A Brazillion Pounds of Meat

For roughly ten years of my life, I was a vegetarian.  Those were the ten dumbest years I have spent here on Earth.  I never had a Chicago hot dog, I never had Popeye’s chicken, I never had a juicy burger, and certainly never the Kobe beef steak that I absolutely adore.  And if I had never crossed over to the dark side, I wouldn’t have enjoyed my dinner on Tuesday night nearly as much as I did.  That night, the students and staff from my Poland trip had a reunion dinner hosted at an all-you-can-eat Brazilian steakhouse called Papagaio.  For the record, this is one of the most expensive restaurants in the city, and besides devouring heinous amounts of grilled meat and chicken, one of the greatest pleasures of the night was filling our bellies free of charge.  The dinner was sponsored by a man named Asher Milstein, an incredibly generous donor to some of the programs here on campus who also funded that venerable King David Hotel lunch a few months ago. 

Once dinner began, entrecote was brought to us, then grilled chicken, then kebab, then teriyaki chicken, then more steak, then more kebab, and well, you get the picture.  Each dish was more succulent than the next, and before long, although our stomachs were on the verge of total annihilation, they brought out five different dessert dishes.  Meat was eaten in such obscene quantities that we joked that our stomachs wouldn’t be milchig (kosher for dairy) again until Shavuot later that week.   Warm (pareve) mousse cake, pies, sorbets, etc., then entered through us and further inhibited our hunger for the next three days or so.  The dinner served as a perfectly sweet way to complete a perfectly bitter trip. 

Thursday night, I booked a trip to Greece with my friend Roee.  For four days and three nights in Mid-June, we will be exploring the city of Athens and the island of Mykonos.  I am highly anticipating getting in touch with my philosophical roots and navigating through the city where Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle cemented their place in history. 

For Shabbat this week, ten friends or so and myself cooked up a slew of the finest tasting meats and side dishes prepared outside of the kitchens of Papagaio, Yossi and Chaya Witkes, and Jamie Glass-Pestine. This was our second-to-last Shabbat together on campus, and so we wanted to make sure we crafted a memorable repast, complete with pizzazz and shebang.  My cooking prowess is severely underdeveloped, so I took it upon myself to make couscous, a simple, yet delicious stomach stuffer.  The room filled with cheers as we each sampled the food and drink that each other had brought to the table and filled our stomachs to the brim with challah, meatballs, chicken, grilled sweet potatoes and carrots, salad, the aforementioned couscous, and of course, lots and lots of wine.

Around this time last year (on the Hebrew calendar), I was just getting home from a trip to Israel.  I remember it specifically because it was just prior to the Jewish holiday of Shavuot, when the Israelites received Torah at Mt. Sinai, and on Shavuot, my cousin Althea and I stayed up until the wee hours of the night learning Gemara.  On Shavuot, it is custom to eat gross quantities of cheesecake and pull an all-nighter studying Torah.  This year, Shavuot fell on Saturday night.  I celebrated the chag (holiday) by taking advantage of a Conservative yeshiva program run downtown.  A series of lectures, all of which were enlightening and well-orated, ran from 10:30 PM until 3:30 AM, with short breaks in between to stretch our legs and eat junk food. 

At four in the morning, our group, as well as thousands of other Jews, walked to the Kotel to daven Shacharit as the sun rose.  Interestingly, because this was a Conservative group, we held services at the Southwest Wall instead of the Western Wall, where there is no mechitza (divider between men and women).  I never knew such services existed over there.  It was quite thrilling to watch the sun rise over the Kotel.  Afterwards, we walked back to our dorms (it was roughly 7 AM by the time we got back), where I immediately took a necessary snooze.

Since I’ve been here in Israel, I’ve been fortunate enough to experience Purim, Passover, Lag b’Omer, Holocaust Remembrance Day, Memorial Day, Independence Day, Jerusalem Day, and now Shavuot.  But in the British sense, every day here is a holiday.  I’m still in that island in the sun.

Aloha,

Zac 

Oh my Ghosh, Hummina Hummina Hummus!

To start off, I am quickly approaching a bittersweet chapter in my life here.  My Facebook newsfeed has been usurped by my peers who have undertaken separate study abroad journeys and who have returned or are soon returning to their respective homes.  My regular program here does not end until June 7^th, and my special Hebrew U program does not conclude until June 22^nd, so my expiration date here is still a long ways away.  Meanwhile, it seems like a lifetime ago that I spoke face-to-face with my family and friends, played with my dogs, stepped foot in my bookstore, or heard Ken “the Hawk” Harrelson shout “You can put it on the board…Yes!”.  This is the bitter part. 

