Hadassah, Mt. Scopus Hospital

I'm now mostly recovered from hernia surgery, which was performed recently at Hadassah (Mt. Scopus) Hospital in Jerusalem. My injury occurred while playing softball - was rounding first base, felt something pull or tear, and knew right away that it was more than just a minor injury.

The care I received, from my surgeon to the nursing staff, was superb - and, indeed, prior to my surgery, the consensus among my family and friends was that, while they would have, of course, preferred for me to be closer to home so they could look after me while recovering from the operation, umm...how can I put it...they seem to suggest that...let's see...I'll put it like this...Jews aren't exactly strangers to the field of medicine and, well, they assumed that surgeons at one of the leading hospitals the Jewish state could, more than likely, handle my little hernia.

A brief history of the hospital: Hadassah was the first teaching hospital and medical center in Palestine, opened its doors in 1939, and quickly developed a reputation for providing medical services to all the communities in the region, providing modern medical care previously unavailable to the poorer classes amongst the Arabs.

In March 1947, as tension, and violence, in the region was mounting at the impending British withdrawal, the leader of the Arab Forces in Jerusalem, Abd al-Qadir al-Husayni, threatened to blow up the hospital and, though that didn't occur, attacks were carried out on traffic to and from the hospital - leading up to April 13, 1948 (about a month before Israel declared Independence), when an armored convoy of doctors, nurses, medical students, and other staff on its way to the hospital was ambushed, and 78 people were killed in what became known as the Hadassah medical convoy massacre.

Following Israel's War of Independence, under the 1949 armistice agreement with Jordan, Mount Scopus was declared a demilitarized zone and operation of the hospital became impossible. The staff moved to temporary quarters in Jerusalem and eventually, a new campus was built in Ein Kerem. After the unification of Jerusalem in the Six-Day War, Hadassah Mount Scopus underwent extensive renovations, reopening in 1975.

With over 300 beds and 30 departments and clinics, the hospital serves all populations in Jerusalem without distinction - treating thousands of Arab patients from East Jerusalem and the West Bank. (Indeed, while resting in my room, following surgery, I heard, at various times, nurses speaking to patients in Arabic, Hebrew, English, and Russian.) In conjunction with Hebrew Univ. Medical School, they have trained hundreds of medical personnel from Egypt, Jordan, sub-Saharan Africa and other parts of the world.

Hadassah now has a reputation as one of finest medical institutions in the Middle East and the world, pioneering in computer aided diagnosis, cardiac surgery, as well as embryonic stem-cell research (apparently, stem-cell research isn't at all controversial here, as it is in the U.S.). Hadassah has also become a pioneer in Terror Medicine and Mass Casualty Management, and has treated 40% of all terrorism-related victims in Israel since 2000. (Terror medicine is related to emergency and disaster medicine but focuses on the myriad of medical issues uniquely related to terrorist attacks.)

One final note, my surgeon, Professor Oded Zamir, happens to be on facebook, and apparently has a sense of humor, as would be indicated by his profile photo, below:

On Facebook, Jewish Social Activism, and Israel Advocacy

Facebook is an interesting window into what people in your extended community think about - what occupies their time, what moves them culturally and socially. A few status updates, or the posting of a link or video, can tell you who's a Yankees fan and who is partial to the Red Sox; who grooves to Madonna and who prefers Brahms; who likes hanging out at the trendy club downtown and who feels more at ease at the neighborhood dive bar; whose sister just had a baby, and who recently returned from vacation.

Someone as political as me, however, is constantly looking for signs of friends' political leanings. Do they identify with a political party/ideology/movement on their Info page? Do they subscribe to fan pages for politicians of certain political persuasions? Did their posts reflect support for Obama or McCain during the recent election? Do they show their support or disapproval Obama's healthcare reform proposals? Do they post patriotic messages on July Fourth? Are reproductive rights important to them, or environmentalism? And, who inspires them to anger - evangelical conservatives or secular liberals?

While I post many non-political updates, am fond of commenting on pop cultural or sports, sometimes post the latest pic of my little nephew, and will post the simply humorous, the pithy one-liners, and the ''just because'' updates like most people, my greatest political passion involves Israel and, as such, Facebook for me is an incredible opportunity to use the new social networking media as an extension of my Zionist activism. From linking to my latest blog posts, to posting links to polemics I find persuasive, or more creative/personal essays I find moving or evocative, facebook is a great way to spread the ''word'' about Israel and to rebut the dangerous rhetoric of Israel's critics.

Recently, I posted a link to Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's latest speech in which he once again called for the elimination of Israel and denied the Holocaust. I later posted a link to Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu's speech at the UN, where he eloquently criticized those in attendance at Ahmadinejad's speech who actually applauded at its conclusion. I also, posted a link to a translation of a Hamas children's show in which the main character, a bear named Nassur, informs the children that it is their duty to slaughter all of the Jews.

Among many of my progressive Jewish friends on Facebook, however, religious and non-religious, even those whose support for Israel has been demonstrated by frequent visits to the Jewish state, there is (with some notable exceptions) not much political content about Israel on their updates, nor are there comments (or the facebook ''thumbs-up) to Israel-related posts of me and other Zionist activists within their network. And, to the degree that these at least marginally socially aware friends do post political content, the issues which they seem most comfortable highlighting their support for tends to be healthcare, environmentalism, poverty, homelessness - lending their support for ''social justice'' related concerns, consistent with how they view a commitment to ''Tikkun Olam'' (repairing the world).

While many of these causes are indeed admirable, there is a ferocity in their support for these causes which seems, anyway, strangely absent in their support for Israel. For instance, the anger among my progressive friends with Republican opposition to President Obama's healthcare proposals was palpable in a supportive post which people were being asked to use as their status update, which read:

''No one should die because they cannot afford health care, and no one should go broke because they get sick. If you agree, please post this as your status update for the rest of your day''

While I'm not certain if this status update exactly went viral, many of my friends responded in kind to this request, and posted this sentiment, which was then seen by their network of friends, etc. While my thoughts on the health care proposals being debated by Congress are a bit complicated, I do admire the passion many have for this topic, and - while I wish there was a bit more tolerance for those of us who have at least some reservations about increased government involvement in the health care sector - I am, more broadly, heartened whenever I see people engaged in a cause greater than their own self-interest. However, it seems that the only ones who ever post on Israel are (again, with a couple notable exceptions) those on the political right - broadly defined. While using my admittedly limited social network on Facebook to assess a community's passion for a given cause is, I readily acknowledge, not the most rigorous method for determining such a complex phenomena, there are polls and more empirically-driven data which seem to indicate at least prima facie evidence in favor of my conclusions.

While the politics of progressive support for Israel, and their views of Israeli-Palestinian Conflict, more broadly, is a very complicated topic - and, I have at least begun to address the issue in two essays I wrote which were published by the Jewish Exponent right before I made Aliyah, here and here - the seeming ambivalence many on the Left feel when confronted with the topic of Israel concerns me greatly, and one which may lead to some very uncomfortable conclusions about the nature of modern progressive thought and the future of Jewish support for the democratic Jewish state.

A Jewish writer, Jay Michaelson, recently wrote an essay which appeared in The Forward expressing his diminishing ''love'' for Israel, and his increasing reluctance to mount a defense against her critics. And, while this, in itself, is, sadly, not a totally unique sentiment for a progressive Jew to express, at least one of the reasons he provides does seem unusual, as he openly laments that defending Israel within his progressive social circles (not to mention on college campuses, European liberal political circles) is an extremely risky endeavor. He says,

''In my social circles, supporting Israel is like supporting segregation, apartheid...the war in Iraq, or George Bush ...It’s gotten so bad, I don’t mention Israel in certain conversations anymore, and no longer defend it when it’s lumped in with South Africa and China by my friends.''

