You stand outside in the hallway trying to stare through the door, but the X-rays are not working. Hell, who are you fooling, they were never there. You got stuck with the invisible power, and couldn't get a trade in for it. What can you do?

Three seconds pass since the music stops, and only then do you begin to dance. Part of you enjoys the sweat dripping from forehead into eyes, splashing the dance floor and shining bright and wet, with nothing external forcing your moves; part of you mourns the fact that you just can't find the groove when the groove was on for everyone. What can you do?

Belief systems fall apart, and somehow you are the only one grasping the straws of what was once so popular. That was then. When you were a child. Now? Come on man, grow up. Times change. Change with them. What can you do?

Blink your eyes three times. Hold them shut on the last blink for 30 second. One deep breath with your picture on your eyelids. Do you get it now?

It's Not Always Black and White

One of the greatest decisions that my parents madei n raising me was to send me to the Hebrew Academy of Cleveland for the first four years (kindergarten through third grade) of my schooling. HAC is a Jewish day school that studies both secular and Judaic studies, but leans towards Ultra-Orthodoxy, or in American Jewish slang, is "black hat." Beginning my education in a more right-wing religious school set a tone for my Judaism. HAC established a strong foundation of belief and put, for better or for worse, practices into place that have lasted until this day, (they're probably also the source for my penchant for food that speaks Yiddish).

Though many might have considered the education a bit close-minded (I'll never forget how my second grade English teacher had to staple together the pages in Dear Mr. Henshaw that dealt with Christmas) I consider it to be the factor in my life that allows me to explore the many aspects and views of this religion freely and without fear. I know that most likely I will come home safely to the house that was built back in kindergarten, but also realize that every once in a while old wallpaper needs to be looked at and changed, furniture replaced.

But I digress. The most important thing that my parents gave me by sending me to the Academy and by living in Cleveland Heights ("Where you're either black or black hat") was the ability to feel comfortable around people different from you.

Or so I thought. I had a bit of a revelation this morning. I arrived at minyan and begin to put on my tefillin (phylacteries) standing above a seat. Before I could finish wrapping and sit down though, somebody had taken my seat.

"Come on man, what's your friggin problem?" I growled in my mind, carefully deleting the expletives out of respect for my tefillin (see what I mean about putting practices in place? I still imagine inanimate objects blushing or getting insulted). "It's pretty clear that I was gonna sit there, jerk."

I often get this way when I'm tired, but after I moved away to a new seat I noticed that in my mind I was preempting anything that someone might say to me. Especially after seeing the young ultra-orthodox guy who once gave me a tongue lashing for the way I wore my gun while praying (that's a different story). My thoughts began to turn, or more correctly, curdle, on the people sitting near me.

They were classic hareidim, ultra-religious to the last stitch in their long frocks. Curly side-locks, hats, scraggly beards in the best case scenario, fuzzy upper lips in the worst. My defense mechanism was running like Usain Bolt.

"Dontchu be taking my seat, ya penguin," it whispered at the man praying next to me. "Why are they taking so frickin long to start... come on already man."

Two 18 year old boys sat across from me shooting glances and smiles at each other. "What do they think they're looking at? Are they laughing at me? For real? At least my moustache doesn't look like a comb-over!" (I know, I know, it's blonde, and my instincts don't actually phrase things this cleverly in person either)

The kicker came at the end. At some point I switched the raggedy siddur (prayer book) that I had picked up with a smaller one that seemed not to belong to anyone in the room, despite having a beautiful inscription on the inside cover. I figured if it was someone's they would tell me. Of course, my brain also defensively snarled, "What, and he'll take it away from me in the middle?" When I had finished davening, I kissed the siddur and put it down. Comb-over-stache picked it up, kissed it and placed it next to him.

"Great, here we go," I thought, "a speech on how I should ask first, probably with some words like 'gezel' (stealing) and a whole lot of blah-blah to nod through while looking at the floor."

And rightfully so to tell the truth. If somebody had taken my siddur without asking, I would have chewed him out in my head for a good 15 minutes at least.