Now please, do not misconstrue my sentiments, for the sweet part is identical to the bitter part: I still have nearly two months here to live, learn, explore, relax, and enjoy all that Israel has to offer (which happens to be a lot).  On Sunday, May 13^th, I had an average day.  I, accompanied by my great friend Roee, walked through the market in the Old City, saw beautiful scenery, smelled some of the most amazing aromas that one could hope to sense, donned tefillin at the Western Wall, and went grocery shopping at the shuk (where I have haggling for pita down to a science).

I refer to this as an average day because here in Israel, this is an average day for me.  Sans the Kotel visit (which I actually do make somewhat frequently), this is my Sunday routine.  I cannot imagine having access to these kinds of pleasures on an everyday basis anywhere else in the world.  And so while I am stuck thousands of miles away from one home for a lengthy bit of time, I get the special opportunity to appreciate my home here for the same length of time.   How sweet.

On Wednesday, I went with a few friends of mine to a town called Abu Ghosh, which resides about ten minutes outside of Jerusalem proper.  Abu Ghosh is especially notable for its unwavering loyalty and patriotism towards the state of Israel.  During the War for Independence, Abu Ghosh was one of the few Arab villages in all of Israel to take allegiance with the Israeli side of the conflict.  Abu Ghosh is also revered as the town that buys all of Israel’s Chametz during before Passover, roughly $150 million worth of carbohydrates.

While there, we walked about the main road of the town and picked a spot at a welcoming, yet classy restaurant.  Together, we ordered a twelve-salad dish, and of course all-you-can eat pita and hummus came complimentary.  Abu Ghosh might be particularly acclaimed for their pacific relations with the Israeli government, but they are also famous for the hummus.  It is a great export for the town as Abu Ghosh hummus is ubiquitous in supermarkets around Jerusalem.  Rest assured, we had a great lunch, with splendid hummus.  Afterwards we loosened our belts a few notches and marched through the streets of the town.

My Shabbat dinner this week came in the form of a trip to the Jerusalem Soul Center, a Kabbalistic forum hosted by Rabbi Ezra Amichai, a hipster rav that has accompanied me on both my Prague and Poland excursions.  In contrast to most Jewish institutions that hold Shabbat dinners, this was not one exclusively for students.  In fact, students were overwhelmingly outnumbered that night.  The guest list was as diverse as I have yet to see.  The recipe of middle-aged, frum hippies, businessmen, college students, and yeshiva boys was certainly a concoction that produced excellent conversation.  It was fun to see such a different crowd, people who you otherwise would generally never see congregate together under one roof.  It was a wonderful experience, and the walk back to the student village, on a warm but breezy night, was a pleasure as well.

On Sunday the 20^th, I again ventured back to the Kotel and the shuk, but this day was not average, for it was Yom Yerushaliyim (Jerusalem Day).  Masses packed to the streets (and the light rail) to enjoy a beautiful day and show their affection for our glorious city.  It’s hard to imagine a time in the future when I feel like going to the Kotel or getting some dried figs at the shuk, and instead of hopping on the light rail for fifteen minutes, I have to hop on a plane for twelve hours.  It’s actually really sad to think about.

Sunday night marked the beginning of Yom HaStudent (Student Day).  Obviously there are tens of thousands of colleges and universities that I have not been to, and thus I am ignorant of their customs.  But as it stands, I do not know of any other school in the world that organizes a student day where school is off and an all night concert is facilitated in the park.  It’s actually really funny that Hebrew U has put these events on (the Purim party, the Yom HaAtzmaut party, and now Student Day), where, at each venue, there are five or six large bars set up that serve alcohol all night long to students.   The concert was really fun, albeit really cold.  It gets very chilly here at night, and my attire was anything but apropos given the wind chill.  But we had a great time nonetheless.

It is hard to fathom that most of my friends here will be departing in only two and a half weeks.  In my mind, I’ll be here for another six months (with my friends, family, dogs, bookstore, and “Hawk” all coming to stay with me during that time).  Ok, I guess that’s a long shot, but a boy can dream.

Shalom,

Zac

The City upon a Hill: Getting BaChaifa on Lifa

Returning from a weekend in Poland can be a grueling transition, not only because of the extremely haunting sights that one witnesses while there, but also because when a spiritually and physically exhausting itinerary is squeezed into a three day period, bus sleep never produces the therapeutic effects that one hopes for.  This unrelenting tiredness is only exacerbated when one actively seeks out excursions that will only inhibit normal sleep patterns the following week.  Nevertheless, it is sleep itself that may inhibit fun and excitement when special opportunities are slotted for specific days, and so in this instance, the sleep-for-adventure tradeoff proved to be worthwhile.