Yet, he goes on to admit that he knows it is,

''...a sign of weakness of will on my part...this is wrong of me, I know.''

He, remarkably, concludes by acknowledging:

''I still support the State of Israel, its right to exist and the rest. Most important, it is still, in part, my home.... But as an outsider, I no longer want to feel entangled by their decisions and implicated in their consequences.B’seder: It’s your choice to make… but count me out''.

Michaelson's acknowledgment that, though he still supports Israel and believes the arguments against it are often weak and quite facile, he is simply unwilling to burden the social consequences of that support is remarkable in its honesty, but depressing in its lack of resolve - and expresses a politics which writer Anthony Julius aptly referred to, in his powerful essay on Jewish anti-Zionism, in the American Jewish Committee website, Z-Word, as the ''morality of vanity''. Anthony states:

''The moralizer makes judgments on others and profits by so doing. He puts himself on the right side of the political fence.''

While I wish to be clear that I'm not accusing all, or even most, progressive Jews who don't feel comfortable expressing public support for Israel of such vanity - and I am fully aware that there are Jews who don't support Israel for what I feel are misguided, but principled reasons, I am asking to what degree the fact that identifying too closely with Israel has become unfashionable (indeed, a social liability) plays a part in many Jews' unwillingness to openly show their solidarity for the state - a nation which has historically served as the only true political refuge for Jews all over the world, as well as the religious and spiritual home for Jewish culture, the Hebrew language, and Jewish religious life, as well as a politically liberal state, one which is fully consistent with our progressive ideals.

Let me further suggest that progressive politics, the way the word is typically understood in most Jewish circles, has largely come to mean the identification with the oppressed, those fighting for freedom against tremendous odds...as well as the urge to provide ''comfort to the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.'' And, as such, it should be remembered that Israel is still - despite its incredible economic and social achievements over the last 61 years - in many ways also a beleaguered state, the David fighting Goliath, a state surrounded by enemies who openly and repeatedly call for her physical destruction, and one who is also forced to confront a furious intellectual assault - those who use the media and international bodies to weaken Israel morally and politically. There is nothing even remotely right-wing (or ''reactionary'') - in what these terms have come to broadly denote in our current political context - about Zionism.

So, allow me to conclude by saying that if being a progressive in good standing requires you to abstain from expressing your solidarity with the state of the Jewish people then you may wish to reconsider your political alliances, and start to ask the question, ''where have my progressive friends gone wrong?''

With 192 nations in the world, all representing various ethnic, religious, social or tribal affinities, Israel - the only homeland representing the religious, political, and cultural aspirations of the Jewish people - should never have its right to exist as a state for the Jewish people questioned, nor should her passionate supporters be excluded from the progressive community. Post this as your status update for the rest of your day.

Haunted

Despite my pleas of innocence, they would not reconsider my sentence. It was scheduled to be carried out the following day and, as the finality of it all weighed upon me, as I began pondering the dread of what was to be, I somehow came across an opening in the fence, and was able to escape with others to a city in some amorphous land where I sensed that I was safe for the time, but still must continue to run...was still hounded by the fear of the being captured and sent back...to that place.

This Holocaust dream was one of only a few I've had a few in my life, and it was the first one I've had in Israel. My great-grandparents all left Russia and immigrated to the U.S. in the 19th century, and so our family was left...in tact. And, yet...

One of the more unusual experiences I've ever had was at an old train station in Germany some years back. I was backpacking across Europe with a close friend, and was truly having an incredible time, we were both fully experiencing the joy of being on our first European journey together, were living in the moment. Yet, while waiting for our train to depart...my mood began to gradually change...a subtle fear had taken hold. Perhaps something about the weathered steel, the harshness of that foreign, yet - in some ways - familiar, toungue announcing each arrival and departure. I knew rationally that I was safe, that nothing was going to happen, and yet I - not typically one for drama - was genuinely nervous, possessed a palpable fear I was unable to control. I wanted more than anything just to leave, to get out of...that place. The train couldn't have arrived sooner.

My friend, Sarah, had lost family members in the Holocaust, and the others who escaped had only barely done so, managing somewhow to flea the fire that would consume millions. But she grew up in a house, a family, that was consumed by the fear, the insecurity, the memory of what could have been, and, even after all of these years, the knowledge of what could happen still.

Sarah once dremt of a Rabbi she had known all of her life. He ran up to her in a fit of panic, and warned her, with the look of fearful urgency, a tragic recognition on his old, weathered, face, that it wasn't safe anymore, that she must be warned, that we must all be warned, that she must leave, that we must all leave at once, that we were once again in danger and must flea!

Her dream was something of a jolt - I was shaken by the unfamiliar. I had already known so much , I thought...had read so much, has seen so much - a camp, a cattle car, as well as those shoes, all of those shoes. I had even heard from survivors. And yet, hearing this from Sarah, younger than me, and yet haunted - the vividness of her vision reminding me of a fear that may exist to some degree in most of us...a fear somewhere beneath the surface that, though we were now so safe, we are still so small in numbers, still vulnerable, and the worst could conceivably, again, happen. We could once more be in danger, the political tides could turn. And, would we realize in time? Would we get out in time? Of course I don't really believe it will ever happen, and yet...I guess that somewhere inside of me, inside most of us...

I felt a sadness for my friend...for the feeling of safety she, even as a child, never knew. And, I wanted to tell her that everything would be okay....that she would be safe, that it was all just a dream. But, really, how could I? How could anyone say such a thing to her?

I've recently become friendly with an older nieghbor who lives upstairs from me - in my building on our quiet tree-lined street in the Rehavia section of Jerusalem. I occasionally go up to visit Anna, who always places a bowl of fruit in front of me before helping me with my Hebrew. Anna was a hidden child. Her family (like many Jewish families in Europe in the 30s), placed her with a gentile family to keep her safe until the end of the war.

Only her mother made it out alive. Her father, and 60 other members of her extended family, perished.

I imagine what her mother may have told Anna - the little girl - as she was left with that strange family. Did she promise her daughter that they would all one day be reunited? Did she tell her that her father and the rest of her family would all be okay? Did she assure her that life would once again be for her as it once was, and as it should always be for Jewish children everywhere? Did she tell her she would feel safe again? Did she tell her everything would be okay?

Did she assure her that the nightmares would be over forever?

Close to Home

The picture I posted is of my father, Morris, taken sometime between 1941-1945, while serving overseas in the U.S. Army Air Corps during WWII. He rarely spoke of the war, and all we have now are a few old photographs. He did his duty for his country then as he would later do for his family - without bravado or pretense.

If he was still alive, my dad would be celebrating his 86th birthday today. I'm living in Jerusalem now, a citizen of Israel, 5700 miles away from the Greater Northeast Philadelphia neighborhood where my brother, sister, and me were raised. And, though I have been guilty, at times, of focusing too heavily on my parents' imperfections - and while my often caustic critiques of the homogenous and quite staid culture of my old 'hood has become part of my M.O. - the older I get the more and more I appreciate that, despite the profound changes in my life since I left my old neighborhood, the values I bring to this old-new land were shaped by the "great'' Northeast'' community where I lived and, especially, by the steady moral example of my parents' lives.

For both of my parents, raised in one of the many rowhomes in the mostly Jewish neighborhood of Strawberry Mansion - moving to a single-split level - albeit modest - home in the newly developed Far Northeast, was a clear step up, and represented a commitment to giving their children a better life than they had. Indeed, neither of my parents had the opportunity to go beyond high school, and it took me a long time to understand what an achievement it was for them to see all of their children graduate college. For my father especially, who grew up during the Great Depression - and whose family at times literally didn't have enough to eat - owning a home in the NE was "making it'', and the $20,000 they spent on the house on Dumont Rd., right by the traintracks, in 1970 seemed like a huge sum of money, especially considering how modest his income was as a debit man with the United Insurance Company of America.

I must have heard the story of my parents' first apartment (in 1955) a thousand times, told by my mother each time as if it was the first - a 5th floor walk-up apartment which was all they could afford on dad's $80 a month initial salary. Indeed, they sacrificed to eventually buy and keep our NE home in ways I wasn't fully aware of at the time.

You see, dad's job represented the abandonment of years spent playing semi-pro baseball as a young adult in pursuit of his childhood dream to play in the Pros. Baseball was his life - a passion for the game that was passed on to me and my brother - and, though he loved, and was committed to, his family, each day of work was a reminder that he would never fulfill his dreams, that a Debit Man was all he would ever be.

His work also required him to carry relatively large sums of cash in the more dangerous neighborhoods in Philly - a fact that soon became known among the more disreputable elements in these communities - resulting in him being robbed (often at gunpoint) over a dozen times throughout the years. I learned only recently that, on one such occasion, while being held-up by two teens, he heard the one tell the other to "off-him'', to which the other one replied, ''nah, let's just take his money and get out of here.''

I remember as a child being solemnly informed by my mom, at times, that my dad was ''held up'', and though I understood literally what she meant, I wasn't able, at that age, to appreciate the profound injustice he had just suffered, nor could I appreciate the strength he showed by dutifully returning home to his family and going back to work the next day - presumably hiding whatever fear he had deep inside. Nor was his passionate and principled opposition to racism - ahead of his time in many ways for his generation - in any way altered by what he saw. Derogatory comments about African Americans simply wasn't acceptable discourse in our family.

While I have no doubt that he would have supported my decision to move to Israel, I often wonder how he - a committed New Deal Liberal till the end - would have felt about my gradual move to the Right politically. Interestingly though, in many ways, I attribute my increasing identification with mildly conservative politics to the inspiration of my father's moral example - the quietly dignified way in which he lived his life, and the thrift, moral restraint, loyalty, and work ethic he displayed day after day.

You see, dad had almost no advantages in life by way of money, connections, or supportive nurturing parents, yet he and my mother dutifuly raised their children (including caring for my sister Randi, who died of a heart defect at age 2), and sacrificed to give us the opportunities in life they never had. While dad may have hoped for a few more breaks - and a system that distributed advantges a bit more fairly - he didn't wait around for such a world to be created, and knew instinctively what I think is the most empowering message anyone can learn, that the decisions he made each and every day of his life determined, more than anything, his family's success or failure.

He new that life is lived from the inside out...that strong individuals, families, and communities make for a strong nation, not the other way around....that the greatest thing my brother, sister, and I - as well as my friends in the neighborhood - were given was a community with parents (the only ''role-models'' that truly matter) who delayed gratification, and modeled work, responsibility, and decency. Though his life wasn't at all what he had hoped it would be as a younger man, he was quietly determined to do what he could in order for his children to have a greater chance of realizing their dreams - a moral sobriety shared by generations of American parents who, usually unknowingly, contributed, in ways impossible to measure, to the strength, character, and progress of our nation. My father never pontificated about the virtues of personal responsibility - he simply lived it.

Dad died on April 6, 1996, of a Diabetes related infection, at the age of 73. He handled his long bout with the disease - which included kidney failure, impaired vision, amputation, coutless operations, and at times crippling pain, as he did most things: quietly, stoically. My mother - always the committed and loyal wife and mother - cared for him with love, mercy, and competence till the end.

I know now that I owe most of who I am to who they were.

On writing in Israel

''I see the notion of talent as quite irrelevant. I see instead perseverance, application, industry, assiduity, will, will, will, desire, desire, desire.'' - Gordon Lish (on writing well)

The Tmol-Shilshom bookstore-cafe restaurant (picture on the left) just off of ben Yehuda, opened in 1994, and was named after Nobel laureate S.Y. Agnon’s novel. Their claim to fame is that they quickly became a well known establishment where Israel’s best known writers read from their works. The first one was Yehuda Amichai, who read from his poetry at the opening of Tmol-Shilshom in June 1994. Since then they`ve had Amos Oz, A.B. Yehoshua, David Grossman, and many others.

It is at this location where I recently attended a new Jerusalem writers group - where a dozen or so writers, and bloggers, will regularly meet to hopefully provide support, advice, community, and a bit of constructive criticism to one another.

Though I have always been quite political - and had contributed a couple essays to my college paper as an undergradudate - my writing only really began with a letter to the editor published in one of Philly's local "alternative'' weeklies in 2006. My increasing identification with what I would call center-right political thought, which ran in opposition to what I perceived as consistently predictable ''progressive'' tropes about issues such as race, poverty, terrorism and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict - inspired me to continue such letters. And, the frequency of my submissions and publications - to both the local alternative press, Philly's major daily paper, as well as, on occasion, papers outside the Philly region - began to increase, owed to my realization that I had a very minor talent for communiticating my ''alternative view'' in an informed yet pithy manner which seemed to suit the needs of the editors.

As my letters began to feel a bit less satisfying, and wishing to expand my thoughts beyond what I could express in the mere two or three paragraphs typically allotted for such entries, I took a crack at full-length essays, and had the good fortune of having a submission published in Philly's Jewish weekly, The Jewish Exponent, on the anti-Israel movement in Philadelphia. I then was asked to write another essay on my decision to make Aliyah, published a week or so before my deaparture to Israel.

My blog began quite modestly at first, meant merely to chronicle my experiences in my new country (an online travel journal of sorts) but has turned into something much more. Adam's Zionist Journey has become an opportunity to describe my life as such, but informed by what I see as the big picture, the historical and political context of my new citizenship in the modern Jewish polity - a state which faces the challenges that all such nations face, but which also must deal with multiple existential threats, threats to the Jewish body politic which often stem from the same ideological origins as those threats individual Jews have faced throughout history - what has been referred to as Israel as the Jew writ large.

And, though I'm quite comfortable expounding on such ideas, I am not, by any means, a gifted or prolific writer, and the words needed to give shape and form to my broad themes often struggle to burst free, a challenge especially apparent in my initial story-telling...the linear trajectory of the initital ''who'', ''what'', and ''when'' of the post.

So, in addition to welcoming comments on the political content of my posts, I encourage my new community of writers in Jerusalem, and all friends of this blog, to provide constructive feedback on the quality of the stories themselves. I have absolutely no illusions that I'll ever become a great writer, but would simply be content - through perseverance, application, industry, assiduity, will and desire - to become better than I am.

Mourners of Zion

The traditional words of consolation said to mourners, in the Jewish tradition, are, "may the almighty comfort you amongst the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem." This was explained, by Rabbi Aron Moss, to convey: "You're not alone. Although the destruction of Jerusalem would have directly affected those who lived there the most, nevertheless it was a national tragedy. All Jews, including those who lived far from Jerusalem, were deeply pained at the loss of their holy city. It gave strength and courage to the Jerusalemites to know that the entire people was feeling their pain. So too, although it is the family that is mourning for their loss, the entire Jewish people share in their sorrow at the passing of one of our own. This is comfort in knowing that your sorrow is being shared by your people.''

As I entered Har Herzl Military Cemetary to attend the memorial (the 3rd Yartzeit) for Michael Levin, an American Oleh from the Philadelphia area killed in action during the Lebanon War in 2006, I saw Sally Mitlas, the director of the documentary about Michael, A Hero in Heaven. Or, rather, she saw me. I was standing alone, wearing a Hebrew Philadelphia Phillies t-shirt, when Mitlas commented on my shirt, (Michael was a big Phillies fan, and Mitlas herself is a Philly native) struck up a conversation and introduced herself. As she led me to michael's memorial, past hundreds of other tombs of Israeli soldiers killed in battle in its 61 year history, and past land reserved for the tombs of future such casualties, Sally saw someone she recognized who was heading our way.

The deeply tanned, sturdy and robust, middle-aged man in green military fatigues - who, I gathered, also knew Michael - greeted Sally warmly. After a brief exchange, Sally mention to him that I was an Oleh Chadash (a new immigrant). His expression upon hearing the news changed ever so slightly. And, though he didn't turn to me, he acknowledged me, and what my immigration to Israel represented to his strong, yet eternally embattled, nation with a few hearty and purposeful pats on my shoulder as we began to walk to our destination. I felt in those few pats, in his warm yet slightly detached manner towards me so much... conveying so much of what he, and his comrades, has seen and endured....that, though we were not equals, I was now, and will now always be, part of the Jewish nation.

Though I didn't personally know Michael Levin or his parents, there was always something about his life, and death, that touched me, in ways that was only hightened by my Aliyah and my presence at Mt. Herzl witnessing the profound grief of his family, friends, and fellow soldiers on that warm July afternoon. When the Mourner's Kaddish was recited, when Michael's father spoke, when Michael's oldest and closest friend spoke...seeing and hearing their pain as they tried to hold back tears, and carry-on as they all must, was...a lot to bear.

At the conclusion of the memorial we all sang Hatikvah with Michael's family, as one family.

Tisha B'Av and Jewish Power

Last week, Israel and Jews around the world observed Tisha B'Av, a day of mourning to commemorate the many tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people, many of which coincidentally have occurred on the same date in the Hebrew calendar. Tisha B'Av primarily commemorates the destruction of the first and second Temples, both of which were destroyed on the ninth of Av (the first by the Babylonians in 586 B.C.E.; the second by the Romans in 70 C.E.), but on this day we reflect on the many other tragedies of the Jewish people, many of which occurred on this day, from the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492 to the mass deportation of Jews from the Warsaw Ghetto.

Like many in Jerusalem, I spent some time on that evening at the Kotel (Western Wall) reflecting on these tragedies but also found myself thinking of these catastrophies in the context of the Jewish community's often ambivalent relationship with power and my new citizenship in the modern Jewish state, a nation who has been forced to exercise power in order to prevent additional tragedies from befalling the Jewish community in Israel and the diaspora.

Indeed, Israel's creation, and their role as the guardian of the Jews, can be seen as a direct response to the tragedies that have befallen us, an attempt to turn history around, to act instead of always being acted upon. Whether Israel was defending itself in war, or aiding/rescuing endangered Jewish communities around the world, the Jewish collective has had at its disposal, for the first time in over 2000 years, a state apparatus with the means - logistically, politically, diplomatically, and militarily - to protect its interests, just as other people organized in nation-states have had through the ages.

However, with this organized exercise of power comes a price, a burden that many Jews seem unwilling or unable to bear - as any exertion of power, any control over your own fate, inevitably carries with it a burden, the loss of an innocence of sorts, the innocence that is often projected upon people perceived to be powerless.

Israeli military power (exercised against terrorism and small scale regional threats, and in actual wars against state actors, and its territorial repercussions), and the relative success of Jewish communities in the West (and the subsequent political power that such success invariably brings), seems to instill in many Jews an uneasiness that sometimes translates into a loss of identification with their fellow Jews and a need to identify in a way uniquely separate from such power, or even in outright opposition. Many Jews today find it more comforting, and certainly easier to stomach, identifying with non-Jewish "progressive causes than with having to continually defend a state in all the complexities and compromises associated with even the most progressive national enterprises.

This recurring tendency of Jews, both as individuals and as communities, to pay greater attention to their own moral performance than to the necessities of survival is a tendency that writer Ruth Wisse characterizes - in her book aptly named "Jews and Power" - as “moral solipsism.” Wisse further argues that in displaying the resilience necessary to survive in exile, and not burdened by the weight of a military, many Jews believed they could pursue their mission as a “light unto the nations” on a purely moral plane. Wisse demonstrates how their political weakness increased Jewish vulnerability to scapegoating and violence, as it unwittingly goaded power-seeking nations to cast them as perpetual targets.

Indeed some such Jews I have known express their disapproval for the acts of Israel or the Jewish community at large by lamenting this newly acquired capacity to exert power and exclaiming that (with a tone that almost approaches longing) "Jews have always been the underdog...the victim...the weak...never the powerful", confirming for me at least that some Jews almost seem to fetishize weakness and, in so doing, fail to see the role that such weakness has played in the suffering that has befallen Jews through the ages.

Yes, with national sovereignty there is a price that has to be paid in terms of the occasional infliction of human suffering (even if unintentional) that invariably occurs as the result of even the most responsible and restrained use of national power. But in the lives of individual adults, as in the lives of responsible nations, rarely is there the luxury of making choices that will lead to perfect justice for all concerned. Rather, with every serious decision in front of her, Israel - the guardian of the Jews - must carefully weigh the costs and benefits of various possible acts, and try to make the decision that will most likely result in the most positive outcomes not only in the present, but taking into account the safety and well-being of future generations of Jews as well - a profound responsibility that can not be taken lightly, and a responsibility we all should take seriously as a community as we lament the suffering of so many throughout our history on Tisha B'Av.

In Memory of Michael Levin

I attended the Memorial at Mt. Herzl Military Cemetery today to pay my respects to the family of Michael Levin, an immigrant from the U.S. who was one of three soldiers killed on August 1, 2006 in clashes with Hezbullah in the southern Lebanese village of Aita al-Shaab.

Born and raised near Philadelphia, Michael grew up in a traditional, American Jewish household, was active in USY and attended Camp Ramah in the Poconos. In February of 2001, Michael came to Israel for two months and attended the Alexander Muss high school program. After graduating high school, Michael attended the NATIV USY year long program in Israel. In his NATIV yearbook he wrote:

"You can't fulfill your dreams unless you dare to risk it all"

At the young age of 16, Michael already decided that he wanted to move to Israel and join a front-line combat unit in the IDF. He followed his dream three years later, and immigrated to Israel.

Upon arrival in Israel, Michael wasn't about to tolerate the built-in delay that allows most new immigrants several months to settle in and adjust to the Israeli way of life before starting IDF training. Michael fought for -- and received -- special permission to join the IDF almost right away. Once in, he fought again to get into the elite Paratroopers Brigade, becoming one of the few former Americans ever to do so, joining the elite paratroop unit #890 shortly thereafter.

In summer 0f 2006 Michael had received special permission to travel to the United States to visit his family, but when he heard about the outbreak of the war, he decided to end his trip and return to help his unit. He went straight to his commanders and demanded to be sent up north to defend Israel against Hezbollah. Seven days later he was killed.

On Tisha B'Av, Michael Levin was laid to rest at Mount Hertzl Cemetery. His family flew in from the U.S., where they were joined by literally thousands of people from all over Israel who came to pay tribute to his memory, his heroism.

Michael Levin made the ultimate sacrifice for the Jewish State that he loved so much.

May G-d console his family among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.

(Information about Michael's life was culled largely from the website of a film about his life, called: A Hero in Heaven. )

Out of Many, One (Or, what is the "purpose" of Luxembourg?)

The ethnic, national, and racial diversity in my Ulpan class is a legacy of the cultural diversity and far-flung nature of the Jewish Diaspora: it is said that Jews have come to modern Israel from 103 countries and speak more than 70 different languages. In my class alone, there are Jews from Ethiopia, Peru, Brazil, Chile, Venezuela, Russia, Belarus, Moldova, the UK, Italy, Germany, and the U.S.

In addition, other nationalities represented in this global melting pot of Israel are Morocco, Yemen, Iran, Algeria, Tunisia, Azerbaijan, Armenia, Georgia, Turkey, Libya, Syria, India, Pakistan, Poland, Romania, Canada, Austria, Bulgaria, Greece, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, South Africa, and others.

Because our instructor uses English while conducting class, she will, throughout the day, when explaining something of special importance, often ask the Russian speakers in the class who are fluent enough in English to translate what she said for the Russian non-English speakers, and will ask the same of the Spanish speakers. In the case of those who speak other languages that don't have a companion national compatriot in class, they have nobody else to rely on other than their often shaky grasp of English and whatever body language and other non-verbal communication the instructor uses. For instance, the Ethiopian in our class, Hanoch, who speaks a little English, has nobody else in class to ask for assistance, as nobody speaks, or in any way understands, Amharic.

However, on the first day of class, when we were all gathered into the assembly room for an introduction to the Ulpan and to the staff, and we sang Hatikvah, Hiney Ma Tov, and Oseh Shalom, most everyone was familiar enough with the tradition and spirit of the songs, if not the Hebrew lyrics, that it was as if we were all speaking the same language - the language of the dream we all had to live in Israel, to make Aliyah, and to fulfill the ideals articulated in Hatikvah of being "a free people in a free land."

The unity of the Jewish nation, which often eludes many Jews and non-Jews alike, the common narrative we share - despite our differing languages, cultures, religious affiliations, and nationalities - of thousands of years of struggles, dreams, and destiny, makes Israel, by almost any measurement, among the more unified nations in the world.

(Indeed, in a 2009 survey, Some 88% of Israel's Jews are proud to be Israeli, and 95% of them are willing to fight for their country, according to the patriotism survey, making Israel among the most patriotic nations in the world. Indeed, such results places Israel second only to the United States in surveys measuring patriotism and overall sense of national purpose. While Israelis, like citizens in all countries, differ on my things, there simply is no crisis in Israel on the meaning and significance of being an Israeli.)

Israel is to certainly be admired for its progressive nature (its freedoms that many other nations can't soon hope to enjoy) but the one thing that is unique about Israel is, as Herzl says, its role as "guardian of the Jews". There is no other nation in the world that can be counted on to, every time, come to their rescue and risk lives and treasure to save Jews from peril all over the world. Lets not forget that only a few years ago, Israel devoted a decade of dangerous but successful work to rescue the Jews of Ethiopia, saving tens of thousands of lives that would have been lost. (No other nation in the world has ever taken such risks to rescue thousands of black Africans from harm, and allow them to become citizens.)

And, there is no other nation in the world that will devote its energies to fostering (and protecting) Jewish culture, the Hebrew language, and our unique religious identity, and to ensure a society where Jews don't have to compromise their unique identity in order to "fit in" to society.

Yet, there are those who oddly question the purpose of the Jewish nation, and who even shamefully suggest that we should cease to exists, or that the justification for our existence is tied merely to some sort of sympathy for our suffering of the Holocaust and is currently tenuous at best, for which I want to ask one question: What is the purpose of Luxemborg? Though I'm being a bit sarcastic, it is truly remarkable that Israel, a nation with such a specific purpose and unique, unambiguous, and enduring identity - of all the nations of the world - is constantly asked to defend its right to exist, when, really, how many of us can speak with any degree of eloquence about the purpose of the other 191 nations in the world. Tell me, go down the list of nations accepted by the U.N., and tell me what is the "purpose" is of each. While Muslims can live in a way consistent with their traditions in over 50 nations who are self-described "Mulim states", and Christian can live comfortably in dozens of states whose identity is at least "de facto" Christian, if not outright codified as such, there is only one Jewish state in the world - the only one that there will likely ever be.

My guess is that if the New York Times Magazine had a long essay about some tiny, obscure tribe in South America or Africa with a unique language, culture, and history, whose history extends several thousand years, and who is now in danger of being vanquished by external enemies and international indifference to their plight, readers would decry the situation and express righteous indignation over the possible collapse of a culture with such a long and proud history. I also bet nobody would question what their reason for being is. Indeed, such a question would most likely be thought by such readers to be imperious, arrogant, and callous.

The fellow Olim in class with me certainly struggle with understanding and conversing in Modern Hebrew, and we get frustrated while we attempt to negotiate the intricacies of a new (and at times maddening) government bureaucracy, and an entirely new culture. And, many of the younger Olim must gather their strength to eventually serve in a national defense force that will likely have to deal with yet another military confrontation during their time of service. But, what keeps us going is that we have absolutely no doubt as to why we struggle. In a Western world increasingly unable to grasp the details, yet alone the significance, of even the most recent history, the traditions and rhythm of Jewish life allows Israelis to see beyond the now, and to see the big picture, the context, and to view the minutiae of everyday events through the powerful lens our people's history.

Paraphrasing Ze'ev Maghen, being Jewish means that, throughout our history, we were all there. As the Passover Haggadah implores us that, “In every generation, a person must see himself as if he personally left Egypt," so, too, can Jews look at the other major events of our history, the festivals, and the tragedies, as if WE were actually there. As Ze'ev Maghen said:

[Its as if] WE ALL participated in what they did..fought their battles, felt their feelings and learned their lessons. We tended flocks with Rachel...and toppled the walls of Jericho with Joshua...brought the house down on the Philistines with Samson, vanquished the might of imperial Persia with the wisdom and beauty of Esther; we were with Judah the Maccabee at Modi’in, with the Zealots at Masada, with Akiva in the Roman torture chamber and with Bar-Kochva at Betar; we were crucified for refusing the cross in the Crusades, and were turned into ashes for our stubbornness at the autos-da-fé; we were exiled from the shores of Spain by Isabella, and chased down and raped by the hordes of Chmielniki...went out to Safed’s fields to greet the Sabbath bride with Luria, and went in to Galicia’s huts to seek the ecstasy of the fervent Ba’al Shem Tov; we fled the Black Hundreds across Russia’s taiga, and were welcomed by Lazarus at the gates of Ellis Island; we filed into gas chambers at Bergen Belsen; we parachuted into Hungary with Hanna Senesh, and fought back at Warsaw with Mordechai Anilewitz; we revived our dead language, resurrected our sapped strength...and returned to ourselves...renewed the lapsed covenant, and arose like a lion and hewed out your freedom on the plains and the mountains of our old-new land. Throughout all this, we were there with them. We are members of a unique, extended family...partake in a four-thousand year-long journey of savage struggle and jubilant exultation, of unimaginable sacrifice and ineffable beauty, an adventure recently rekindled in a phoenix-like flash of incandescent splendor - the creation of the modern state of Israel - the likes of which human history has never seen."

Ok, one more time, please tell me what the national purpose of Luxembourg is.

My visit to the hilltop settlement of Kida

The West Bank settlement of Kida, which I visited last week, is northeast of Jerusalem, and is part of the Benyamin regional council, which covers 42 Israeli settlements in the southern Samarian hills of the West Bank. The seat of the council is Psagot. (The council is named for the ancient Israelite tribe of Benjamin, whose territory roughly corresponds to that of the council.) Kida is situated on a hilltop that is half a mile above sea level. From Kida there is a view to the east that includes the Gilead area that was home of Elijah the prophet, the Jordan Valley, and to the West the communities of the Shiloh block. Kida is surrounded by vinyards and olive orchards, a lookout from where Hermon can be seen, and ample hiking trails.

Twenty families live in this unauthorized settlement, which was established only four years ago, and though this community will almost certainly be evacuated when, or before, a final peace agreement is reached with the Palestinians, the spokesperson for Kida, Tzofia Dorot, spoke optimistically of a future for her community which would include such amenities as a community center, a childcare center, a coffee house, and permanent housing for a community she hoped would grow to 400 families.

While the residents of Kida are, unlike the larger and more diverse community of Eli, uniformly religious, Tzofia was quite clear that, in the event that the government decides to evacuate their community, their members would, "naturally", obey the democratic wishes of her nation. In fact, while reasonable people can indeed conclude that, given the near certainty that the borders of any future Palestinian state (in whatever form it takes) will certainly include this hilltop community, such settlement construction is counter-productive, one other thing seems clear: the caricature of the settler, seen in much of the Western media, as violent religious fanatics wishing to obstruct peace seems more and more like the stuff of fiction.