"Sorry," I said sheepishly, and truth be told, I was genuinely sorry.

His lips turn upwards in a big smile, and he enthusiastically motions to me and the siddur and gives me a big thumbs up.

"It was my honor, my merit, for you to use my siddur."

I blush. "Thanks,"I say to him as I leave, "shkoyach"(good job).

Shkoyach indeed, brother. Lesson learned.

New Year's Resolution: More Bloggin

Morning hits hard when you're unemployed, but not hard enough to knock me out of bed. Herzog, the teacher's college I attend, kicked off the semester yesterday, and with it I returned to my old ways of recuperating from the ten hour school day with hours of computer-sponsored brain-rot. Which meant that starting the big job hunt early was going to have to wait until after the later minyan (prayer service).

-Fix the guitar

-Supplies for school

-Pick up Horatio, my Sig-Sauer, from the range

-Blah

-Blah

-More important blah

Something about the "to do" list weighing down my backpack threw me off. Breakfast and in-house chores dragged on, while the seconds and minutes left the house, only to return as hours passed. The guitar had been sitting to long with a broken neck and strings and now needs a fret-board fix as well. Signs in restaurants declaring openings made me simultaneously hopeful and depressed.

But there was a success. After about 15 minutes of being snowballed and convinced that I was being given a deal (Ï'm sorry for the wait, but I was arguing with my supervisor about getting you a discount, which I was able to...."- Wow, just for me?!) and a little bit of schedule dancing, I began my first steps to the bar (The one you stand behind, not the test).

Bar-tending class cut my day short, but at least was an easy check for the list.

"Hey, you must be Yoni!,"Dor, the well-dressed instructor greeted me with a smile, Ï've been waiting for you to come."

What a change. Yesterday I was taking notes on a laptop in a yeshiva classroom, today-a notebook on the bar itself. A quick glance around the room:

Dos (religious guys) count: 2 others besides me ("What is a religious guy like you doing in a course like this?"- true quote from one of the girls)

Girl count: 3

Dosot (religious girls): Nope, too bad

"Let's talk about brandy and Cognac."

Yes, please do.

"Now let's taste them."

For the record, I held off because of the kashrut (dietary laws) issues with grapes. But school where you drink as part of the lesson- does it get any better than that?

After two hours on the production, difference between, and grading of the two, notebooks became shakers, we hopped over to the other side of the bar. There's an episode of "How I Met Your Mother" where Robin forces her way behind the bar for attention, and is dragged away while screaming "But I was somebody back there."It's like that. The timid persona that I adopt in a new environment quickly fell away once my shoe tread in that holy space.

"What'll it be?" I asked, smiling to the peers who would coach my mixology for two drinks.

Ice in the shaker!

Fill the jigger!

Other side!

Close with a bang!

And shake it here, shake it there, dance to the music bar-man!

The bar, it would seem, is a stage, or at least a dance floor. Alright, so I used an orange wedge to salt the margaritas, but man are the lights back there bright. Shine on please! I'll need it tomorrow when I try to kick things into gear.

You Say You Want a Revolution? -A personal reflection on yesterday's terror attack

Well You Know, We All Want to Change the World

In Washington, the leaders of the United States are trying to mediate peace talks between Israel and Palestine. In Israel it is 10:15 am. Seder boker, the morning learning period, has reached mid-session, and the entire Beit Midrash (study hall) has quickly and completely emptied of both students and staff. Outside everyone is reaching down to tuck in their tzitzit (the fringes worn ritually by Jewish males) in deference to the dead who can no longer perform this commandment.

Only yesterday I found myself performing the same ritual as I toured Chevron with a group from Herzog, my teacher's college. Throughout Chevron (Hebron) are various graveyards filled by settlers of Chevron who gave their lives in order to maintain a Jewish presence in the city of our forefather. Yesterday, in the Hebron Hills area that surrounds the historic city, Palestinian terrorists killed four more innocent civilians, in an effort to "torpedo" the current peace talks.