Wednesday night marked Lag Ba’Omer on the Jewish calendar.  Lag Ba’Omer is the thirty-third day of the Omer (the days between the first night of Pesach and Shavuot) and commemorates the passing of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai (Rashbi), a great rabbi and Talmudic scholar to whom authorship of the Zohar (the primary Kabbalistic text) is attributed.  Each year on Lag Ba’Omer, hundreds of thousands of Jews make the pilgrimage to a small town that sits upon a hill called Meron.  Atop Meron is where Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai’s tomb is located.  I was fortunate enough to have gone to the event last year on my Israel trip, and when the avenue presented itself for me to get back there once more, I quickly penciled myself in.

Just like our Purim travels to Tel Aviv, a large group of Hebrew U students (myself included) drove up to Meron on a party bus, though our attire was not quite as eccentric as it was on Purim.  Meron is located not far from Tzfat, which is about a three and a half hour ride from Jerusalem.  The night of Lag Ba’Omer is famous for large bonfires throughout the country, and on the way, we stopped by a particularly magnificent one for a quick bite to eat and a chance to check out the roaring flames.  While there, I purchased a highly sophisticated, state-of-the-art, multicolored, strobe, seizure inducing Shrek necklace.  It proved to be a keen acquisition until a friend of mine repossessed my ogre medallion, and unfortunately held on to it for the night as its disappearance from my neck eluded my memory.  Because my Shreklace was stripped from me, I became Shrekless. 

I found it very nice to party with a purpose.  As a frat boy, I have minored in vain debauchery.  I have grown accustomed to engaging in a substantial amount of mindless celebration devoid of meaning, so partying with substance (aside from those abused by your average college student) served as a nice changeup.  It was as refreshing as ice cold Cool Blue Gatorade is in the early morning following said parties.


By the time we approached the bottom of the mountain, it was closing in on midnight, but the thousands of people just within our general vicinity provided a sufficient boost of energy.  Together, we ascended the hill alongside innumerable Haredim (ultra-Orthodox Jews).  Naturally, one of the main attractions of the event is the tomb of the Rashbi where thousands upon thousands of people congregate at any one time to daven Ma’ariv and throw prayers and wishes into a fire there.  Once inside the tomb, you literally cannot move without bumping into the person next to you.  I’ve been in mosh pits before, but this elbow-to-elbow collage of Yids put them all to shame.  Outside of the tomb, Jewish bands led thousands of concert goers in an upbeat and soulful song session.  The lyrics to the most popular song read “Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, Shimon bar Yochai!”, and they are very catchy.


It never ceases to amaze me that no matter where you go in this wonderful country, it is rather difficult to not bump into someone you know.  This night was no exception.  First, I bumped into a fellow Badger who is spending the year here in yeshiva.  Next, I happened to find my friend Stephanie who often attends the same Shabbat dinner as I do at the home of Yossi and Chaya Witkes.  At her side was Debi, a girl who I grew up in Hebrew school with but who I hadn’t seen in eight years or so.  What a world!


We departed from the Lag Ba’Omer extravaganza at around 3 AM.  By this time we were all exhausted, a bit dehydrated, and desperately wanted to return back to Jerusalem where we would still face a daunting day of classes.  Some people arrived tardy to our designated meeting place, and others grew resentful towards those who lagged be’hind.  The bus ride back was about as miserable as possible, but it was a small price to pay for the great festival we had attended. 


Before Friday, there were two major Israeli cities that I had yet to visit: Haifa and Beer Sheba.  Now there is only one, as Hebrew U led two tour buses up to Haifa on Friday morning.  We left our student village at 7:30 AM, stopped for gas and concessions on the way, and arrived in Haifa at about 10:00.  Haifa, also a city upon a hill, is the third largest city in Israel behind Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.  The city stands as a model for coexistence between Jews and Muslims.  It also houses one of Israel’s great attractions, the Baha’i Gardens, which served as the highlight of our trip up there. 


The greenery and aesthetics that these gardens offer are quite stunning.  While descending the hill that this Baha’i shrine sits on, a water fall follows you.  Especially during this time of year, the greens are sharp and they clash well with the pinks and purples that surround them.  After exiting the gardens, we were enlightened to the precepts of the Baha’i faith and from there listened to a lecture from a man belonging to the Achmadim sect of Islam.  We then went to a Druze village, where our time was mainly occupied by eating falafel.


