24 July 2014

And Rain

sky.  7/24/14.  tel aviv
That's not a pair of clouds on a beautiful summer morning.  Those are the obliterated remnants of the Iron Dome's skyward confrontation with Hamas rockets, meeting with intentional serendipity above Tel Aviv.  Hello.  How do you do?  Die.

I was having breakfast with two friends in a restaurant across from Tel Aviv City Hall, Rabin Square and the memorial site commemorating and mourning his assassination a Jewish rightist in 1995.  Five loud booms.  The building shook.  The moment passed, the cell networks briefly jammed with people checking in (a text from my daughter, 20 kilometers away, "I heard that, Dad.  You okay?")  Nearly twenty years ago the Prime Minister was killed by a fellow Israeli in order to prevent Rabin from making peace with Palestinians.  Such were the tragic and heroic risks that that leader was willing to take--a narrative sometimes lost these days in the debased rhetorical discourse about the Israeli and Palestinian future.  People decry the lack of true leadership; the endless expressions of hate; the delusional utopias of a world without Jews or a world without Palestinians; and then there's the perpetual misunderstanding by many of Israel's critics about how hardened the center of the country became after a decade of terror in the 1900s and 2000s.

There are those who might read this and say, "You see, Rabin was right.  Had we made peace then we'd be well on our way to forging a lasting coexistence today."  And there are others, often the louder voice in the public square these days, who say, "You see, Rabin was wrong.  Delusional leftists.  The death of Jews is all the Palestinians will ever seek."

There is a range of views that are easily discerned:  a fatalistic hopelessness; mourning over loss of innocent life, both Jewish and Palestinian; a deep, burning cynicism; a lack of faith in leadership.  There is also steely resolve, faith in the broader arcs of history, unified admiration for soldiers willing to crawl into holes to root out terror.  (I learned last night that a young man I taught some summers ago lost an eye in battle this week.  I hope to visit him and other injured soldiers on Friday.  The nation, as is often said, forges ahead.)

A range of views and everything in between.  It's never been more important to listen than it is now.

Last night in a store on Ibn Gevirol, piqued by European and American airline's refusal to fly to Israel, I bought wine from the Negev.  "Israeli wines, eh?" said the owner.  "I'm patriotic, what can I say?" was my reply.  We had been talking about the F.A.A.'s decision to cancel flights to and from Israel; about proportionality of bombing between Gaza and Israel; about the general mood of the country.  "Thanks for coming to Israel during this time," he said, turning serious for a moment.  Another shopper, listening in to our somber exchange, chimed in:  "All the best and fuck the rest."

So it goes.

Before the F.A.A. ban, now lifted, mine was among the last planes into Israel for 36 hours.  I went through passport control with a few dozen Israelis, religiously observant American Jews, and several dozen Vietnamese on tour.  My pal Noah picked me up, we drove into Tel Aviv, dropped bags at his place, and went out for breakfast with his family.  Half-way through the sirens sounded and into the cafe stairwell we went.  "Normalization is over," my friend said.

The notion that one can "pretend" that the conflict is "over there" while Israelis live there normal lives "over here" has been pierced yet again by war, by rockets, by a feeling of isolation from the rest of the world.  Even though there are obvious and necessary military responses to the current engagement--destroying rocket batteries and tunnels, hunting down terrorists--there is unquestionably the broader truth:  while there are military responses there are ultimately only political solutions.

Buying groceries last night we walked past the Bereaved Families group in one public park.  Their signs read, זה לא יגמר עד שנדבר or "This Won't End Until We Talk."  A small group sat in a circle.  A bereaved mother held a microphone and talked about talking, turning over again the grieving soul's hardened earth, cultivating new life.

There's an eery quiet to the city, the tourism industry and economy hurt by the diminished travel here due to war and the vulnerability of so many population centers to rocket attacks.  

An eery quiet, perhaps but the public debate is fierce and intense--far more diverse than what we tolerate in the Jewish community in the United States--though what is on the mind of many whom I have encountered here is the increased debasement of public discourse, the shaming and occasional physical attacks on left-wing activists and peaceniks, and the fearful splintering of the society by deeply held racist views.  Without question, the Left here feels under attack.  Terms like "fascism," "totalitarianism," and "racism" are used more than I've ever heard in my thirty years of annual visits and though obviously troubling, everyone is talking about it, bearing their own witness to the soundness (or lack thereof) of their historical claims.  On my morning run Wednesday, I heard it being spoken about on the radio, among mothers on a park bench, among pensioners having their morning coffee and smoke, and around the breakfast table, over headlines, with my friends.

Israeli government officials like Naftali Bennett taunts the Left by saying it will never rule Israel again. Foreign Minister Avigdor Lieberman calls for a boycott of Arab Israeli citizens' businesses.  Right wing hoodlums attack those calling for peace and the police don't intervene, as happened last week in Tel Aviv.  The extremist Rabbi of Kiryat Arba, Dov Lior, in a bastardized reading of sacred texts, says that Jewish law permits the extermination of the enemy.  We're often our own worst enemy.

Never missing an opportunity to give ourselves a black eye, there is running parallel to such mendacity the stunning eagerness of others to blame Jews exclusively and Jews everywhere for this current war.  As Jeffrey Goldberg has pointed out, more people died in Syria this past weekend than have died in this current conflict in Israel thus far, but it didn't bear getting mentioned by the paper of record.  Riots against Jews in Paris, Berlin, and elsewhere get ignored by the very same governments and activists that decry Israeli actions as akin to Nazis.  Two hundred thousand dead in the Syrian civil war; ISIS cutting off heads and hands in their new, orderly public squares; mass rape and executions in Nigeria; but Google terms like "Holocaust" and "worse than Nazis" and see where it gets you.  Italian philosophers, the Turkish Prime Minister, Israel's critics on list serves.  The crude flags of rhetoric wave with cheap historic understanding of what Fascism, Nazism and Genocide really look like.  And like over-fed gluttons of hate at an All-You-Can-Eat Holocaust Buffett, today's anti-Semites are quite sated, aren't they, taking bites from the moldy bread of this twisted reasoning?

They say it doesn't rain in Israel but this summer it does.  It rains rockets on civilian populations.  It rains justified destruction on rockets and launchers (even where they are amorally and strategically hidden) and as we have seen, tragically--TRAGICALLY--on innocent lives in Gaza.  It rains sadness and grief and anger at the funerals of guiltless children and women and men who have committed no crime but being in the way of hatred and stubbornness and yes, even justified self-defense.  It rains steely pride for soldiers who die in battle, to protect their homes and their families.  It rains truth and lies, words and image.  And image and image and image.

The preponderance of the image will come to be one of the defining characteristics of this nasty war.  The Facebook and Twitter advantage.  Your people and mine.  In fear and in death.  And the sick, unavoidable truth that deep in the bowels of the algorithm machinery of these communications networks is the idolatrous god of advertising revenue, clicking away, profitably, yet again, at the commerce of death.  But like that other tool, Snapchat, the images of this war--some real, some photo-shopped--will recede into the delete bin, another reminder that even with the most up-to-the-minute technology, certain problems will only be resolved by people making up their minds to solve them.

Listen, I'm not fooling myself for a minute.  A few puffs of smoke above my head courtesy of the Iron Dome is a great advantage.  The horrifying suffering of human life in Gaza must end.  But it will only end when each side faces its most grim realities.  Here in Tel Aviv, I see that taking place.  I see Israelis talking and arguing and struggling mightily with what the right way forward ought to be.  I'm grateful to see some occasional reporting about Palestinians' internal debates as well.

And the world should make no mistake about the sense of resolve.  I can't speak for Palestinian resolve and I shouldn't.  But what I see here--even among those who disagree on the political way forward, is an intense unity for the work the soldiers are doing to address the Gaza tunnels.  As has been revealed by the exposure of the Gaza tunnels, to news of potentially massive terror attacks that seem to have been clearly planned by Hamas and are now being confronted head on by soldiers and reserves who have sacrificed their own lives through service in an atmosphere of intense international criticism, some valid, most unwarranted and even hypocritical.  I learned last night that a young man I taught some summers ago lost an eye in battle this week.  I hope to visit him and other injured soldiers on Friday.  The nation, as is often said, forges ahead.

And I write this only a few steps from the ground upon which Yitzhak Rabin gave his life for peace, killed by a fellow Jew who felt his actions were traitorous, an assassin who based his ideas on the corrupt teachings of rabbis who said such a murder was not only permissible but necessary.

A decade of terror.  A hardening of positions.  "All the best and fuck the rest."  A dangerous fatalism that will bring nothing but more suffering.

Tuesday night I went to Rabin Square to observe an artists' demonstration for peace.  Frankly, it wasn't very impressive.  But afterward, as people milled about and as the police slowly receded, there were two large circles of Israelis talking to each other.  In each was an older person, carefully and assiduously arguing points of history.  Dates and events, like petals drifting downward, floated in the evening sky.  The 19th century, the Zionist Congress, World War One, the British Mandate, Sykes-Picot, Peel Commission, Partition, 48, Nakba, 67, Occupation, Lebanon, Oslo, Rabin, Camp David, and now this.

The young rightists were agitated.  The older citizens were teaching.  There was dialogue and fierce debate.  And the only images were words; or if you closed your ears, of people talking, about politics and history, war and peace, and life and death.

In Zofia Romanowiczowa's exquisitely disturbing novel Passage Through the Red Sea, the author struggles mightily with the ways in which the narratives of the past, like idols or hardened pillars of salt, can blind and overwhelm us, preventing us from discerning life's irreducible truths.  Romanowiczowa, a Polish Catholic who resisted the Nazis in the Radom Ghetto and then was arrested and imprisoned in the Ravensbruck concentration camp, wrote of the strange paradox that "death, the fear of which subjects us to each other, at the same time frees us from each other."

I read that line in a library in Tel Aviv, moments after time in a bomb shelter, phone buzzing with updates from the war a few kilometers away.

And so how can I not wonder--how can any of us not wonder--how much more death there needs to be in order to free us, at the very least, from the death we hope for or bring to each other?  How much more death do we need in order to eradicate the very death we know or imagine the other seeks?  We subject each other to death out of fear.  When will we have experienced enough to free us from each other's fear of and subjugation to death?

"This won't end until we talk."

And compromise.

And choose life.

Outside my window here in the Tel Aviv Public Library, a full and hearty ficus tree bakes beneath the late afternoon sun and gently breathes in the sea's tidal shifts.  Above that tree there ought only to be a pair of clouds in the sky, gathering slowly, conspiratorially even, for days and weeks and months until the rainy season begins.  Clouds from Gaza and clouds from Tel Aviv.  One by one, drop by drop becoming many, overcoming the scars of hatred, war and death, to make rain.

Isn't this what every parent hopes for when they bring a child into the world?  

What did Yehuda Amichai say?

"That's not a scar you feel under my shirt, that's a letter of recommendation, folded up tight, from my father.  'All the same he's a good boy and full of love.' "

Not a scar but recommended love.

And rain.

17 July 2014

This Word Screams Out for Life

A few months after Dad died, I trudged up Bascom Hill in Madison, on my way to making up classes that I missed when I left school to grieve.  The entire year before had been shot academically--late teen crisis and depression, Dad's sudden death, and a paralyzing avalanche of questions about life's ultimate meaning.

I began to construct the scaffolding of personal narrative in George Mosse's history lectures, in after class bullshit sessions with his teaching assistant and now my dear friend Michael Berkowitz, in private Torah lessons with my Hillel director Irv Saposnik (of blessed memory filled with laughter) and a new group of friends who took Jewish civilization's questions of ultimate meaning seriously.  Not that my childhood friends who had all migrated to Madison from Milwaukee didn't; but there was a texture to the conversation, an immersion into ritual, a willingness to, as George put it, "confront history," that made this new group compelling in its own unique way.

Life not only had purpose but it possessed, was inherently suffused with, Jewish purpose.  "A Jew is an outside with a critical mind," George famously taught us in that first lecture.  And from that moment forward, my own intrinsic criticality, inherited no doubt from my father, grandfather, great-grandfather and so on--the proverbial and quite literal chain of tradition--achieved lift-off.   It was validating.

"You're so cynical," someone once said to me in high school.  "Lighten up."  I didn't quite see that as possible and in fact took great offense at the charge, it being somehow an existential threat to my very being, such as I pretentiously understood it during those striving late teen years, drinking pressed coffee, reading the New Yorker, and desperately trying to see Kurosawa, Bergman, and Godard--expressions which Milwaukee's East Side fostered generously, along with an ample supply of beer.

But cynicism was a tool, or so I had been taught; and that Jewish civilization had actually figured out how to harness it, through argument, debate, plowing deeper into textual and historical reality, for the purposes of maintaining a covenantal relationship not only between God and the Jewish people but among Jews themselves--this was revelatory.  I was desperate for me.

What should have been my junior year was still, credit-wise, my sophomore year; and it was therefore agonizing to watch friends pack themselves up for various junior year study abroad programs--France, England, Spain, India, Italy and of course, Israel.  Oh, man, I was shattered at not being able to go.  I dreamed about it.  Talked about it.  Yearned for it, even.  And one day, when I could no longer take it, I went to see the Dean of Students, Paul Ginsberg.  A giant.  A bear of a man.  Psychologist.  Zionist.  Had even smuggled guns from Cypress in the pre-state years.  Heroic state builder.   He'd get me there.  Immediately.

My sense of anticipation for the blessing I was about to receive was nothing other than the overflowing self-importance of youth.  It was going to be like a noir novel.  I'd get my assignment, maybe even in a dossier, and head over on the next plane to join the chain of tradition's heroic pantheon.

An office on a campus hilltop.  Shelves overflowing with books.  The slow, calming hiss of a radiator on a cold day.  A bearded man, fiercely secular and wise.  His hand a mitt--an Eddie Matthews mitt, a Henry Aaron mitt--engulfed my own.

"Sit down," he suggested.  And I told him my story.  He listened.  The narrative arc of my youth, the tragically realized transformation of facing a parent's death, of the Sinai-like moment of receiving the tablets of critical thinking, of a son redeeming the narrative of a father, the journey from slavery to freedom.  It was a wonderful story.

"Israel doesn't need another dreamer, Andy," he said.  "It needs practicality.  It needs you to be productive.  There are enough dreamers there."  It was a year before I'd learn to inculcate those words with these words, written by Ginsberg's contemporary, the poet Yehuda Amichai:  "The air over Jerusalem is saturated with prayers and dreams, like the air over industrial cities.  It's hard to breathe."


That was thirty years ago.

It's a lifetime.  And much more than a lifetime when compared to the lives of children cut short in this latest, agonizing, repulsive war that chokes us all with grief, anger, sadness and pain. "It's hard to breathe."

I've heard my teachers' voices echo in my soul these past weeks, wondering what to do from here, in the West, while my heart remains, as it always has, in the East.  The persistence of hatred and war after all these years combined with a broader extremism on the march has the potential to confuse, to blind, to leave us grasping for the allure of dangerous totalities.  A land without Jews.  A land without Arabs.  Texts with my own child from a safe room in West Jerusalem.  Facebook messages from friends in East Jerusalem.  Macabre updates from safe rooms in Tel Aviv.  And the war of images and opinions, of deconstructed news biases from Gaza to Ashkelon, of the seemingly hopeless search for objectivity in a land where bombs are dropping, terror is looming, consensus is elusive--this war of images is taking place in the context of a region torn apart--not, mind you, by the sheer weight of good people everywhere merely wanting to survive but by bad people doing bad things and drawing good people into the line of fire; and good people being forced to do bad things in order to prevent more bad things from happening.

Relativistic nonsense you say?  Not in the least.  In fact, I remain a proud Zionist.  Fortified as ever, resilient with hope, faithful in my belief that the Jewish people need and deserve, like any other nation, a state of our own.  And, because of this, I recognize the necessity and legitimacy of Palestinians' right to self-determination and to a state of their own.  I both abhor the killing and admire deeply, enduringly, the quiet heroism of Israelis and Palestinians who are weathering, yet again, a seemingly intolerable descent into violence and madness.

During the course of the past few weeks, I have read more arguments over the rightness of each cause and the irredeemable sins of each side to convince me, yet again, that there is no path forward other than compromise.  The Jewish people will not get all they want in the historic land of Israel; and the Palestinian people will not get all they want in the historic land of the Palestinian people.  That essential truth has never changed, in my opinion, over the course of the past one hundred years.

Try as the most extreme elements on either side might, maximalist views lead in one direction:  to the grave.  And we'll just keep bloodying ourselves, defending ourselves, justifying our actions to ourselves, until there is compromise and peace.  Until we learn that in our own sometimes deluded efforts to carry out the will of our God who loves us like no other, or the will of a Godless God of hatred and death, we will simply be dealing with the continual collateral damage of our own self-destruction.  We will pay the price until we understand, fundamentally, that we are responsible for one another.  Period.  Anything other than that is a world whose very foundation we are apt to destroy.

What did Amichai say about the diameter of a bomb?  "And I won't even mention the crying of orphans that reaches up to the throne of God and beyond, making a circle with no end and no God."

There is no other way.  No other way than hope, paired with the practical decisions that derive from the belief and the knowledge that we all deserve better, not through the miraculous totalities of dreamers but the hardscrabble facts of builders.

As a Jew and as a human this word screams out for life:  Hope.

10 July 2014

On Practical Considerations

there's enough Mediterranean Sea for everyone
I'm no longer on the Left or the Right.
I'm not Orthodox or Reform.
I'm an American Jew.  It's as simple as that.
And that's the place I write this from.

Just a week ago, the Jewish world was recoiling in horror at hearing the news of the deaths of three young Israeli men, Eyal, Gil-ad and Naftali--brutally murdered, shot in the head, dragged and buried under rocks in a field.  They had been missing for 18 days.  The parents of the young men prayed and asked for hope.  But it wasn't to be.  Soon others (but not the parents) called for revenge.  Tensions rose.  Many feared the worst.

Moments later (or so it seemed) a group of Jewish youth fell upon Muhammed Abu Khedeir, a Palestinian from East Jerusalem.  He was kidnapped and burned alive, a horrific death, condemned by Jewish leaders in Israel and throughout the world.  Within days the perpetrators were arrested.  Rabbis and philosophers and politicians dug deep within their Jewish souls, taking responsibility for and desperately trying to understand how such brutality could occur in the name of Israel, Judaism and Zionism.    Riots broke out in Palestinian areas. More deaths.  The Jerusalem police beat a teenaged Palestinian-American.  The officers were punished.  Jews visited the Muslim funeral tent of Muhammed Abu Khedeir's family.  Calls for revenge mingled with calls for peace on Facebook and Twitter.  Flaccid, rehearsed calls for restraint were issued by governments from around the world.

And then the rockets started falling from Gaza.  We know how this ends.

It's not a fair fight.  Hamas terrorizes Israeli civilian populations.  Israel strikes back, strong, against rocket batteries that are placed among civilian populations, knowing that children, women, non-combatant men will die.  Those deaths, like human ante at a tired game of poker, will be chips in the media, on Twitter and Facebook, on the international stage of the United Nations.

