A Light Unto the Nations

It was extra busy in Jerusalem's Old City this evening. First thousands of Jews packed into the Western Wall plaza, filling it to capacity in a solemn prayer vigil for the three Israeli teenagers kidnapped last Thursday by Palestinian terrorists.

About an hour later thousands more people began streaming into the Old City for the annual Light Show spectacular, in which the historic walls become a canvas for dazzling light installations, a glorious melding of art, modern technology and this city's ancient beauty.

Many of the displays drew inspiration from Jerusalem's rich history, taking motifs from the cultures who've left their mark upon her: Jews, Byzantine, Crusader and Armenian Christians, Arab, Persian and Ottoman Muslims. A breathtaking projection on the Damascus Gate painted the walls with designs inspired by all of these, a great cheer going up from the Arab youth congregating by the steps when an image of the Dome of the Rock in all its glory illuminated the historic site.



As always the Light Festival brings together so many diverse populations purely for the pleasure of enjoying the sights: Muslim families in chic hijabs and jilbabs, Greek Orthodox clergy, Jews of every denomination, persuasion and dress code, Christian pilgrims pausing in the alleys for impromptu songs of praise, Breslev Hassidim breaking into ecstatic dance, local Armenian Christians and tourists from around the globe. Everywhere you are surrounded by a babble of languages, everyone marvelling in delight at the wonders created by the lights.

It's part of what I love about walking through the heart of Jerusalem, the optimism this casual co-existence provides, people who are ideological enemies, people who believe in opposite ideas, and yet on a day to day basis find a way to get along, not just in the hospitals and market places where common need unites them, but also for entertainment, to stroll shoulder to shoulder amongst the crowds enjoying an evening out. I don't kid myself that a beautiful Light Show will bring peace to the Middle East, but it feels like glimpse of what this region could be.



Tonight though I found myself looking around me and wondering whether the Arab families walking besides me were also thinking about the fate of those three Jewish teenagers kidnapped Thursday night. Earlier today we saw pictures of Palestinian women celebrating the kidnapping with sweets, were any of these elderly traditionally dressed Arab women also delighting in the kidnapping of three defenceless boys?

From my horribly rusty Arabic all I heard was mothers pointing out the colours and shapes of the displays to their children, grandmothers admonishing little ones to stay away from the road and watch out for cars, kids excitingly calling to their parents to show them some new delight.

So was I just being paranoid? And yet, and yet, time and time again we see people who are otherwise decent people and yet support terrorism against civilians. I hate the terrorists who believe that kidnapping teenagers is a just means of advancing their cause. I hate the terrorists too for making me look at my Arab neighbours and wonder what I was wondering tonight, and I suppose in part that is exactly what the terrorists want, to jab a knife through that hope of coexistence, to prevent ordinary people from just finding a way to get along, however imperfectly.

Pray for the peace of Jerusalem. Pray for the friendship and continued co-existence of her people. Pray for the safe return of our three kidnapped boys, and for the safety of all the decent people of every faith who pray for their safe return.

Land of Milk

Every spring we try to get to the Chai Farm in Mevo Modi'im for some goat milking,goat herding, cheese making and fun.

This is the time of year to see kids (as in baby goats), adorable in their doe eyed cuteness, nursing from their mothers, learning to graze. My daughter will never forget getting to hold a baby goat in her arms, tiny and docile, snuggling up into her embrace. Last year there was a kid who had difficulty nursing from its mother, so the farmer helped the children milk the mother goat, and then my little girl got to hold it in her arms and feed it. It's a delight to come back a year later and see the kid all grown-up.



After a morning goat herding, milking and helping to feed the slightly older kids it was time to get out of the sun, relax in the air conditioning and get down to the business of cheese making. Visits to goat farms have created a (so far) great fondness for goat cheeses in our family. The younger generation are always excited to participate in making goat cheese and today the excitement wasn't just limited to the cheese, they enthusiastically and of their own volition chose to prepare cheeses with zaatar, rosemary, dill, nigella seeds and oregano, which they proudly announced they would be saving as a Shabbat treat for the family because of all the special ingredients.

Still, after all that hard work they were getting mighty hungry, and with perfect timing our hostess produced exquisite cheese platters with a selection that included labane with spring onions, Circassian style cheese, Tom hard cheese with bayleaves, smoked Provolone, salty Bulgarian style cheese and a selection of olives, crackers and veggies. Within minutes my children had demolished the substantial spread, clamouring for more and moving on to the untouched cheeses the children sitting next to them had left on their platter, wondering aloud why those little girls hadn't eaten their cheese, only the crackers and cucumbers. Then they begged me to buy more to take home for Shabbat, in addition to what they had made, and how could I say no? Dairy Shabbat it will be.