The past couple of days have been very low key, which has provided a nice chance to get caught up on sleep and homework (and there is a lot of that coming up).  I am very lucky that my time abroad here has offered so many opportunities for exploration and excitement, and I am equally lucky that there is a decent amount of down time as well.  I'm looking forward to all that next week (and the next two months) has in store.


Until next time,


Zac

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

Let me start out be asserting the fact that I have lived in the light over these past three and a half months.  Actually, I think I have for my entire life (I have not been happy at every moment of my life, but I have also never faced starvation, destitution, or torture.  I have never been surrounded by murder, and I think that accounts for a well-lit life).  Sometimes this light never dims much, or never fully disappears, and this accounts for a very blessed life. But if people live with the same lighting for too long, they forget that it can be much brighter, brighter than they ever could have imagined after a little darkness comes and goes.  The only way to realize that things can be even brighter than they are, to truly appreciate the light, is to dim the lights.  This past weekend, my light was heavily dimmed.  I experienced as much darkness as I can handle at one time, and hopefully as much as I will ever have to deal with.

The first truly remarkable event that took place this past week was my time spent listening to the great Jurgen Habermas.  Professor Habermas is currently one of the world’s most renowned philosophers.  I have learned about him in at least three of my courses taken back in Madison, and so when one of my professors here at Hebrew U let me know that Professor Habermas would be in Jerusalem to give a lecture on Tuesday night, I jumped at the opportunity to see in person the man that I have learned so much about.  Mr. Habermas has highly influenced the world of philosophy (one of my great passions, as I am a proud philosophy major), especially in the realms of linguistic and social philosophy.  

His speech lent itself as a symbol of an incredibly meaningful week.  Habermas’ youth was highly influenced by Nazi culture, but at an early age, he broke free from the diabolical party and began one of the most highly acclaimed careers that any modern philosopher can boast.  The reason that this talk was so symbolic of my week was because his lecture was an ode to the late Martin Buber, one of the greatest philosophers that Judaism (and modern philosophy) has known.  A man who had grown up in Nazi Germany came to Jerusalem to praise and pay homage to a Jew.  On that night, light brightly filled the lecture hall.  In every sense of the word, we were all enlightened by Professor Habermas.

On Wednesday night, I embarked on a journey that would forever change the way I view the world.  Months ago, I had signed up for an organized trip to Poland to see the concentration and extermination camps.  I had long awaited this weekend, and here it was.  Our flight arrived in Warsaw at 9:00 AM on Thursday morning.  We walked the streets of town, stopping frequently to see monuments marking the calamities that occurred there.  Our guide, Hazy chaperoned us about the city and shared detailed stories with us so that we could visualize the pains felt of the thousands of people oppressed and abducted on the roads we were on.  We toured the ghetto.  It was very hard to picture the sheer destitution, the depression that overwhelmed this area only a short time ago.  The city of Warsaw is now very modern; it is a pretty city.  I was not expecting it.  I wish it wasn’t, for if it had been more decrepit, I would have more easily managed to comprehend the appalling life that people led there.  But only monuments marked these events, and life went on there as it would anywhere else.

Our next stop was Treblinka, one of the most productive death camps the Nazis ever constructed.  As we drove down the narrow, winding road enclosed by thick forest and brush on either side, I began to feel  a certain claustrophobia.  I could not escape the feeling that some monumental peril loomed in the near future.   Unlike the Jews that were shipped there seventy years ago, I held a general idea of what would lie ahead.  If I were one of them, I cannot decide whether or not having this prior conception would have eased my apprehension and inner turmoil or elevated it ten-fold, nor can I know for sure what exactly these people felt years ago.  All I know is that whether one had perfect insight into these matters or complete ignorance, the most eerie of moods overtook me, and it grew difficult to speak.

Stepping down from our bus, I observed that I was surrounded by greenery.  How strange, I thought, that this terrible, terrible factory of destruction and death should be marked by such lively forestry.  I noticed a family of Non-Jewish Poles exiting the location, and a sudden urge came over me to know what they were thinking, what they were feeling.  As a group we sat down along a line of oversized bricks that stood in place of the tracks where cattle cars transported those awaiting their impending doom.  We learned of the lies told to the Jews upon their arrival, that they were at a labor camp, that their valuables would be held while they went to take a shower, and that they would be given personal receipts marking each person’s items.  Then they stripped and headed to the showers.  No one emerged alive.  Upwards of 870,000 innocent lives were terminated at Treblinka. 

I saw a family riding bicycles along a path.  One girl was wearing a pink tank top and short shorts.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  This was one of the most efficient, most infamous extermination camps in all of human history, and people took leisurely strolls and rides around the woods.  It was then explained to me that people do indeed utilize the grounds for recreational purposes.  For many, it was but a park.  It was but a park.