To put the territorial dispute with the Palestinians in some much needed perspective:

By the end of the Six Day War, in June 1967 - a defensive war that Israel tried desperately to avoid - Israel had captured enough territory to more than triple the size of the area it controlled, from 8,000 to 26,000 square miles. The victory enabled Israel to unify Jerusalem and Israeli forces had also captured the Sinai, the Golan Heights, the Gaza Strip and the West Bank.

Israel subsequently returned all of the Sinai to Egypt, and all of the Gaza Strip was given to the Palestinians, which involved the peaceful evacuation of Israeli settlers from these territories. To date, approximately 93 percent of the territories won in this defensive war have been given by Israel to its Arab neighbors as a result of negotiations, which clearly demonstrates Israel's willingness to trade land for peace. So, while I'm willing to admit that, political realities being what they are, I doubt the long-term viability of settlements so far from the Green Line, such as Kida, to view such small communities as representing a major obstacle to peace with the Palestinians is an assumption simply not supported by history.

On learning Hebrew עִבְרִית

I visited my new school today, where I'll be studying Hebrew for five hours a day, five days a week, for the next several months - known as Ulpan Etzion.

Ulpan Etzion's new buildings - it recently moved to the East Talpiot neighborhood at Beit Canada - are built in the trademark Jerusalem stone, interspersed with gardens and a playground. Catering to young adult new immigrants from academic and professional backgrounds, the Absorption Center’s halls are abuzz in a variety of languages, with the comings and goings of new Israelis from around the world. The Ulpan is designed to provide new immigrants with the opportunity for social networking, Hebrew study and a supportive initiation into Israeli life and society. Though I'm living off campus, so to speak, the Ulpan maintains dormitory style housing and a Kosher cafeteria for those who choose to live there during their months of Hebrew study.

Established in 1949, shortly after the State of Israel was founded, Etzion was the first Hebrew ulpan in the country where, by all accounts, it set a model for Hebrew language education that was used across Israel. Today it is the only absorption center in Israel specifically designed for young, single new olim (immigrants), who must hold a bachelor's degree to qualify for a place. Staff and students all seem to agree that the intimate atmosphere and high quality of teaching, have made it a sought-after destination.

I must admit to some trepidation about the prospect of learning a new language after all of these years, as - anyone who knows me won't be shocked to hear me say - I'm not generally the fastest learner. I mean, what I do know I know well, but, lets face it, not everyone has the same learning curve and, while I don't at all have any self-doubt when it comes to what I do know....those topics I feel more than comfortable discussing, relating to human nature, politics and the world in general, for some reason I have never been able to assimilate new information quickly. And, while I am glad that I, at least, have chosen the Ulpan with such a stellar reputation, its going to take a lot of hard work to master this old language that Elizer ben-Yehuda modernized and reintroduced to the Jewish people as a modern language more than 1700 years after it disappeared as the spoken language of the Jews.

Indeed, Hebrew's change from a liturgical written language to a spoken language of official status in the State of Israel was not purely a linguistic process. The revival of Hebrew was part of an ideology of modern Zionism, used as a medium of revolt and a symbol of unity for the national liberation movement of the Jewish people.

By most accounts, the process of Hebrew's return to regular usage is unique; there are no other examples of a language devoid of native speakers becoming a national language with millions of first language speakers. Like many of the giants of Zionist history whose stories I've become more intimately familiar with since my Aliyah - like Herzl, Ben Gurion, and others - I am quite humbled by ben-Yehuda's example of dogged determination in the face of tremendous odds. Yehuda once said:

"For everything there is needed only one wise, clever and active man, with the initiative to devote all his energies to it, and the matter will progress, all obstacles in the way notwithstanding... In every new event, every step, even the smallest in the path of progress, it is necessary that there be one pioneer who will lead the way without leaving any possibility of turning back."

So, in the face of such vision and strength of purpose, it will be hard for me wallow in self-doubt about my capacity to learn Hebrew for too long, and will try to remember that I'm here after all, not just to experience Israel, but to become an Israeli.

My visit to the settlement of Eli, in the West Bank

My tour today included the settlement of Eli, a few miles from Ariel, stretching over a vast area situated on a mountainous topography, including a cluster of neighborhoods with a total of 3,000 residents. The center of life in Eli is the pre-military academy that attracts religious students from all over the country. Maj. Ro'i Klein, an Eli resident and hero of the Second Lebanon War, was killed when he lept on a grenade to save his soldiers.

Quality of life is not a vague concept at Eli. There are cultivated gardens, breath-taking mountain views, the shades of its olive trees, and a well-kept regional sports center, which includes multi-purpose playing fields, a tennis court, a work-out facility & swimming pool. Eli provides health services, a small shopping center, and post office. Synagogues and ritual baths are scattered around the neighborhoods.

Eli is also only 30 minutes from Jerusalem. And, the relatively short distance from Israel's large centers of employment, particularly the Industrial Parks in Barkan and Ariel, allow direct access to and from work. The town is at an elevation of about 700-800 m. above sea level, with a climate similar to that of Jerusalem.

Kobi Eliraz, who is the head of Eli's local council, spoke to our group with an immense sense of pride about his community. Eliraz is disappointed by most Israelis' refusal to cross "the eastern threshold of Ariel," after which the real "settlements" begin. He wanted to also make it clear that he recognizes the authority of the state, and if it wants to evacuate him from Eli, he says, he'll fight the decision - but peacefully go along with it. Indeed, that sentiment was echoed by others we spoke to.

One of the more interesting things I discovered was that the population of Eli includes a significant number of secular Israelis - inconsistent with the caricature of the settlers as uniformly religious. While I obviously wasn't able to speak with a large number of residents here, my sense from speaking to the community leaders is that Israelis are drawn to such settlements for a number of reasons. The beauty of the area and relative affordability of home ownership is a factor for some; the allure of living in close-knit community is also a draw, as well as the feeling, which I heard echoed by Eli residents - as well as the residents of a tiny outpost near the Jordan Valley that I visited later in the day - that a pioneer spirit was partly at play.

I couldn't help but think of the American families moving to remote unsettled areas, in the19th century, as the borders of their nation gradually expanded westward....drawn by cheap land, the promise of a fresh start, and, no doubt such pioneers thought they were entitled to do so either by political right or by providence. Likewise, Israelis who have opted for these remote hillside communities are also driven by perhaps a sense that, as the original Jewish homeland in Eretz Israel included areas in what we call today the West Bank (Judea and Samaria), they too have a divinely inspired right to settle the areas. But, as the West Bank was captured by Israel in a defensive war, and not, as in the American example, in the context of expansionist conquest, they no doubt also feel they have a strong moral and political claim to the land.

And, while I'm very sympathetic to the settlement community, and am saddened by the degree to which they are often demonized (even by Israelis and Jewish supporters in the diaspora), and further feel that Israel's reluctance to cede more land to the Palestinians, after their experience in Gaza, is completely justified, I also feel that, for the sake of a TRUE and LASTING peace, evacuating such settlements may eventually be the the only responsible option. Not a fair option, mind you, but, as politics is rarely about perfect justice, merely about decisions about which of several options will cause the least harm, if the decision is between holding onto such settlements at any cost, and ceding the land for genuine peace, I think the choice is a clear one.