Otniel, the yishuv (settlement) that I learn in provided the service of the tahara, the ritual "final cleaning" of the body before it is returned to the ground, for last night's vicitims. Throughout the day, students and other volunteers held half hour shifts next to the deceased, reciting tehillim (Psalms) and serving as an honor guard. Mid-morning, we all left our respective places of learning to escort Yitzchack and Tali Ames, Kochava Even-Chaim, and Avishai Schindler out of Otniel to their final resting places. All four lived fifteen minutes from Otniel, in the neighboring yishuv of Beit-Chagai.

Arms crossed, lips moving in prayer, and eyes welling with angry tears, I waited with my friends for the bodies to be moved to the escort vehicles, and began to think back to my second year in yeshiva. That year Yossi Shock, a father of three, was shot on the same road while driving home to Beit Chagai. I was reminded of the infamous question of the Angels to G-d upon witnessing the deaths of the asara harugei malchut ("The Ten Righteous Martyrs"- a prayer said on Yom Kippur detailing the death of ten of Judaism's greatest rabbis) "This is Torah, and this is its reward?". Innocent people slaughtered on their way home. When will we know an end to these deaths?

Last night, PA president Mahmoud Abbas condemned the shooting stating that he " condemns all acts that target Palestinian and Israeli civilians," and that the attack was meant to "disrupt the peace process and can't be regarded as an act of resistance." True, the murders last night were not sanctioned by the Palestinian Authority, but that only makes it even more disturbing that we are still trying to arrange an agreement. The murders last night were carried out by members of Hamas, a terrorist organaziation that doubles as a leading political party in the Palestinian world. If they refuse to adhere to the lines set by the PA, then what difference does it make if we manage to strike an agreement with Abbas and co.? The Palestinians will have received their state, which we will be "at peace" with, while terrorists roams free and independent of their government. What then have we accomplished?

When it Comes to Destruction, Don't You Know that You Can Count Me Out

The close range drive by shooting left the six Ames children orphaned. Kochava Even Chaim's eight-year-old daughter is motherless, her husband is a widower, and her kindergarten class is without their teacher. Avishai Schindler's young wife is alone in their new home in Beit Chagai.

With regards to the PA and their response, Yarden Frankl of HonestReporting wrote in his blog this morning (http://www.crossingtheyarden.com/2010/09/lives-not-statistics/):
"When you can look at this act with same gut wrenching horror as a six year old who just lost his teacher, you will be ready to make a real peace."

I echo the sentiments. I am a peacenik, meaning that I believe in peace. But not the peace that they are discussing in Washington. The concept of peace that we have been fed for all of these years is nothing more than conditions for a large-scale cease-fire.

Golda Meir, Israel's only female Prime Minister, once said:
"We can forgive you for killing our children, we cannot forgive you for turning our children into killers."

When both sides can feel this way, when both sides are looking for a solution so that they do not have to kill anymore, then we will be ready to have peace. Until then, Israel is merely looking for a way to protect her children from being killed, and the Palestinians are looking for a way to advance their cause for an independent state. At best, both sides are looking for security.

It's Gonna Be Alright?

For the reasons stated above, I cannot believe in a land for "peace" trade anymore. The Palestinian side has once more proved itself divided, its leadership unreliable. Negotiations in my mind can only end in a loss of land for Israel with nothing to gain.

What is the price of security? Or, for that matter, the saying "Im eshkachech Yerushalayim tishkach yemini?" ("If I forget thee, oh Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its skill"). Is a secure Israel without her holy sites and cities truly Israel?

Yesterday's victims and Yossi Shock, along with those in Chevron whose murders I learned about yesterday, died while settling the land. Nobody believes that this side of the "Green Line" is completely safe. No tremp (ride) leaves a yishuv without reciting tefillat ha'derech (the traveler's prayer) as soon as it reaches the main road. The act of hitchhiking is approached with caution and warning. Many, if not most, of the settlers are armed, and well trained in the use of a firearm. Every yishuv has a kitat konnenut, an emergency response squad, ready for any emergency. We are all aware of the dangers of living here, yet people continue to settle here. The stories that exist in the ground and the brick, the character that walked on the streets of Chevron and her surrounding hills- Kalev ben Yefuneh (Caleb the spy), David Ha'Melech (King David), and of course, our forefathers and mothers buried in Chevron- are the foundations of our religion. This land is priceless.