Zionism is racism.   Zionism is genocidal.  Zionism is colonialism.
Palestinians are savages.  Palestinians are inhuman.  Palestinians don't want peace.

In my life, I know all those above six statements to be false.  Annoyingly, repetitively, debilitatingly and idiotically false.  "Game of Thrones" has a more compelling plot line at this point than the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

I'm a Zionist because I know it to be true that Jews are a nation with a history, a land and a language all our own.  As a Zionist I also believe that Palestinians, as they have come to define themselves, have a history, a land and a language all their own.

I actually believe that this can be worked out.

I don't think kidnapping teenagers and killing them or launching rockets helps anyone.  It just makes things worse.

So it's mid-July. And the conversation should be about soccer.  But all the world is watching Hamas launch rockets and the Israeli Army bomb Gaza, killing the guilty along with the innocent, as rockets fall in the south and the center of Israel, terrorizing a civilian population including, this summer, my own kid.  (WhatsApp question of the day:  "Dad.  Are there benefits to a ground invasion?")

And when this latest rounds ends, with many more dead than there were at the beginning (some who deserved to die and some who didn't) the people, who live under their leaders, will demand to know what the next steps will be.

I'm a practical man.  So here's my demand:

I want to hear from Palestinian leaders that the Jewish people have the right to live in a state of their own in peace.  I want to hear from Israelis leaders that the Palestinian people have the right to live in a state of their own in peace.

The partisan blows will be tempting.  Cynics will say:  Settlement expansion.  Right of Return.  Refugees.  Jerusalem.  It will all fall apart all over again.

Seems to me, for the better part of the past twenty years, we've got answers to those questions.  They're bound up in agreements.  Stored away.  "Light is sown for the righteous."  Release the light already.

Stop the killing.

So why all the killing?  Hate is a powerful tool, isn't it?  Tens of thousands of Facebook posts calling for revenge against Arabs.  Celebrations in the streets over Jewish dead teenagers' bodies.  On the other hand, thousands express moral outrage in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.  Hundreds visit Muhammed Abu Khadeir's family's mourning tent.  The killing doesn't have to be, does it?  Our morality can overcome our baser instincts, can it not?

My sense is that, besides our more savage, uncontrolled urges toward death, killing continues because the people grant the consent to those who govern them to kill in their name.  It's either that or the mark of pure despotism.  But history dictates that either can be changed.  But one does have to take a risk. Yitzhak Rabin, tragically, wasn't the first patriot to risk his life for peace.   Anwar Sadat was killed too. Closer to home, Abraham Lincoln.  Martin Luther King.  This is the 50th Anniversary of Freedom Summer in America.  African Americans are more equal today than one hundred years ago because people risked their lives.  It's a terrible dilemma.  There are no guarantees. But history calls for at the least, the risk of sacrifice.

I'm a double patriot.  A proud American and a proud Zionist.  Less than a week ago I sat with friends and family and read the American Declaration of Independence, an annual ritual that reifies, each year, the values embedded in America's imperfect and ever-evolving democracy.

One section interests me greatly each year and this year, in anticipation of what I knew would inevitably transpire in Israel, I paid special attention to these words:

"That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute a new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.  Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed.  But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security."

The Israeli government is remarkably contentious.  It's to be expected amongst Jews, no?  I've spent the better part of the last thirty years of my career in Jewish life.  The way we organize ourselves is often no walk in the park.  For instance, even as bombs are falling in the homeland and a military operation is underway in Gaza, news outlets carry speculative reports of the Israeli governments rising and falling, coalitions forming and re-forming--perhaps this time, the theory goes, creating a government that can truly bring peace.  Not for "light and transient causes," mind you.  Rather, peace.

But "mankind are more disposed to suffer."  This I direct to my Palestinian friends and their allies.  To wit:  where is the suffering getting you?  The wave of suicide bombs in the Second Intifada got you behind a security barrier, tighter controls over your movements, and increased Jewish settlements. Bombs from Gaza get you mass death and an economic stranglehold in the form of blockade.

And under Hamas, in the form of messianic religious extremism and a totally blatant rejection of the validity of Jews', Jewishness and Judaism's national expression of Zionism, you are left with nothing.

The "long train of abuses and usurpations" are not just the Occupation you have come to singularly detest.  But in your detestation you are showing your own remarkable capacity for self-abuse.  Hiding bombs among children.  Shame on you.

It is your right to bring such shame upon yourself, that's for sure.  But it is your duty "to throw off such Government" whose actions may very well be contributing to the abuse you so disdain.  You want peace?  Overthrow your own very leaders who are preventing you from accepting reality:  the Jewish people have an equal claim to live in the land.  We are here to stay.