A minor scare while touring the ancient ruins of Shomron in the West Bank

The group tour I went on yesterday, of two Jewish settlements in the West Bank, began with what was going to be a relatively brief stop a few miles north-west of the W. Bank city of Shechem, at the sites containing ruins from the ancient "hill of Shomron,". It is an oblong hill, with steep but not inaccessible sides, and a long flat top. From what I read, Omri, the king of Israel, purchased this hill from Shemer its owner, and built on its broad summit the city to which he gave the name of "Shomeron", i.e., Samaria, as the new capital of his kingdom

This city, after many changes of sovereignty, was given by the emperor Augustus to Herod the Great, who rebuilt it, and called it Sebaste (the Greek form of Augustus) in honour of the emperor. The area is now represented by the hamlet of Sebustieh, containing about three hundred Arab inhabitants. The ruins of the ancient town are all scattered over the hill, down the sides of which they have rolled. Remains of the old amphitheater, as well as the 100 or so shafts of what must have been grand Corinthian columns are still standing.

Due to security problems - we were informed that there are occasionally rocks thrown at visitors to the site and other hostile acts - the area isn't visited too often, but our group was able to get permission from the military, who provided several IDF soldiers (accompanied by two light armored vehicles) for our tour, who met us a military check point nearby, and accompanied us for our tour.

An hour or so into our tour of the ancient ruins, we were told that, due to security problems in the area where we started our tour, we would have to climb down a different way from the high point of the hill, using a much steeper path to a new location where our bus would meet us. Several of the people on our tour were elderly, and a few walked with some difficulty, so the soldiers, as well as myself and some other younger members of our group, assisted those who needed help climbing down. After much effort, we all made it down safely, and were accompanied out of the town by our military escorts.

Though we were surprised at the time that they forced us down this very difficult path, what we didn't realize at the time was that the security concerns were quite real, involving young Palestinians throwing rocks and Molotov cocktails in the general direction of where we began our tour, prompting the IDF to alter our original plan.

We obviously all owe the IDF soldiers quite a bit of gratitude for the confidence and professionalism they displayed in assessing and effectively responding to the danger we faced.

Brief comment on the political nature of this blog

I didn't originally intend for my posts to be so political but, as anyone who knows me would not be shocked to hear, I am extremely political by nature - a trait I no doubt inherited from my Father - and I naturally tend to see politics (I'm using the term "politics" broadly, to refer to any sort of political, moral, or social message, implicit or explicit) in everything...or most everything. I'm not one to see most serious problems in the world as merely the result of honest "misunderstandings"...a dynamic which would imply that once both parties in a conflict are well-informed on the nature of their ignorance, peace will then be achieved.

No, I believe strongly that most of the serious problems in the world are indeed triggered by a conflict between two parties over differences in fundamental political/social/moral/cultural values....ideas which represent the heart of who we are, and what we believe to be the best way to structure our communities, our families, and our nations. As such, I see the Israeli-Arab conflict through this lens and filter much of what I experience here not as solitary events totally divorced from any greater meaning, but in the context of the moral, religious, and political aspirations of its actors.

Sure, "sometimes a cigar is just a cigar", and I do try to see our shared humanity (the hopes, fears, and passions which we do have in common) when I can. And, indeed, some of my posts have commented, and will continue to comment, on the personal, the quirky, and the just plain odd. But, I at least aspire to be a realist, and fear the Utopian urge (this chimera of world peace and harmony just around the corner) many of us have, not because I believe that such idealism doesn't have a place in every healthy soul - I believe it does. But, rather, because the history of humanity clearly suggests that we should balance this longing for a perfect world with a healthy degree of fear of those who claim that they have found a new solution to our society's gravest problems (conflict, war, poverty, etc.) that, up until now, nobody has ever thought of. This epistemological skepticism (an understanding that there is much that we don't know about social and political phenomena - their cause and effect - and how we can solve intractable problems) is what defines much of my politics. Call it, the audacity of experience. (No offense to you Obama supporters!)

So, while I'll strive to comment on my experiences as a new Israeli consistent with a passionate longing that we might, one day, finally achieve peace with our neighbors, that we'll one day truly be "a free people in our land", and will attempt to see the people I meet not as mere abstractions - but as the rich, stunningly complex humanity they are, I'll also attempt to do so with a keen awareness of human frailty and moral failings, and a determination to not shy away from seeing the harsh reality of what actually prevents our most cherished political visions from being realized.

July 4th reflections

Thanks to the Assoc of Americans and Canadians in Israel (AACI), we just had an early July 4th celebration in Israel at the Jerusalem Cinemateque - a festival which included hot dogs, apple pie, donuts, a dj playing American music, & the showing of American films.

Though my new national identity, as an Israeli, is something I cherish, and think about often, I never really had any doubt that my Israeli citizenship would diminish the degree to which I feel, and am passionate about, being American. And, I'm pretty certain that my fellow American Olim would share this feeling - a confidence that there's no contradiction between our two identities..a citizen of two nations who share many important political and social values, and have been allies since the day, 61 years ago, that the modern Jewish state was born.

However, as Jews have historically had their loyalty to their host country questioned no matter how faithful and devoted they were and as, later, after the establishment of the state of Israel, such Jews - even among the overwhelming majority of Jews who don't make Aliyah - often had to face the charge of dual loyalty (especially with Jews who engage in political activity connected with Israel) I think a bit of clarification is necessary.

To show why I think those questioning the loyalty of American Jews who are passionate about Israel, or possess Israeli citizenship, haven't fully thought through their argument, consider this.

A question posed to Jews, at times, who have dual citizenship is who, precisely, do we ultimately support more...who, when it comes down to it, would be more loyal to, in the event of a military confrontation between the two states. And, though there is much of this charge to break down, suffice to say that such a query would seem bizarre if posed to an American possessing dual citizenship with one of our other allies whose laws also allow such a bifurcated identity. There are, for instance, many Americans possessing dual citizenship with Great Britain and I almost can't imagine such an individual being asked which side they would choose if some military conflagration would occur between the U.S. and the British, because, well, I think such a charge would seem quite odd. The chance, we would all agree, of such an event occurring is nearly zero. I mean, is there something about being an Israeli that is inherently less consistent with also being an American than being a Brit and an American?

Alright, my accuser is now saying, its agreed that such a question is quite silly but, they insist, it isn't odd to inquire about the role that an American Jew's loyalty to his religious homeland taints his judgment when engaging in the American political process concerning Israel. How does one know, he asks, that a Jew is acting on behalf of what is in the best interest of the U.S., especially when it involves foreign policy decisions, as opposed to Israel.

To this I would answer by explaining that political lobbying, by its very nature, is based on a decision that the advocate makes to lobby on behalf of one thing and not the other. That is, when lobbyists for the American Assoc of Retired Persons (AARP) advocated on behalf of the recently enacted prescription drug benefit, nobody accused them of not caring about the health needs of children, despite the fact by devoting x amount of resources to a drug benefit invariably means that less funding will be available for the health needs of poor kids.

Or, put another way, does someone who lost a family member to cancer and then decides to lobby the NIH on behalf of greater cancer research have less credibility than someone lobbying for such research who hasn't lost someone? I mean, doesn't it come down to the weight of the facts and logic employed to make the case for more research? Jews who has a strong emotional connection to Israel (or who have family or friends who live there) should be able to lobby for continued or increased U.S. support for Israel and only be judged on the merits of the argument.

For, it is understood, that when you decide in a democratic process to lobby on behalf of something, you are making a decision to lobby on behalf of A and not B. You aren't saying that B isn't worthy, just that A is especially worthy and, since you can't possibly advocate on behalf of every worthy project, you make a choice. That's politics pure and simple.

It doesn't mean you don't believe there are other valuable things to advocate on behalf of, but you have, for any number of reasons, decided to choose one over the other. Why? Well, in the case of advocates for AARP, many are no doubt senior citizens themselves, and motivated by a combination of self-interest - that is, they wish to ensure that retirees like themselves don't go broke paying for the medication they need to stay alive - and their sense of what's in the best interest of the country...two factors that they don't view as necessarily being in conflict with one another. Likewise, Jews who advocate for Israel of course act to a large degree out of their concern for the survival of the only Jewish state in the world, but also because they are convinced that such advocacy is in no way inconsistent with the values and interests of America.