I do not confess to have a solution. It is clear to me though that the price being set in Washington is too great. Is it going to be alright? Will this be the last time that my friends and myself abandon our learning so that we may honor the deceased? My heart prays yes, but logic tells me no. And as much as I know that family and my friends worry, for now all I can do is increase my precautions; travel by armored bus, increase my vigilance, and pray, because the alternative in my mind is far worse.

May we know only smachot and a new year of happiness,
Yoni

Post Yom HaZikaron and Yom HaAtzmaut

Even before Yom HaZikaron (Memorial Day) this year my mind began to fill with the imagery. Flashbacks to that night in Bir Zeit; the houses, the sound of the gunshot. A panicked sprint back to the armored vehicle, with me shooting glances behind my shoulder every other second to make sure that there was nothing going on behind the squad. Elad, the Company commander speaking to us as we gathered around him in between the three armored transports, his voice on the verge of breaking as he somehow managed to keep his cool and explain to us what had happened.

In my first year in Israel I woke up late for the high-school's tekes (memorial ceremony). I managed to make it on time to ride with everyone to Har Hertzl, the national military cemetery in Jerusalem. As the siren went off, I stood with my friend in the entrance to the cemetery in silence, trying to connect; trying to appreciate what it was that these soldiers who we talked about in States year after year had done for the country I was finally leaving in. My teeth were still cracking from the strain of the new language that I had not yet mastered, and connecting was not an easy task. I walked around Har Hertzl trying to find a grave out of the thousands on which to lay the flowers I had been given at the entrance.

Six years later, but not quite a year after the events in Bir Zeit, my efforts to connect stopped. One of the most painful realizations is when you realize that you no longer need to try to connect- Yom HaZikaron has become a day where you must actively participate whether you want to or not. Going to Hartman for the high-school tekes, the traditional gathering of the alumni, is no longer the appropriate option. The "holiday" that the country declared in memory of the fallen becomes a full day off- so that you can travel the five hours round trip that you need in order to stand by the grave of your fallen friend and brother in arms.

Beginning with the songs of remembrance that I sang with my friends on Sunday night, Noam Levi Z"L, HY"D, was the only chalal (fallen soldier) that I could think of. While others read passages from over the years- eulogies, articles, other people's memories- I spoke about the friendship that was stolen from me just as it was beginning to bloom. Somehow, the little American with broken teeth had entered into the black bereaved military family of Israel, while most of his Israeli friends had not (which is something to thank G-d for-that there have been relatively so few deaths in recent years). There are some memberships that you never want to have.

Graveside, I was quiet and morose. But Noam Z"L's family is one that understands the value of life after tragedy. His mother invited us all back to their house after the ceremony for both physical and spiritual refreshments. We reminisced, telling stories and looking at pictures of our fallen hero. Friends from his community, school days, and of course the army. "Everybody here loves (Noam) and everybody here hurts," said his mother . His father told us about how Noam learned to speak Hebrew on the basketball court behind their newly built house. "Noam learned a lot about Hebrew and being Israeli on the court, but we had to clean him up a bit after every game. Not everything that you learn on the court is appropriate to bring back home with you."

Israel celebrated her 62nd birthday today, and you can be sure that I celebrated, but celebration in this country always comes with a price. In one week I will be back up North in Mitzpeh Netufa to commemorate the passing of the first year since Noam's death- a reminder that the war began in 1948 has yet to end. This year the move from "Evel l'yom tov," "Mourning to holiday," that happens between the two juxtaposing days (Memorial day in Israel is the day before Independence Day) was especially difficult, but the extraordinary loving embrace of the Levi family and of all of Noam's friends gave me the strength to move on.