It's an easy transaction.  Stop the terror.  Accept the Jewish state.  You'd be surprised--as the Egyptians and Jordanians have come to learn--that when you exercise that duty, together, we can "provide new Guards" for future security.

30 June 2014

We Mourn Naftali, Gilad and Eyal

June 30, 2014

CBE Mourns the tragic and unjust deaths of Israeli youths Naftali Fraenkel, Gilad Shaar and Eyal Yifrah, whose kidnapped and murdered bodies were discovered today, north of Hebron, by the Israel Defense Forces.  For more than 18 days the Jewish nation and the broader world hoped and prayed for their safety; but today we learned, with broken hearts, that terror and hatred have cut short young lives of blessing and faith.

There are so many difficult emotions to confront and process at this moment.  There are those of us who feel anger and sadness; there are those of us who feel confusion; and there are those of us who crave a desire for revenge.  

And there is among so many of us a gnawing exhaustion from a conflict which seems to have no end; a world which seems to hang in the balance; and ongoing questions about what it is that we might do ourselves to eradicate the perceived insoluble hatreds over land, history and God.

But if the memories of Naftali, Gilad and Eyal are to be a blessing, as our tradition demands, then we must honor their lives with a renewed commitment to the varied and eternal expressions of learning, spirit and deeds of lovingkindness that have sustained the Jewish people for generations.

As Jews we must mourn the loss of life with the promise to live life itself to its fullest expression; we must confront the deprivation of life with a generosity of spirit to those in need;  and we must remember, always, with this in mind, that to be a Jew in the world is a weighted privilege, which still, tragically, can come at the price of life itself.

On Tuesday evening July 1 at 7 pm, we mourn and remember together at a special service sponsored by the Jewish Community Relations Council of New York, the UJA Federation of New York and the New York Board of Rabbis, to be held at the Jewish Center, 131 West 86th Street.

While we pray for a future peace with our Palestinian neighbors, tonight we mourn with the Fraenkels, the Shaars, the Yifrahs and all Israel.  United as one.

May the memory of Naftali, Gilad and Eyal be a blessing.

Rabbi Andy Bachman

23 June 2014

CBE Opposes PCUSA Vote on Divestment

Enclosed is a statement from CBE Clergy and Leadership regarding the recent divestment vote of the Presbyterian Church U.S.A.


June 23, 2014

Dear Friends:

The Clergy and Leadership of Congregation Beth Elohim are disturbed and saddened by the recent vote of the Presbyterian Church USA to divest from certain companies doing business with Israel.

Rather than engage both sides in this difficult situation, the Presbyterian Church USA has chosen a path of isolation and divestment.  In addition, as has been publicized, the Church's website distributes an anti-Zionist tract called "Zionism Unsettled," understood generally to be a one-sided, ahistorical and biased document, unhelpful in the least to the cause of mutual understanding and peace.  While PCUSA has taken an objectionable position and is still publicizing "Zionism Unsettled" on its website, there are many friends and allies in the PCUSA. The vote was extraordinarily close--with a margin of 7 votes.  With continued dialogue with our friends in the PCUSA, we hope that on these local levels the understanding and joint work for peace can and should thrive.

This vote was part of a larger campaign, known as BDS (for Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions), which the broader American Jewish community has strongly opposed as unfairly singling out Israel.  We have long agreed that BDS is counter-productive to the efforts at reaching a just solution for Israelis and Palestinians.  

The Reform movement's president, Rabbi Rick Jacobs, was present for the debate and vote and issued a condemnation of the action on behalf of the URJ.  You can see Rabbi Jacobs debating this vote on CNN.  In addition,  Rabbi Bachman shared some reflections on BDS in the Forward two years ago at the time of the proposed Park Slope Food Coop Boycott of Israel.  

CBE has a broad and diverse membership which, while recognizing disagreement over any number of issues, remains united in our support of one another's attachment to Judaism, Jewish identity and the State of Israel.  It is our understanding that no matter where one may reside on the political spectrum, the BDS movement is unequivocally a movement which de facto denies Israel's right to exist as a Jewish and democratic state.  We therefore find the vote of the Presbyterian Church USA to be wrong and damaging to the two-state solution.  For many years now, the Reform movement has long supported the two-state solution for Israelis and Palestinians as the only viable means for resolving the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

Closer to home, CBE has historically worked with many faith-based organizations across Brooklyn that share a mission to bring greater kindness to the world through worship and action.  One such partnership is with Park Slope Resurrection, a Presbyterian congregation that uses our Sanctuary on Sunday mornings.  It is important for our membership to know that Park Slope Resurrection is not affiliated with the Presbyterian Church USA, but with the Evangelical Presbyterian Church, which is an entirely different Protestant movement, and played no role in the recent vote on divestment.

When asked to comment on this matter, Matthew Brown, the Senior Minister of Resurrection, expressed his regret at the message being sent by fellow Christians in the PCUSA.  "Christians and Jews are united in our desire to 'seek the peace of the city' in all times and places.  I believe the BDS movement not only undermines cooperative efforts by Jews and Christians to this end, it also fortifies barriers to peace between Israel and her neighbors.  And yet, given the shrinking influence of Protestant and mainline denominations in the United States, this vote will have little sway over the hearts and minds of American Christians."

Despite our deep disappointment in this vote, CBE as a community is united in maintaining and developing partnerships in Brooklyn and Israel which strengthen our people's connection to one another, to be a just and kind city for all its citizens, and to honor Israel's right to exist as a Jewish and democratic state at peace with its Palestinian neighbors.  

It is our fervent wish that with continued dialogue and trust, we can together reach these goals.  

Andy Bachman, Senior Rabbi  &  Jonathan Fried, President

08 June 2014

The Circuits of Time

Second Home Cemetery, Milwaukee (Google Earth)
In the shade beneath the cluster of trees at the top of this photograph are the stones marking the burial place of my ancestors, Chaim and Rebecca Siegel; Charles and Barbara Bachman.  Two of them I helped bury as a kid; two I never met.  The measure of their lives in words, when recounted in this hallowed ground, rolls along like crushed gravel beneath car tires that carry those who've come along to pay respects; like intermittent gusts of wind that shake and animate branches and leaves; and like the slow but certain transmutations of gravitational pull and decay which wears away granite in time.  Bones which once walked the earth rest softly beneath it.  And from a certain vantage point, this community of the dead is like a circuit board, a sim card, with a central artery of delivery (the path and roundabout) infusing energy and kinesis to static stones by reading names and dates, telling stories, shedding tears, planting new life.

Walking my kid to school the other day, I saw another youngster taking a photograph of her self (selfie) in front of a local running store.  The store is called "JackRabbit," a name evocative of fleet--the warm, fuzzy and adorable kind.  I love the logo.
The floppy ears and floppy feet of the rabbit, engined by determined fists, convey purpose and fun in a yellow bundle of victorious achievement.  In ancient Greece the gods all had yellow hair and like Mercury with his winged sandals and winged cap, the yellow hare reminded me, as I watched this young lady capture an image of herself, of the varieties of ways that Hermes (and Mercury in Roman myth) delivered messages back and forth, to and from, the underworld.

In the 19th and early 20th century, when cameras were invented and modern photography came into being, some traditionally observant Jews avoided having their pictures taken because they feared the technology might capture their soul.  In conveying an image, Hermes might steal them away to the underworld.   My great-grandfather's mother's name was Liba Gutzeit-Siegalowitz and in a photograph taken in Minsk in 1911, she looks concerned.

The earth floor beneath her feet; her grandchildren at her side; left behind to perhaps share the fate of Kopyl's Jewish community's liquidation by the Nazis in 1942 (I don't yet know--the evidence is bare); or maybe she sees her own soul vanishing, like magic, materially moving from her own body to the lens, the film, the studio, the blackroom, the mailroom, the ship, the rail, and into the hands of her son, Chaim, in Milwaukee, who cannot save her.

The girl in front of the mercury-rabbit shoe store sends a picture of herself somewhere, maybe to someone else down the street or halfway around the world; and in an instant I look up in the sky and imagine an infinite number of messages and images dashing, hopping, colliding in space, the instantaneous delivery of digitized materiality making each of gods of our own fate.

So much power.  So much faith in one little sim card.
One of my kids recently got her iPhone upgrade.  We met at the Apple Store on the Upper West Side and carried out the exchange effortlessly.  We transferred information to a cloud.  We wiped out memory.  And then when we asked the salesperson what to do with the old sim card she said, "Break it and throw it away."

And so with circuits humming heatedly all around me in that transparent commercial cube of happy entertainment, I floated above the burial ground of Milwaukee, looking down on the circuitry of my soul.  I told myself stories that were happy and sad; triumphant and tragic.  I took modest comfort in the reality that granite gravestone, as in a game of rock-paper-scissors, wears away silicon.

Grandpa died in 1973 and Grandma died in 1979 and they are buried next to one another, their flesh and bones in the earth beneath the trees; the shade, the leaves, the wind and sky above.  In this picture they smile freely, in America.  The camera captures only a playful image.  Their stories, their essences, hovering in the Circuits of Time.  Eternal.

05 June 2014

Your Mother's Is Better

Mourning, we sometimes forget, can be a heavy fog, dulling perception and the precise measure of things.

My father's date of death, for instance:  March 22, 1983.  I seem remember everything that happened that day, a cold spring afternoon, just this side of winter.  In the repetition of the telling, my pen drifts across a page in my favorite lecture; I get distracted and head home; my uncle has driven up to Madison from Milwaukee to break the news and I know the moment I see him.  I hastily pack and travel home to my family.  I remember the dull, beige brush at the side of the highway;  the cool condensation on the car window; a hug from my sisters; silence and confusion from my younger brother.

But now, when I look down at the only artifact left over from those grim first few days, a small yellowed document that had been taped to the bottom of the urn which held my dad's cremated remains, I'm surprised to see that we didn't do the nasty deed until a full six days after he died.  It's not that we cremated him that alters my perception of the past--but that I have virtually no memory of the days that followed his death but one:  the trip to the funeral home with my siblings and uncle; the shopping for a casket; my sister's moral objection to burying dad against his wishes (he had wanted to be cremated); and the spontaneous, unanimous agreement that his wish would be fulfilled.
Six whole days of what?  Where did they go?  Hung, like an invisible tapestry with a one word message:  Loss.

After the funeral, at my uncle's house, my dad's brother made a special request to hold on to the remains for a while, keep them up on the mantel.  It bothered me on one hand; on the other, they were brothers, after all, sons of the same mother, my beloved grandmother, whose own heavy, depressive nature was counterbalanced by her soft skin, her beautiful smile, her ample breast, and her delicious cooking.

Grandma fed me sour kugel and sweet blintzes in a wasted effort to fatten me up.  As a kid my dad and I would go pick up my grandparents for meals at our house (followed by bridge) on most Saturdays and Sundays and while Dad and Grandpa sat in the front of his Olds Cutlass, I snuggled in the back with Grandma, being fed warm kugel, by hand.  "You're a Jew," she'd say.  And I'd nod obediently.
At Grandpa's funeral their apartment was loaded with people--family, friends, neighbors, patients and colleagues from Grandpa's medical practice--and food.  All kinds.  My grandma, who was devastated, depressed and nearly suicidal from the loss, poked her head into the kitchen at one point to explain to my mother and aunt as they scrambled to bake another kugel, that it required large curd cottage cheese.  What do shiksas know?

It's amazing what one remembers.

Anyway, within six years grandma was gone and four years later we lost Dad to his heart attack.  When my uncle asked to hold the ashes, it seemed like the right thing to do.  Until he lost them.  Each spring I'd roll into town for a family gathering, call him up, pay a visit, and ask for the ashes back.  I had become more serious about Jewish observance and felt a deep need to inter them, to get them into the ground beside his ancestors.  (Shortly after 2000, when he retired to the south, my uncle found the urn, delivered them to my sister, and we were finally able to bury Dad's ashes.)   I had come to believe, as I still do, that the dislocation his mother knew--a refugee from Kopyl, Minsk in 1903, a town ultimately obliterated by the Nazis in 1942, all 2500 of its inhabitants killed--was the tapestry of Loss that hung over her life.  And that America, as wonderful as it was, represented not what could be but what was.  Then.  Over there.  The hallowed ground of the cemeteries in Milwaukee, where those immigrants from Minsk and Pinsk are buried, meant the world to her.  It meant she came from somewhere.  Had roots.  Had a story to tell.

As a kid I'd follow her there with Dad.  We'd plant flowers.  Sit in the car under a tree.  Get lineages right.  But mostly Grandma would remain silent.  Present in her loss.

Without a doubt this was a burden that was too much for my dad or uncle to bear.  They took themselves seriously as Jews but never paid too much mind to the rules.  And for them, first generation, the call of America was the music that animated their souls.  And luckily for me, food was the fuel that made their engines run.

When Dad and Mom split up, I'd spend weekends with Dad and each Friday we'd go to Benji's Deli, the East Side Eden of Milwaukee's Jews.  We'd order blintzes, or hoppel poppel, watch a game on the tv, and talk to Dad's cousins who we'd often see eating there as well.  There parents were either dead or aging, too, and so the restaurant became a kind of mysterious memory salon, where souls and recipes hovered, benevolently, on those who had come to eat and remember.

About the blintzes, of course, Dad always said what you'd expect a good son to say:  "It's not as good as my mother's."

We buried dad's ashes on a hill overlooking Miller Park, where the Brewers now play.  And nearly thirty years later, and forty since their divorce, we laid Mom to rest nearby.

Through the fog of mourning and memory I recall this well:  At Dad's funeral my brother-in-law told a story about how Dad, who lived in regret of his own behavior and wished he could take Mom back, used to go to their house for Sunday dinner and that my sister would make my dad's favorite meal that Mom made--meat loaf.  "It's good," he'd say to my sister, "but your mother's is better."

Last night, inspired by Tablet's recipe page and my recent trip to Russ & Daughter's Cafe, I made a chopped salad and homemade blintzes for Shavuot.
Rachel and the girls seemed to genuinely like it and I have to say it turned out well.  Grandma would have been proud.  "What did you learn today, son?" she may have asked.  With blintzes, trout, beets, eggs and red onions in the air, and yahrzeit candles scattering with ease the fog of mourning, I might have said, "We Jews mourn and remember and observe and eat better than anybody."

Good boy.