So, if someone wants to make the case that such Israel advocacy is wrong-headed....that policies which serve to enhance Israel's security are inherently inconsistent with America's security, then fine....make the case and let the political process play out, just as it does with countless other issues facing the nation. But, its quite another thing entirely to make what ultimately is an ad hominem attack on the Jewish community - questioning the patriotism and motivation of Jews without addressing the substance of the foreign policy debate. I think the onus is on those wishing to change the historic support American has given to Israel to honestly demonstrate why the U.S.-Israeli alliance should be downgraded, based on facts and logic, not on scurrilous attacks on Jewish Americans.

I would argue that the historic canard of Jews being immutably "clannish" and disloyal has filtered into the respectable realms of public discourse....allowing even those not generally predisposed towards anti-Semitism to buy into the trope - an intellectual tick triggered by the sight of Jews expressing pride, and showing concern, towards the state of Israel.

My American passport is no different today than it was the day before I made Aliyah. There's no asterisk on my passport number and my status...my rights and obligations as an American, in the eyes of the State Department and the other branches of government, hasn't at all changed - just as it hasn't changed for the millions of Americans who possess dual citizenship with other nations.

Just as important, in my heart nothing has changed. Though I sit here absolutely amazed by the fact that I'm now a citizen of the first sovereign Jewish state in 2000 years, I also never cease to be amazed by how, in the most visceral and immutable way, I am, at the core, an unabashedly patriotic American.

Happy Independence Day!

My visit to Dheisheh Refugee Camp

My tour of the Dheisheh Refugee Camp, just outside Bethlehem, was prompted by a friend, in Israel leading a birthright tour, who is sympathetic to the Palestinian cause and has friends/contacts in the territories. Though she knew that my politics are much different than hers, we are truly friends, have genuine respect for each other, and she knew that I'm quite inquisitive by nature and, as an ardent defender of Israel, might possess a desire to know as much as possible about what I'm talking about when discussing/debating the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict. And, as such, first-hand knowledge of a "refugee camp" immediately struck me as something quite valuable.

She has a friend who runs a UN funded recreation center called al-Feneiq, known simply as The Phoenix, which is where, after a bus and cab ride that lasted a little over a half hour coming from the center of Jerusalem, our day began. The community center itself is a nice facility, and contains a kitchen, guest house, gym, library, cultural performance venue, and play room for children.

The tour of the town itself was led by another resident of Dheisheh, who walked us around the area, stopping to point out particular sites of interest, and a bit of history. Though I expressed to my friend prior to our tour that I didn't want this to be a propaganda tour - that I just wanted to see the area with my own eyes and make whatever determinations I would make - and our guide mostly refrained from gratuitous remarks about Israel culpability, and he was quite friendly and a good listener, he would, nonetheless, occasionally relate stories of the IDF destroying specific buildings in the area that were being used by terrorists, clearly indicating that he didn't believe the justification given by the Israelis.

Periodically, our guide would, with a non-judgmental tone, confirm that some of the graffiti we'd see in the neighborhood was the image of deceased terrorists, serving as an urban memorial or sorts. One such image "commemorated" the life of a "martyr" belonging to the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP), a Marxist-Leninist, secular, nationalist Palestinian political and paramilitary organization, founded in 1967, who rejects the right of Israel to exist, and who has been responsible for terrorist attacks which have killed dozens of Israeli citizens. Other graffiti/art we came across included similar images of "resistance" and of course, several images of Che Guevara.

What we came across in Dheishe's densely populated winding, hilly streets doesn't in any way resemble a camp as such. It actually resembled a some of the bad inner city neighborhoods in Philly, New York, and other large cities in the U.S. Many of the homes were extremely run down, and the area was full of what we would call urban blight - structures, for whatever reason, in complete disrepair or partially or fully demolished. Amongst this poverty, there were also homes that were extremely modest but intact, eateries (one of which we stopped in and had, we all agreed, an incredible meal), other miscellaneous shops, at least two high-speed Internet and computer centers, a medical center, and another smaller community/sports center. (The art in the center included both peaceful messages, as well as at least two large murals of young Palestinians throwing a bomb...presumably at Israeli troops)

Indeed, it was at this center where we ended our tour, where the three of us on the tour drank coffee with our guide, and a couple of his friends, at the center's cafe. After about a half hour or so, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, our guide and his friends staring strangely at me, with an inquisitive look on their faces. He asked what I was wearing around my neck. I replied that it was my Star of David which, to be honest, I had worn like I do every day, but had also taken some effort to keep under my shirt...I guess unsure about what the reaction would be. Though their reaction to my Jewish symbol was reserved, I was and am still a bit skeptical that they truly didn't know what it was. I mean, really, the Israeli flag contains the same symbol and they've surely seen that before. I don't know that I felt unsafe necessarily at that point, but I did perceive (correctly or incorrectly) that, in eyes and for most Palestinians, the Israelis, who he sees as his people's oppressors, are synonymous with the Jewish people as a whole....what I described in a recent essay as "Israel as the proverbial Jew, writ large".

I mean, I'm sure, at least prior to discovering that I was Jewish, he saw me, like my other two friends on the tour (who were also Jewish but more pro-Palestinian than me), as "activists" sympathetic to the Palestinian cause, and I certainly didn't go out of my way to dissuade him of this assumption on the tour. I would listen to what he said, regardless of how critical he was of Israel, with, if anything, a neutral, inquisitive look, deciding early in the day that I wouldn't, in my conversation and overall affect, lie, and pretend to be share his hostility to Israel, but also wouldn't be argumentative or confrontational - which, in other circumstances, would be my natural reaction to what I perceive as anti-Israeli propaganda.

I was there, ultimately, on something of a fact-finding tour, and I'm glad I went. The whole Palestinian "refugee" camp story, as a political narrative, is so deeply flawed - a story I discussed briefly in my last post - and, without a broader understanding of what the existence of such communities actually represent, I could easily see a neutral observer easily assuming Israeli culpability in every demolished building, every story of woe and suffering that we encountered along the way. Its this facile causation between every conceivable case of Palestinian suffering and Israeli actions that feeds into the demonization of Israel, a wholly false narrative that is quite dangerous to the Jewish state's survival...and something I spend much of my life attempting to refute.

I guess I also was motivated by the desire to really know at least some actual Palestinians, so that my Zionist politics don't merely deal with their population as some abstraction, completely divorced from their reality. Indeed, much of my argument against anti-Israel activists is that, whatever their politics, they simply see Israelis as the proverbial "other", reduced to a cartoon caricature of evil, rather than attempting, at the very least, to see the complexity and nuance, good traits and bad, which Israelis possess, and that exists in every group. Likewise, my Zionist activism can only be strengthened by possessing a more intimate knowledge of the kindness, generosity, complexity and pathos of the Palestinian people.

UPDATE on April 9, 2010:

Regarding that UN funded central community center called al-Feneiq, known simply as The Phoenix, where me and my friends taking the tour of the Dheisheh "Refugee Camp" met our hosts, I recently came across something of interest about the center. The director of the center was an endorser of a document published in the journal, Washington Report on Middle East Affairs, calling for a boycott of ''Israel at 60'' celebrations. The document refers to Israel as the "Colonial Settler Project", accuses it of practicing "Apartheid" and of orchestrating a "slow genocide against a million and a half Palestinians". It concludes by charging that ''celebrating “Israel at 60” is tantamount to dancing on Palestinian graves."

The document was signed by the usual cast of radical Israeli and Palestinian NGOs who have been active in the demonization and deligitimation of Israel for years. Their endorsement of such a vile document lends credence to my original observation about the Dheisheh community - one that, with all their talk about simply wanting justice, is compromised by leadership which possesses a hatred of Israel that transcends the particulars of the debate over territory and statehood.