As the last of the grills are extinguished, while the final bits of hamburger and beer from the traditional BBQ are digested in my stomach, I pray to G-d that we only know the good days from now on, and thank him for the few moments that I had to know someone like Noam Levi, who sacrificed his life so that we could celebrate today.

__________________________

________________________________________________________________
I realize that this is a heavy post. These were things that sat on my heart over the past couple of days and I did not yet have the chance for catharsis. Yom HaAtzmaut was of course meaningful and beautiful, and I would be remiss if I did not actively thank G-d for this gift, despite the tragic costs. Next year in a rebuilt and peace-filled Jerusalem!

love,
yoni

Light is in the air

Dear all,

Truthfully, my channukiah isn't such a beautiful channukiah. It's a series of eight blue ceramic balls plus a shamesh. I bought it because it was the cheapest one in the tourist trap store on the Sunday before Channukah, with one hour to catch the bus back to base. My love for it has grown ever since the first candle last year.

You may remember my email from last year. For me, Channukah with my soldiers was one of my most emotional moments as a mefaked. To stand before them and realize that I was leading a group of "Modern Maccabees" was an incredible experience. But even more so was the light from the first candle. In case you don't remember, last year I spent the first two nights in the "shetach," the training wilderness, pretending to be an enemy for miluimnikim (reservists) to "attack." I was sent down to the shetach with another machlaka for some reason that I don't remember, and upon finally reuniting with Glazel and the boys the first thing I did was light that little ceramic channukiah. The whole day had been wasted waiting for a way to go down to the shetach. We spent our time doing nothing, only to be moved to the shetach where we did more nothing, but this time in the cold. That one little candle, lit on the background of the dark expanse of the Negev made the whole day worth it. One tiny little light, an "or lishma," good for no purpose other than its own light, lit up my heart in such a way that thinking about it a year later still makes me feel warm.

There is a song in Israel, "Banu choshech l'garesh, b'yadeinu or v'aish. "Darkness, we have come to expel you, in our hands we hold light and fire." This is the first candle. The tiny flame, full of fight and, as Reb Shlomo teaches, shaking with yearning and desire, extinguishes the darkness. Suddenly there is what to hope for. Suddenly it doesn't matter where you are or what you are doing, life is bright. The first candle brings light ot the world and establishes a hope.

The second candle is just as special. Where the first creates a new reality, the second joins the first in that reality. For the first time the candles do not stand alone. Once there was one flame, a single entity, individual and special in its mission. Now there are two individual flames, but both of them work together to make even more light. Two flames, like two eyes, complementing each other and peering out through the darkness of the world. Little by little the light grows until eventually the channukiah fills up. Eight holy lights, "l'ma'alah min ha'teva," a level of existence above the natural(seven represents the highest natural state- shabbat etc.) fill the room with their light.

In Otniel we have been discussing the dynamics of the individual within a community. In the discussion that took place on Thursday in memory of members of the yeshiva that have been killed in various terror attacks over the eyars Rav Re'em stated that one who davens by himself and does not feel the need to daven with a community is sinning. Avodat Hashem, the worship of G-d, takes place in a unique way in every individual. There is special spark that each person holds. But the spark is no good on its own. A light that remains by itself, that is not joined by another light, that does not fill both its natural and supernatural purposes, is useless. As Rav Yehoshua Shapira, the Rosh Yeshiva of Ramat Gan, said on Thursday, a person who chooses his halachic standards and his ways of avodat hashem only according to what he feels is proper, one who neglects the accepted ways of the community, does not worship G-d. "Religion is the heroin of the masses," contains a partial truth. G-d is in the masses. Religion does not lie in one person's belief, rather in the people's belief, with each person contributing their spark to the greater fire. "Banu choshech l'garesh, b'yadeinu or v'eish." The song continues: "Kol echad hu or katan, v'kulanu or eitan." "Everyone is a small light, and altogether we are strong light."

May we all learn from the essence of the second candle and join each other in lighting our lives, our people, and the world.

Channuka Sameach!

love,

Yoni