Despite the midday sun there was ample shade from the yard's olive, pomegranate, fig and lemon trees, extra lush and beautiful this time of year with the first mini-fruitlets that promise more delicious treats come late summer and autumn. Between the aviaries of tropical birds added colour and a soundtrack, while assorted chickens roamed freely, mother hens herding their wayward posses of impossibly cute chicks. The farm's pet tortoises, large and well fed, were happy for the children to offer them more juicy morsels of leaves or even prickly pear cactus.

It was hard to pry the human kids away, but Shabbat waits for no one and that tasty bag of cheeses needed to get to a fridge. Reluctantly they followed me out the ornate gate, wandered down the rustic country lane and back to the world of concrete and asphalt.

Thou shalt yet plant vines in the fields of Sha'alabim...

Driving along the country lanes in and around Kibbutz Sha'alabim I often find myself paraphrasing the famous verse in Jeremiah 31: עוד תטעי כרמים בהרי שמרון, Thou shalt yet plant vines in the Samarian Highlands, only in my mind it is the fields of Sha'alabim.

Until the 1967 Six Day War Sha'alabim lived the precarious existence of a border village. Sitting right on the Armistice line which delineated the border between Israel and Jordan following the 1948 War Sha'alabim was under constant threat from cross-border attacks and kibbutz members took theirs lives in their hands each time they went out to tend their crops and livestock. It was not a place most would choose to make their home. Only the idealism of its residents made it viable.

Indeed following the Six Day War documents came to light showing that there was even a Jordanian plan to mount an assasult on the kibbutz with the aim of obliterating it. To this day in Sha'alabim they commemorate their delivery from destruction as Yom Sha'alabim, the day in the Six Day War that Israel recaptured territory to the east of the kibbutz, moving the border and removing the constant threat.



These were my thoughts today, Yom Yerushalayim, also Yom Sha'alabim. It was a gorgeous breezy morning as I made my way with my family to Havaya Bekramim, a section of the kibbutz where depending on the season you can pick berries, harvest wheat or pick grapes and crush them into juice the old fashioned way.

I was worried that this time of year the winds would be warm and "shravi", bringing with them the searing hamsin heatwaves that are common in late spring. It was pleasantly cool though standing among the fruit trees or in the shade of the pines and cypresses that border the orchard, smelling the delicate scent of ripe mulberries, while flocks of storks soared lazily overhead.

The trees were practically groaning under the weight of fruit, three different varieties of mulberry - long, regular and white. A few rows down from the mulberry orchard a blackberry patch was also ripe for picking and between the two a section draped in canvas to protect it from the birds yielded spicy pitango fruits. Our hands and lips were soon dyed purple and red from the delicious bounty.



While my family and friends were intent on picking fruits, our host was harvesting a selection of fresh herbs he cultivates, arranging them in fragrant mounds near the gate for everyone to take home with them - fresh lemon balm, thyme, zaatar, oregano and something I've never seen before but which makes a heavenly herbal tea.

Gaggles of kids looked longingly at the ice-cream bean tree, but alas it was past its season. Near the entrance pomegranate trees dotted bright red with fading blossoms and emerging baby fruits held the promise of late summer bounty.

We'd been warned that earlier in the week a poisonous centipede and black scorpion had been found nearby and we were careful to wear closed shoes, but I'm glad to report that all the children found on the ground were two beautiful porcupine quills which they took home with them as trophies for their nature diaries.



Back home in time for lunch we feasted on the delicate fresh berries, no need to prepare anything else, our family could live on them, and their season is so brief, a sparse few weeks in May. We strive to make the most of it.

As I write my home is filled with the pleasant scent of herbs from the herbal tea we brewed, now chilling in the fridge, a treat we can enjoy for days to come, long after the last of the berries have been gobbled up.

We haven't forgotten those vineyards though, the grapes this time of year still small and intensely green, but everyone is already anticipating the high summer harvest time and the fun of pressing the sweet fruit with our bare feet.
                                 

What do we tell our children?

Maybe this is a generational thing but I grew up hearing about "The War" because living in London in the 1970s and 80s it was all around, as Londoners everyone's grandparents and parents had lived through it to some degree, as Jews many family and friends had either been interned by the British, come to the UK on the Kindertransport or as other refugees, while others were Holocast survivors who came after the war.

