Why

Why?

Why am I going to Israel next week? 

I will be traveling with two rabbinic colleagues (Jeff Kahn and John Moscowitz) and Jeff’s wife, Stephanie. We will be an international bunch of wanderers. John hails from Toronto and the Kahns live half time in Israel. We have known each other since the beginning of our rabbinic studies in 1976. This will be an adventure for us. 

My friends and family have asked the “what” question. What exactly are y’all going to do in Israel during this fraught time? 

I am not entirely sure what all we are going to do, although we have a good list of people to see and places to visit. But Israel is always full of surprises. We will visit some, volunteer some, learn some, consult some. I intend to report back on what we do and what we experience. I hope that my reports will not involve political or strategic analyses. History has taught me that even with my years of accumulated wisdom and knowledge, I invariably fall short in predicting the future. There are plenty of talking heads all over the media, and I don’t really trust much of what I read or hear. Instead, I hope that I can send back impressions and feelings and paint pictures with words of the situation in Israel and the remarkable people there trying to emerge from the trauma of October 7. You will find out with me what I can discern from my time there. 

Trying to emerge from the trauma. Maybe that’s the best way to frame what is happening for Israel and for the Jewish people all over the world.  

Instead of focusing on what I will do in Israel, a better question is why go to Israel at all, and why now in particular? 

Turn the clock back fifty-five years. 

Since 1969, my first trip to Israel, I have traveled to Israel more times than I can count. Israel is the homeland for the Jewish people and a second home to me. 

My most memorable and impactful journey to Israel was not during a pleasant time in Israel’s history, or my own for that matter. I had just turned nineteen years old in 1973 when Israel was attacked on Yom Kippur. I will never forget the experience of worshipping in synagogue when we learned of the devastating attack on Israel on the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. I was devastated. Ultimately, Israel emerged victorious, but the country and my people were traumatized. Young Israelis were pulled away from their homes and families to defend their country. My fate was entwined with theirs. I felt compelled to go. My parents prevailed upon me to finish the semester in college. “We paid for the semester. Finish it up and take a leave of absence in the spring. There will be plenty for you to do in the winter and spring.”

I could not say, “No.”

On a wintery December day, I flew by myself to Israel and made my own way to a kibbutz just north of Haifa. 

I did not enjoy my many months in Israel. I missed my girlfriend (no harm, we will celebrate 49 years of marriage in August). That winter in Israel was unusually cold and wet. My cinderblock dorm, void of central heat, felt even colder and more damp than the rainy weather outside. The labor was physically demanding. Stacking cardboard on a factory assembly line defines tedium. The Israelis were unusually dour and depressed. Even though the Israel Defense Forces emerged victorious, Israel’s post-1967 exuberance was dashed. Those days then and these days now feel similar. 

Still, looking back fifty years, I am glad that I made that trip. It cemented my affection and connection to my people, to our history and our destiny. I was not happy being in Israel during the aftermath of the Yom Kippur War. But living life successfully is more than just piling up units of pleasure on a happiness scale. I am glad that I went to Israel as a nineteen-year-old. Few of my peers in America had the opportunity to sacrifice some of their happiness to advance their values. I felt like a true grown up.

So why go to Israel again, now more than 50 years after that memorable trip? 

The answer is that I feel a part of the Jewish people and now, like then, my people are suffering. 

When our loved ones die, we will move across oceans and continents to be with our family. Our presence with the survivors not only offers comfort to the mourners, but also binds us together as a family. By our presence and caring, we, the living, earn our continued place among the mourners and walk with them as they move forward from death to life. 

The same can be said for celebrating with bride and groom surrounding their huppah, their wedding canopy. The couple’s joy is their own, the fulfillment of their personal dreams and hopes for a long and joyous future together. Still, we who are not the bride or the groom and not the parents or the grandparents, we still want to show up to celebrate joy and earn our place in their small universe of family and friends. Showing up is the first part of what it means to be present with others. As Jews, we show up—to console the mourners or to rejoice with lovers—we show up.

But to be honest with you, I am a little apprehensive. I am not so much worried about my physical safety. Israel has the will and the infrastructure to protect me. I have already cast my lot with the Jewish people. Travel anywhere is risky. These days, I suspect that I will feel safer in Tel Aviv than I would in Cambridge, Oakland or Morningside Heights.

But I am apprehensive still about what the experience will mean to me emotionally and spiritually. I have been consumed in my daily life by the news and events in our country and in Israel in particular. To immerse myself full bore in these headlines will undoubtedly affect me. How? I don’t know. But my brothers and sisters are living their lives with this new normal. I suppose that I can spend some time there with them. And I believe that I will be blessed by the experience.

I will be in Israel next week. I will learn some stuff and see some people and do some things that are meaningful, and I will report back to you when I can and when I have something unique to share. 

Why go to Israel now? Good question.

I am going to Israel simply to show up and take my place at the table among my family and my people. Their fate is my fate. Their joy is my joy. Their sorrow is my sorrow. Those people are my people. Time to go home again.

Copy this link into your browser and you will see a young Israeli slam poet do a wonderful presentation on what it means to be a Jew, today. I am older today, a lot older. But his sentiments were mine back then fifty years ago. And they are mine, today, too.

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C3pRbKPsnLx/?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet