O, Jerusalem

Friday, January 23, 2009

David arrived at my hotel bright and early (for him) at about 9:30 a.m., and we took a cab to the “City of David.” This area, located south of the Temple Mount, is the site of the fortified Jebusite city conquered by King David. According to the City of David website (www.cityofdavid.org.il):

In approximately 1000 B.C.E., King David arrived in the city. David, who
had previously ruled in Hebron for seven years, conquered the Fortress of Zion
and turned the "Jebusite City" into his religious and national capital: "David
occupied the fortress and called it the City of David" (Samuel II, 5:9).
Then David fortified the city: "He built up the surrounding area, from the Millo
inward" (ibid) and built his palace here.

Jews again began living in the area, now located in the Arab village of Silwan, in the late 19th century. The City of David came under Israeli rule following the Six Day War in 1967. The site became an active archaeological site in the 1970s, and in the early1990s, Jews began living in the area on a larger scale.

The tour includes the site of what is believed to be King David’s palace; the remains of houses dating back to the Second Temple Period (8th to 6th century B.C.E.); the Gihon spring, the water source that was key to the survival, and later conquest, of the city and the place where King Solomon was anointed to succeed his father, David; and Hezekiah’s Tunnel, an 8th century B.C.E. engineering feat that channeled the waters of the Gihon Spring inward toward the city and to a reservoir known as the Shiloach Pool.

Lots of climbing up and down and lots of history, all crammed into two hours.

From the south end of the City of David, we went up … literally … to the walls of the Old City and visited the Western Wall, known as the Kotel. The area in front of the Wall is a perpetual center of activity, filled with tourists and men and women at prayer at all hours of the day and night. It is always a “must” during my visits to Jerusalem, and I was able to spend a few quiet moments touching the stones and reflecting on what brought me here once again.

We then walked into the Jewish Quarter of the Old City and visited the Cardo, an excavated “Main Street” from 6th century Jerusalem which now, as then, is filled with shops. I did some “damage” at a shop Ellen and I first visited in 1982, and I can’t wait to have my purchase delivered in Rochester in a few weeks. I’ve already picked out a spot in the house, and I think it will look great. (No more details … Ellen hasn’t seen it yet.)

In years past, I would have left the Old City by walking through the shuk, the market in the Arab Quarter. These days, that’s not such a good idea, and David and I took the long way around past Zion Gate and through the Armenian Quarter. Political conditions may have changed, but the freshly-baked bread available in the Old City and in the plaza just inside the Jaffa Gate is still wonderful. An oblong-shaped bagel topped with sesame seeds makes a perfect snack.

David and I returned to the hotel via Ben Yehuda Street, a pedestrian mall located on a hill between King George Street and Jaffa Road. We stopped for shwarma, a sandwich filled with roasted meat, hummus, salad and French fries. Not on my diet, but pretty darn good. We then returned to the hotel for a quick nap, got dressed for Shabbat, and set out to visit Rabbi Yom Tov Glaser. Rabbi Glaser (“call me Yom Tov”) is a 40-ish California native who moved to Israel in 1991. Rabbi Glaser lives in the nearby Nahalot neighborhood with his wife, Leah, and seven children. A “multi-tasker” of the first order, Rabbi Glaser is a teacher at Aish HaTorah, a well-respected Jerusalem educational institution; plays guitar and sings professionally and for groups of young adults visiting Israel with the “birthright israel” program; conducts self-improvement seminars; and is an expert mountain-biker and surfer.

Rabbi Glaser is also a member of a Hassidic sect known as Pinsk-Karlin, a group with its roots in the Ukraine. The Pinsk-Karliners have had a presence in Jerusalem since the late 19th century and have a synagogue in the ultra-Orthodox section of Jerusalem known as Meah Shearim.

As we walked from Rabbi Glaser’s house to the synagogue, he briefed me on what to expect at this Kabbalat Shabbat service welcoming the Sabbath. The Pinsk-Karliners have one other characteristic that separates them from other sects: they scream the prayers at the top of their lungs. Multiply that by several hundred voices and the result is that if you didn’t have a headache at the beginning of the service, you may well have one by the end.

I’ve never seen – or heard – anything like it. The leader chants the first few words of each prayer, and each member of the congregation – all men because the women are at home preparing the Sabbath dinner – shouts the rest of the prayer. There is no singing, and no speaking; just yelling. (Rabbi Glaser turned to me after a few minutes and asked for my reaction. I told him it was pretty much like a normal synagogue Board meeting.)

But the best was yet to come. At the end of the service, the men lined up to greet the Pinsk Karliner rebbe, the leader of the sect. The rebbe is an older fellow with a big white beard and bright, friendly eyes. Each person on line nodded to the rebbe and wished him a "good Shabbes." No one shook his hand. No one spoke with him. Those are the rules.

When Rabbi Glaser and I got to the front of the line, the rebbe asked Rabbi Glaser who I was. (His curiosity may have been aroused by the fact that I was the only adult male in the building without a beard.) Rabbi Glaser told him I was a visitor from New York who had come to Israel to volunteer with the Army. The rebbe then reached out to shake my hand, and asked me if I spoke either Hebrew or Yiddish. I shook his hand, told him I understood a little Hebrew and a little German, and answered his questions about where my parents were from. He then patted me on the shoulder several times and congratulated me for coming to Israel to help out. A warm, friendly encounter indeed.

When I turned to Rabbi Glaser and David, they were in shock. The rebbe speaks to no one after Friday night services, but just had a discussion with me, shook my hand and patted me on the shoulder. “That just doesn’t happen,” Rabbi Glaser said. “We’ve got third‑generation members of this congregation who have never done that. He must have thought something special was going on with you.” All of a sudden, I was a big shot, and I still don’t know why.

We returned to Rabbi Glaser’s house for an extended Shabbat dinner with 20 people in attendance, including Israelis and other Americans. The Rabbi delivered a talk about the week’s Torah portion and there was a lively discussion of several religious issues. And all the while the Rabbi’s children were running around, eating and spilling things.

It was a lovely dinner, and I was able to witness a very beautiful custom. Rabbi Glaser explained that at his Shabbat table, people don’t serve themselves from the plates of food passed around the table. Instead, each person serves the person next to him or her. In that way, everyone is a guest for dinner.

And then, around 10 p.m., I ran out of gas. David and I returned to the hotel, and I think it took me at least 30 seconds to fall to sleep.

Transition

Thursday, January 22, 2009

The final day at Netavim started in a quintessentially Israeli manner: we lined up for the morning flag raising, only to find out that “the flagpole is broken.” There was no explanation, even though the flagpole looked pretty good from my vantage point. In any case, we were sent from our formation directly to the warehouses.

My colleague, Russell (the orthopedic surgeon from Massachusetts) and I continued painting yellow lines on the warehouse floor, and were able to finish our assigned duties before lunchtime (and before we ran out of paint) with only moments to spare. It’s amazing how your standards can change: two American professionals were really proud of the way the painted lines looked!

After lunch we returned our army clothes, blankets, sheets and boots to the quartermaster and then cleaned the barracks for inspection. Happily, most of the items were returned properly (although one of the volunteers seems to have made off with a hat), and the deputy commander was pleased at how clean the rooms were. (Success!)

We then boarded a chartered bus for Tel Aviv, and timed it perfectly in order to hit amazing rush hour traffic. (I choose to view it as an example of how well Israel fits into the modern world: how many countries can boast of bumper-to-bumper expressways?).

From Tel Aviv we arranged a sherut, a shared taxi that took us to the Central Bus Station in Jerusalem. Continuing our “planes, trains and automobiles” adventure, we then got a cab – and a chance to bargain with that unique band of thieves known as Jerusalem cab drivers:

“Palatin Hotel.”

“Thirty shekels.”

“Put on the taxi meter.”

“No. Twenty-five shekels.”

“Put on the taxi meter.”

“No. Twenty shekels.”

“OK.”

Once inside the cab, the driver wanted more money to carry the luggage. Then he decided he wanted to turn on the meter after all. I declined both invitations, and he was not a happy camper. He continued to complain bitterly about the amount of traffic he had to negotiate, and then stopped at a building on Agrippas Street which, he claimed, was the address I had given him for the hotel.

I got out of the cab but couldn’t see a sign for the hotel. After repeated protests, the driver asked someone for directions and learned that, in fact, we were nowhere near the hotel. I was happy I stood my ground.

About a mile later, we reached the hotel and I gave the driver 20 shekels. I’m not sure whether he was unhappy about having to go further than he thought or about having gotten outbargained. Probably a bit of both. My companion, Ellis, told me he was proud of the way I dealt with the driver. I let him know that this was not my first time at the rodeo, and that dealing with cabbies in Jerusalem is something of an art. (I didn’t tell him that my lifetime winning percentage in this arena is still well below .500.)

The Palatin Hotel is a small operation in a 19th century building about two blocks from Ben Yehuda Street, a large pedestrian mall in downtown Jerusalem. After dumping the luggage and changing into “acceptable” clothing, I found a much more accommodating cab driver to take me to visit my first cousin, Alan, who lives in a Jerusalem suburb.

Some background: Alan is my mother’s nephew, and was raised in Paris. (My mother’s family returned to France after spending World War II in Cuba; my mother, who married my father in Cuba, went to the U.S.) Alan became very religious and moved to Israel to raise a v-e-r-y,
v-e-r-y l-a-r-g-e family. In total, there are 15 children, including three sons and 12 daughters. There are 20 grandchildren right now, but that number is probably rising as quickly as the national debt.

When Ellen and I first met Alan in 1982, the family was living in a two-bedroom apartment in the Old City of Jerusalem. The children were stacked up like chickens, and the place reminded me of the stateroom scene in Night at the Opera in which Groucho keeps inviting more people into the room until it bursts.

Things have changed considerably. Alan and his family now live in a spacious 10-bedroom apartment in Ramat Shlomo, a neighborhood of religious families. The neighborhood even features an exact replica of the world Lubavitch headquarters building at 770 Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn. Even though it was nearly 8:30 p.m. and dark, the neighborhood was bustling with people, including hundreds of kids running around and riding bicycles. The community was apparently built for the specific purpose of housing large religious families, and seems to work very well.

Alan is a member of the Breslov sect of Hasidic Jews, followers of Rabbi Nachman of Breslov. (The Breslov Hassidim were traditionally known as the “Totenrebbe Hassidim” (the “dead Rabbi Hassidim”) because they never appointed a new leader following the death of Rabbi Nachman, an 18th century scholar. That distinction has become somewhat blurred because the Lubavitch Hassidim did not appoint a new leader following the death of Rabbi Schneerson in 1994.) Alan continues to make his living translating religious texts from Hebrew into French, and appears to live quite comfortably.

Several of the children have moved away from home, but the apartment continued to be abuzz with Shimon, one of the sons, and at least a half-dozen of the daughters. Next time I visit I’m bringing a scorecard.

Alan and I had a wonderful discussion, ranging from the trials and tribulations of our respective families to whether President Obama is really a Muslim. (Many Israelis and, I suspect, quite a few Americans, still have difficulty getting over his middle name. When I remind Israelis that the Obama’s first name is the same as the last name of Israel’s defense minister, things get a little better … but not much.) The attitude reflects a genuine concern over whether Obama will prove to be “good for Israel” or not. I prefer to believe that yesterday’s speech, and the appointment of Senator Mitchell, are both hopeful and positive signs.

My relationship with Alan remains very special, and it’s the kind of friendship that we can pick up exactly where we left off in spite of the passage of years in between. We exchanged e-mail addresses and I hope to maintain regular contact, albeit electronically.

David is scheduled to pick me up tomorrow to tour the City of David excavations south of the Old City, and then I’ll have the privilege of spending Shabbat in Jerusalem before returning to the Army.

If It Moves, Salute It…

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Time moves along quickly. After flag-raising this morning, we gathered for the obligatory “group photo” before moving off to our assigned warehouses. The message about finding enough work for us apparently got through, and the warehouse manager was ready for us: with paint and brushes. We painted the bumpers at the end of the warehouse rows (which prevent things – and forklifts – from going bump in the night) and then painted wide yellow lines on the floor of the receiving area. By the end of the day we created what looked like two basketball courts. Unfortunately, we didn’t have enough colors so we couldn’t follow through with our plan to paint a big Obama logo in the middle of the floor. I’m sure that would have been very popular.

So, we were able to fulfill the two rules of the Army, as told to me by my friend Doug, the retired career officer in the Canadian Armed Forces: “If it moves, salute it. If it doesn’t move, paint it.”

After lunch, we had the opportunity to visit with Israel Geva, the director-general of Sar-El. He spent the day visiting the three bases in the north where volunteers were located (Netafim, Naftali and Amos) and told us how significant our presence was. Our group is part of 292 volunteers in Israel this week alone. Over 4,000 volunteers come here every year from countries all around the world. He assured us that each of our jobs (even painting yellow lines on warehouse floors) was important because it meant that “real” soldiers could focus on the task at hand and because we were helping get the base ready for the next emergency. He also said that our interaction with soldiers and civilians was a real boost for morale because our presence demonstrated solidarity with Israel.

During a side conversation, I told him that many of my friends at home think that I’m a bit crazy to take time from work and come over here during a time of trouble. He told me that many Israelis also have trouble believing that Americans would pay their way over here to volunteer. It’s nice to know that the opinion that we’re nuts is nearly unanimous!

Geva confirmed that all personnel and equipment have now been withdrawn from Gaza, but that the bases in the south were now in need of our help in order to help “reorganize” equipment and materials

We shared dinner with the acting base commander, a 41-year-old major from the Tel Aviv area. He echoed Geva’s remarks, and told us that getting the base cleaned up and ready for the next operation (wherever and whenever that turns out to be) is very important. He stressed that this level of readiness was in sharp contrast to the war against Hezbollah in Lebanon in 2006 and was a primary reason why the Israeli forces were able to operate in Gaza with relatively few casualties and injuries. It was good to hear that from an “unbiased” source.

After dinner our madricha held a “graduation” ceremony, and we received certificates, Sar-El pins and a very interesting “coffee table book” about Israel. As nice as that was, the attempt to replicate summer camp failed miserably as we all discovered we couldn’t sing many Hebrew songs. Just as well.

Tomorrow, we’re scheduled to work in the morning, and then it’s time to pack, catch a bus to Tel Aviv (and then on the Jerusalem to visit my cousin, Alain) and spend Shabbat away from the Army … until Sunday morning when we meet again in Tel Aviv and head off for our next assignment. We’ve been told we’re still scheduled to go south, but that could change four times between now and then.

Slowly, Slowly

Tuesday January 20, 2009

We’re beginning to settle into a routine, with everyone reporting to their particular warehouse (and two of the women helping out in the dining hall). Finding enough to do in Warehouse No. 4 remains a challenge. Late in the morning, Lior had an animated discussion with the two men in charge, David and Eli. They insisted they had lots and lots of work for us to do.

With some prompting, they pointed us to a pile of pallets containing more truck tire rims, and we unpacked them and re-loaded them for storage. The good news was that we stayed busy most of the rest of the morning and finished the load of truck rims. The bad news was that we apparently worked “too fast,” and failed to pay sufficient attention to the repeated admonition, “le-hat, le-hat,” “slowly, slowly.” As a result, we probably finished most of the afternoon’s work as well!

After lunch, we did a bit more rearranging and cleaned the receiving area. I suspect the place hasn’t looked this good since the day it opened.

Everyone – and I mean everyone – was keenly aware of the inauguration of President Obama, which took place at 7 p.m. Israel time. The radio played American songs all day (“Oklahoma,” “This Land is Your Land,” “America” from West Side Story and the like) and the civilian workers kept asking us: “Obama. Good?”

Our madricha somehow managed to commandeer a new television set for the soldier’s lounge, and after dinner we call gathered to watch the ceremony. It was a heavily pro-Obama crowd, but even the non-Americans and the three Israelis watched intently. (Our madricha was accompanied by two soldiers who were assigned to warehouse work for three months as punishment for infractions. An artillery soldier smuggled a smoke grenade from his base and was caught at the bus station, and an air force soldier was caught driving a tractor without a license. Nice to know that we were assigned to the place they send soldiers for punishment!)

As someone who watched 9/11 from a hotel room in Jerusalem, it was very special to watch these happier proceedings from afar. We all felt very good about being Americans today, even including those who suggested that giving Vice President Cheney a push down the stairs on his wheelchair might be a good idea.

After the speech, more good news. Instead of having to negotiate our way from the nearby Golani Junction, Sar-El has arranged a bus to take us to Tel Aviv on Thursday afternoon. Even better, we are apparently being sent to bases in the south on Sunday morning to help with arrangements for the withdrawing troops next week … so long as the cease‑fire holds. We are told that the need for volunteers is greater there than here, and most of us are entirely in favor of the relocation.

My Graduate Degree

Monday January 19, 2009

Our first full day at Netafim began with flag-raising at 7:10 a.m. (Not 7:09, and not 7:11.) Our group of 18 volunteers stood in formation next to two dozen young soldiers assigned to the base. One volunteer and one soldier raised the Israeli flag. Very light on ceremony, but very full of meaning.

Our madricha, Lior, then gave us a “news report.” The cease-fire remains in effect, a few rockets are still falling, and the Cardinals beat the Eagles and are on the way to the Super Bowl. (That last bulletin was supplied by Jerry Bernstein, a judge from Phoenix.)

We then assembled for greetings from the Deputy Commander of the base, a young man named Moshe who made all the women in the group swoon. If you look up “tall, dark and handsome" in a Hebrew dictionary, his picture is there. He explained that the base is primarily responsible for supplying other units in the north, although there have been many shipments to the south before and during the Gaza operation.

After breakfast, we received our work assignments. Along with an orthopedic surgeon from Massachusetts, I reported to a warehouse to meet Eli and his boss, David. For the next few hours (interrupted only by the mandatory coffee break for Turkish coffee), we unpacked truck rims and loaded them onto pallets. Every piece also received two stickers called, in Hebrew, “bar-code.” My vocabulary is expanding by the moment.

The pace of work was not exactly frantic, with long breaks while David and Eli figured out what else there was for us to do. After lunch, we returned to the warehouse for a few more odd jobs until, at 2:45, they told us we were done for the day.

I’m a bit frustrated at not having enough to do, but Lior promised that would change tomorrow. We’ll see. In any case, I have now earned my “MSA” degree for “Moving Stuff Around.”

This evening, Lior gave a presentation about the various units in the IDF, including the Golani, the paratroopers, the Givati, the artillery, etc. We also learned a bit about the ranks and insignia. The “leaf” insignia which designates officers in the U.S. and Canadian forces is referred to in Israel as a “falafel.” The base deputy commander has one falafel, his boss has two falafels, etc. I haven’t yet seen anyone with hummus on their uniform, but I’m ready for it.

At the end of the presentation, we each received our own insignia: blue ribbons for our shoulders with the words “Sar-El Volunteer” in Hebrew.

So now we’re official.

Hurry Up and Wait

Sunday January 18, 2009

I awoke this morning to news that Israel has declared a cease-fire in Gaza, and I’m taking full credit for this. The only thing I’m not sure of is whether the Israelis or the Palestinians are more afraid of the fact that I’m in the country.

I had to “report for duty” back at Ben Gurion Airport, and elected to take the train in order to avoid Sunday morning traffic. (The work week in Israel starts on Sunday, so everything is very crowded.) The train station was filled with soldiers, sailors and air force personnel, and I found a young soldier who confirmed that I was at the right place at the right time.

Once at Ben Gurion, I located the coordinator for Sar-El (the Israeli arm of Volunteers for Israel), checked in, and waited for the other volunteers to arrive. And did they ever! Within an hour, at least 100 volunteers from all over the world showed up: Americans, Dutch, British, Swiss, Scottish and South Africans, among others. Some of the volunteers were of college age, having just completed the “Taglit” program for first-time visitors to Israel (known in the U.S. as “birthright Israel”). There were many veterans of previous Volunteers programs who, like me, decided to come back during the present crisis.

After a fair amount of standing around and repeated roll calls, we were divided into groups arranged by the bases to which we were assigned. Looking around at the rest of my group, I also realized that we had been divided by age as well, since most of my colleagues were, shall we say, “of a certain age.”

Like the beginning of so many other trips to Israel, we then got on the bus. Two hours later, it was time for lunch, so we stopped at a rest area featuring classic Israeli fare: McDonalds, Sbarro and a Chinese restaurant. Instead of a grilled chicken wrap, Mickey D featured a “kebab wrap” with pickles, onions and what I guess passes for “special sauce.” Mmmm. Mmmm.

At 2 p.m. we arrived at Netafim, a logistics and supply base in the Galilee in the northern part of Israel. (For those of you with maps, draw one line west from Tiberias and a second line north from Afula. The two lines will meet at the Golani Junction, and Netafim is nearby.) The base appears to consist of a series of warehouses and storage areas. (It looks like we won’t be packing medical supplies, but I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see exactly what I’ll be doing.)

After waiting for someone to show up with a key to our barracks, we had a chance to get a close look at our “home” for the next two weeks. I was pleasantly surprised. Four people to a room, adequate bathroom and shower facilities and toilet paper! (This already represented a substantial improvement over the situation in 1991, when there was an abundant supply of … old newspapers!)

We then reported to the Quartermaster to get outfitted with pants, shirts, sweaters, coats and some of the silliest hats you’ve ever seen. If I become anywhere near as stupid as I look, I’m in serious trouble.

At 4:00 p.m. a large group of civilian workers left the warehouse buildings, got into cars and buses, and went home. We later learned that Netafim is a “9 to 5” operation (actually 7 to 4, with breaks for breakfast and lunch) and that there are relatively few soldiers here. As a result, the place is fairly deserted at night. However, the need to support the soldiers in the south of the country remains real.

And then, finally, our first assignment: Dinner at 5:00 p.m.! Again, I was pleasantly surprised by abundant amounts of salad, rice, chicken cutlets, hummus and “all the fixings.”

After another break, we reassembled for our “evening program.” Our madricha (Hebrew for a female teacher, or leader) is an impossibly cute 18-year-old named Lior whose assignment in the army is to take care of Sar-El volunteers. She clearly enjoys her job, and explained what was in store for us. Tomorrow’s schedule starts with “flag raising” at 7:10, followed by work until 8:30 and then breakfast. (That order of events freaked out several of the New Yorkers who immediately confessed that they don’t know how to start the day without having coffee first. One of the women also asked whether a bagel would be available. Oy.) The morning work session ends at noon and, after lunch, we’ll work from 1 to 4. Another “evening program” will follow dinner.

So far, pretty much like summer camp.

We then took part in several “ice-breaker” exercises which gave us an opportunity to learn about one other. Members of the group include two non-Jewish female truck drivers from Brantford, Ontario; a Russian émigré working in California as a computer specialist; a marketing manager from California; an IBM executive; an orthopedic surgeon; a judge from Phoenix; a retired couple from the Albany, NY area and a fellow from Birmingham, Alabama who, like me, spent the better part of high school at Madison Square Garden cheering for the New York Rangers. Quite a bunch.

Day One? Not entirely productive but hey, there’s a war on. Everyone feels good about being here and is looking forward to getting to work in the morning.

Names

The portion of the Torah read in synagogues around the world this morning is “Shmot,” which means “Names.” The portion, which opens the book of Exodus, begins by naming Jacob and his eleven sons who went to Egypt to meet Joseph, who had already established himself there.

Fittingly, this was a weekend featuring many names: My son David and I were guests of Rabbi Aaron and Miiko Shaffier and their family in Tekoa for the Sabbath. Aaron is a Lubavitch-trained Chassidic rabbi who works as a scribe (hand writing religious texts) and has part of an Internet business selling Jewish religious items. A California native, Rabbi Shaeffer and his family emigrated to Israel approximately 18 months ago. Miiko was raised in Ottawa, Ontario and met Aaron through mutual friends in Toronto. The Shaffiers have five children: two girls, Menucha and Freyda, and three boys, Mendel, Dov Baer and Yisroel. (A sixth is on the way, and Miiko was very pleased that my suitcase included a substantial supply of Ibuprofen to help her through her pregnancy.) Each child is more engaging than the other, although the “baby,” Freyda, is clearly the star of the show and is adored by both her parents and siblings.

As you might imagine, the house is a busy place, particularly with two additional guests. Picture controlled chaos and constant activity, with a constant focus on love and learning what it means to live an observant Jewish life.

We went to one of several synagogues in the town for the services welcoming the Sabbath on Friday night, and then returned to the house for a multi-course (and delicious) dinner. Try as I might, I bailed out at about 8:00 p.m., suffering from a bit of jet lag.

But not before getting a clear picture of what motivates Rabbi Shaffier. Tekoa is located in a very busy neighborhood: the intersection of Geography, Politics, Religion and History. The area is part of the ancient land of Judea, after which the Jews are named. It is where the prophet Amos once lived. Most important, according to those who live there, it is part of the Jewish people’s patrimony. A town of approximately 2,000 people, it boasts an active community, a full array of schools … and a common commitment to the land.

For a number of reasons, I didn’t raise some of the misgivings I couldn’t help feeling. First and foremost, I was a guest. Second, unless and until I make the choice to live in Israel, I don’t feel I have the “right” to make a judgment. And third, even if I did live in Israel, I wouldn’t have the wisdom to know whether “settlements” like Tekoa will help or hurt the quest for peace.

This morning, we returned to the Synagogue and read about Jacob, Joseph, his brothers and the hero of the story: Moses. I was honored to be called to the Torah, and also said the traditional prayer for surviving a perilous journey. (I was too polite to ask whether one has to say the prayer after flying Delta or Continental, or whether it only applies to El Al.)

While my Hebrew leaves a lot to be desired, I am able to follow what goes on, and my ears perked up during the recitation of the usual blessings for the sick, for the State of Israel and for the Israel Defense Forces. These were followed by an additional blessing for the people in the south of Israel who remain under rocket attack, as well as a blessing for the “captives.” The two captives mentioned by name were Gilad Shalit, the young soldier kidnapped by Hamas 2-1/2 years ago from the area near the Gaza border … and Jonathan Pollard, the American jailed for violation of U.S. espionage laws.

The joinder of Shalit and Pollard was stunning to me, and taugt me much about the world view of those in attendance. I allowed that I needed some time to process the balance between the two figures, and was met with similar astonishment. In essence, the response was, “What’s the difference between the two?” (Memo to self: keep reiminding yourself you're a guest.)

Services were followed by snacks and lots to drink (mostly vodka) and discussion of the morning’s Torah reading. We then returned home for another meal, which convinced me that I miss my spinning classes more than ever.

After the obligatory afternoon nap, I packed my bag, said goodbye and thank you, and started the next leg of my journey. David and I rode by bus to the central bus station in Jerusalem. Once again, security intruded on what should be a “normal” experience, as everyone was screened before being allowed inside the station. We found my bus to Tel Aviv, and I took the last available seat in the front of the bus next to a soldier.

Ron is a 28-year old reservist who was raised on a kibbutz, now lives in Tel Aviv, and is completing his undergraduate degree in history and philosophy. We had a delightful conversation, and he thanked me for coming to Israel to volunteer. He also told me I was on the wrong bus: I wanted to go to the central bus station in Tel Aviv and, instead, had boarded a bus to the train station. But, after giving me instructions on how to reach my hotel, he told me that friends were picking him up and offered me a ride to the hotel. Amazing what that Army jacket can do for you!

Tomorrow morning, it’s off to Ben Gurion Airport again to learn of my assignment. I may – or may not – have free wi-fi when I get there. If so, there’ll be more to follow shortly. If not, I’ll keep writing and upload a batch when I return to “civilization” next week.

Isaac, Joseph, Moses, Aaron, Miiko, Menucha, Freyda, Mendel, Dov Baer, Yisroel, David and Ron. Quite a collection. And I haven’t been here for 36 hours yet.