So I don't remember anyone hiding it or an age where I suddenly "discovered" that there had been a Holocaust. Yes, the more graphic details I probably found out around age 6 or so, but Hitler's name was cursed regularly in our household, we didn't buy German products and the Battle of Britain was vividly recalled as the knife edge on which our family's existence had teetered, had it not been for the Royal Air Force gumming up Hitler's invasion plans our family would have met the same fate as our continental European cousins.

I think in the modern West there is a desire to shelter our children from all evil, to cocoon them in safety and love, hide the horrific ugliness of the world from there. I'm not advocating showing graphic details of atrocities to little kids, but sadly there is evil in the world and our children need to know about it, will catch glimpses even when their parents try to keep it secret from them. 

Better we the parents be the ones to teach them about it, and yes, even from a fairly young age. Simplistic basic facts at first, not much detail, but kindergartners get the idea of superheroes battling evil, they can grasp the idea of a wicked man trying to hurt others and good people fighting him and eventually stopping his evil plan to destory the Jewish people. Yes it is a scary thing to learn, but they don't have to face it alone.

International Holocaust Memorial Day - Never Forget Rachel and Esther

Today is the Holocaust Memorial Day designated by the UN, who got around to doing so only in 2005 (?!).

January 27 1945 is the day Soviet forces liberated the Auschwitz concentration camp.

These photos show the families of two of my great-aunts, Rachel and Esther, murdered by the Nazis and their local helpers.

These photos were taken not long before the outbreak of World War II, when relatives overseas were trying to persuade the family still in Zlochev, Poland (today Ukraine) to leave because they feared that war was coming to Europe.

Esther and Rachel declined because they were both pregnant at the time and didn't want to travel while pregnant.

When war broke out they tried to get out but discovered that there was nowhere to run to and no way out. The babies they bore were murdered along with the parents and older children in Belzac death camp.

If you live somewhere where people are claiming that the Holocaust didn't happen, I want you to take a long hard look at these photos of real people - mothers, fathers and young children - who were murdered by the Nazis simply because they were Jews. Two entire families wiped out solely because they were Jewish.

They were not civilians caught in the crossfire, collateral damage, their deaths were orchestrated by a deliberate Nazi killing machine whose aim was to destroy every Jewish man, woman and child, just because they were Jews. Their deaths were the aim of a Nazi leadership which went to great effort in setting up a complex system of ghettos, concentration camps and death camps to murder these Jewish civilians.

These photos show the great-aunts, great-uncles and cousins I never had the chance to know. Today these children would be in their 70s and early 80s, grandparents, probably great-grandparents, a whole line of the family gone with no survivors or direct descendents, erased from the world as if they had never existed but for a few photos enclosed in letters to my grandparents.

Snows of 2013 - Round Two

We don't get many years which are bracketed by snow like this, and even fewer where there is snow in both January and then December, and early in December at that. The snow storms this weekend were the heaviest in Israel in 60 years, much of the country was paralysed by snow or torrential rain and flooding. We were stuck in Jerusalem when we got snowed in when we went to visit a relative there.

Fortunately we had planned on spending the weekend there anyway and when we heard that it might snow we took the reports seriously, stocking up on food and candles, bringing extra warm clothing with us. We were lucky to be in a neighbourhood where there were only brief power outages, some areas were without power for many hours or even days. Below I've posted some photos of our snowbound experience by the Jerusalem Forest from Thursday to Sunday.

Thank you

Despite all the hardships, despite all the heartache, קטנתי מכל החסדים, I cannot help but wonder sometimes how it is that our generation is worthy of this incredible loving kindness that is the return of the nation of Israel to our ancestral land after so very many painful centuries of wandering bereft and alone, strangers in strange lands at the mercy of other peoples who so often treated our ragtag refugee nation with the utmost cruelty.

Each year I am awed anew at the zkhut, the great merit, granted to me and my family, to live in a generation in which the Jewish people is once more a sovereign nation in our historic homeland, how many of our ancestors had this dream and how beyond words it is that we were granted the hesed, the loving kindness, to realise it.

It is even beyond that though. When I think of my family who came here 70, 80, 90 years ago, how they suffered in a land that was at the time rough and ready in the extreme, how sometimes all they had to go on was their love of the Land of Israel and the people of Israel, but not even a home to call their own, not knowing where their next meal was coming from, whether they would find work, sick from malaria and other tropical diseases that once plagued those who lived here. 

And here we are, a generation who can hop on a plane and come home to a country that has been built and developed with blood, sweat and tears and so much faith.