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

The Simchat Torah Manifesto

"Drunk."
"Plastered."
"Smashed."

I could hear them whispering amongst themselves. Everyone in the Baron Hirsch Synagogue around my age was positive that I was wasted. That I had snuck over to the kiddush club and had a few too many sips of the Gentleman Jack that was being passed around. I was excited, singing, yelling, and all together feeling good.

But I hadn't touched a drop.

This was Simchat Torah of eleventh grade. Together with a couple of other friends, we were the last men standing on the dance floor. Clutching the sefer torah like a child to a teddy bear. Dancing ecstatically in celebration of the completion of the entire torah. I was on a natural high (and a sugar-low which probably accounted from some of my rowdiness), thrilled that we had once again read through our age old history and were about to restart the tradition, stronger than ever.

Simchat Torah should be this happy. Nothing is as central to our religion as the torah. The stories and commandments in it are the basis for everything the Jewish people stand for. But for some reason, the happiness of eleventh grade has faded. Every year I get excited for the chag, stoked and psyched for the incredible occasion. Waiting eagerly to dance with the sefer torah as one would dance with a bride and groom on their wedding day. Every year I am disappointed again.

At first I thought it was just me. I walked around the minyan telling people that it was strange, that I just couldn't connect despite a total mental appreciation of the holiday. There was just no connection between the idea to the act. My mind began the calculations. How long will this hakafa last? Multiply by seven. Add on kriat hatorah. While the chag moved on, more and more people let it be known that they felt the same way.

"This has become an exhausting holiday," I comment to a friend from the neighborhood.
"It's been that way for years," he responds.

"I can't connect, it's weird," I continue.
"Why is it weird? Who connects?"

Looking around the shul, both at the hipper and hippier Carlebach minyan, and at the standard family variation at Nitzanim in Baka, people are either schmoozing or boozing (when available). The hardcore chassidim at the Carlebach minyan go at it full strength, stopping only to wipe the sweat out of their eyes and hydrate themselves, but slowly and surely the numbers diminish.

Which leads me to the main point. How do we fix it? What do we need to do o reconnect to a beautiful holiday that has become misunderstood?

I would like to offer an alternative idea for next year. Grassroots, run by us for us (us being whoever wants in). Below I will offer some of my ideas. Please add yours, argue, discuss, and be in touch with me. This is not an effort for one person, and it will not center around one person's will, rather the will of many to have a meaningful Simchat Torah.


To make this work (organizationally speaking)
1) There should exist some form of committee to develop the idea of the minyan and work together to put the minyan into action.
2)All are welcome to the minyan, providing that they understand that it it Everyman's minyan, and this is what has been deemed for Everyman. There are no restrictions to age, gender etc. but all should be prepared to be part of a serious effort for a meaningful chag and understand that this comes with side effects (longer tefilla, shorter tefilla, strange songs, old songs, women's roles, lack of or access of alcohol- whatever is deemed necessary).
3)The minyan that I am discussing will take place in Israel, most probably in Jerusalem, but I would appreciate the ideas of friends from all over.

In my opinion:

Musically-
1) As is the tradition is Rav Raz's minyan in Nachlaot- one niggun (melody) per hakafa. A niggun is a powerful tool that needs time to open up. Much like a glass of wine that requires decanting until the maximum flavor is released, a niggun needs to be shaken around a bit until the power is released.
2) Spontaneity is important, but beginning the niggun on the wrong key restricts people from singing properly, and is, in my opinion, a major turn-off from the hakafa. Therefore I propose that people are designated as niggun starters who know how to pick a comfortable key for all. The niggun starters would also be responsible for ending the hakafa. As Rav Re'em once said, "You need to know how to end at the high, with the energy of the niggun in tact. If the energy is still there, keep coming. If you are going to lose it, end it while you still have it." (Of course this could also be an argument for more than one niggun per hakafa- the main point is not to feel compelled to jump from niggun to niggun. Discuss amongst yourselves.)
3) In addition, while not necessarily specifying every move, there should be a list of niggunim on hand so that those facing the task of beginning the niggun do not find themselves blanking and choosing poor key or what someone so aptly described as "80's pop hits" for niggunim as an emergency response. A good nigggun can last for hours.

Atmosphere-
1)Preparation. If there is time to prepare something about the chag and the meaning to say before the festivities it could be nice. Not necessarily some high-flying chassidishe torah, but a dvar torah or even a story that would put the meaning of the chag in perspective.
2)Drinking- Drinks should be allowed but limited. Clearly, unless a bar system is set up with tickets for donated drinks, this is a hard thing to do. The idea is that people should be allowed to come with alcohol and make a L'chayim with each other, but should bear in mind that the idea is to celebrate the Torah, not to get plastered to the point of confusing Moshe and Korach. It's not Purim. The chassid in me appreciates the importance of mashke to the chag, but hearing stories of grown men vomiting on the torah... enough said.
3)At some point during the day it would be nice to take it to the streets, as used to be done in Nitzanim. The chag is a national chag, and should not take place only within a bubble of people. If it would be possible to organize a rondeavouz with other minyanim, batei avot (assisted living centers) etc. for some of the hakafot, it could be a nice change of pace and a good way to celebrate with the entire nation.
4)The minyan should not be rushed, but should not drag on. As I mentioned before, it is important to know when to end. If everyone is up for more, keep going, if the people are getting tired, know how to cut the losses. With regards to time, the important thing is to have an appreciation for what you are doing and not to be afraid of "wasted time." The food will still be there when you get home. A decent amount of time can, and should, be spent on the celebration. It is a matter of making the celebration deserving of the time.
5) A torah should be available for the women's side of the mechitza. Personally, I am not opposed to a separate women's reading (although not well versed in sources, so before you bite my head off, let's learn together), but it would definitely complicate logistic issues such as acquisition of a torah and a place, not to mention that not everyone would be comfortable with the issue.

This is what I have for now. Remember that this is just my opinion and that I welcome discussion and new ideas. I think that it would be great if whoever was interested would get together at some point over the next year to discuss, present, and ultimately vote on ideas. I know that I am tired of being disappointed every year, and if nobody makes an effort, the disappointment will only continue. Feel free to pass this on both to English and Hebrew speaker (I flow easier in English, I apologize). Please be in touch, and may we have the zechut of redeeming the beauty of this holiday together.

-Yoni