There are some 17,000 stones that commemorate the lives destroyed there.  Some have names engraved on them, but most are anonymous.  Each stone itself was precious, but the one that will always remain particularly impressed upon my memory was that belonging to Janusz Korczak, a famed pediatrician, children’s author, and keeper of an orphanage, a man who was offered asylum several times throughout the war because of his talents, but instead voluntarily marched to his death along with the 192 orphans that he had housed, fed, and had given a loving home.  This was a man who literally devoted his entire life to making others feel important, loved, safe, and secure.  It is not known exactly where Mr. Korczak perished, but it was an honor and a privilege to walk along the ground where his memory is given special recognition.

Before leaving Treblinka, we recited Hatikvah as a group.  I cannot begin to describe how sweet it felt.  At that moment, the camp grounds, which once held one of the greatest of all engines for murder, was then a mode of inspiration.  We then bused to Lublin where we would spend the night. 

In the morning, we arose early and marched to Maidanek, a death camp that resided within the city limits.  There, the sun shined brightly on a green field.  But it was merely an illusion, for in hell there is neither green nor sun.  There is only death.  We walked along the path where the departed were once led to meet their fate.  When we passed through a gas chamber, I tried to picture what it was like for a child there to be torn from his or her parents, lost amid a sea of dying bodies, tirelessly dodging corpses to find a familiar face.  This was as close as I could get to these horrors. 

One of the most traumatic experiences here took place when we came to the crematorium.   When visitors came to inspect the camp, the Nazis somehow deceived them, telling them it was a bakery.  But no bread was ever baked there. Only bodies were incinerated, reduced to nothing but ash.  Near the furnaces stood a bathtub where the commandant of the camp would bathe.  The same fire that mercilessly destroyed innocent human lives was used to heat his bath water.  That sadistic house of fire was one of the most disparaging places I had ever been to.  Outside of the crematorium lay a seven-ton mountain constructed with human ash.

As we exited Maidanek, I pulled a granola bar from my pocket, and I ate.  I was hungry, not starving, but hungry.  And I ate.  As I took my first bite, my thoughts were this.  It is now 2012.  Goebbels is long gone.  Eichmann is long gone.  Himmler is long gone.  Hitler is long gone.  Elie Wiesel is here.  And Elena Kagan is here.  And Michael Bloomberg is here. And Rohm Emmanuel is here.  And Steven Spielberg is here.  And Mark Zuckerberg is here.  And Benyamin Netanyahu is here.  And all of my campus rabbis who welcome hundreds of Jewish students into their homes each week are here.  The 1000-year Reich lasted only twelve years.  The S.S. is only a nightmare now.  But a young Jew filling his hungry belly on the grounds of Maidanek is a reality.

After Maidanek, we headed over to Krakow, where we would spend a lovely Shabbat.  After getting ready for services, we walked over to a synagogue where we would usher in the Sabbath.  One of the leaders on our trip, Ezra, led services.  He sang Kabbalat Shabbat to the tunes of Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach.  For those unfamiliar with Rav Carlebach, he was a visionary and a musical genius who generated hundreds upon hundreds of tunes for Jewish songs and prayers.  His hymns are infused with soulfulness and joy, and every time I sing Kabbalat Shabbat to the melodies that he authored, I find myself elated.

On Saturday we toured much of Krakow.  To my astonishment, it was a beautiful city.  My preconceived notions of the city led me to believe it to be a downtrodden and decrepit municipality, but it was burgeoning with color, character, and life.  The architecture and color scheme of the city reminded me very much of Prague.  Even the ghetto had been refurbished.  This led to further inner tension.  On the one hand, I was walking through a place where utter destitution and gloom were once inherent; and on the other hand, this place was no different from any other European city that I would have been overjoyed to see only weeks ago.  It was difficult to juggle these two feelings.  I desperately wanted to break into the mind of a person living there during those fateful days, but I have been afforded such a sheltered, such a fortunate life that I was not able to do so.  During every other moment of my life, I would consider this a blessing.  But at that moment I thought it to be a curse. 

One real highlight of the trip was our time spent listening to an elderly Polish woman named Paulina.  Paulina, who was awarded a medal by Yad VaShem for being one of the “Righteous among the Nations (non-Jewish people)”, risked her life by harboring seventeen Jews and providing a secret safe haven for them during the Nazi invasion.  Her story left me breathless.  Everyone in the room was left to face the question, “Would I have been as brave as she if I had been in her shoes?”.  There is a concept within Judaism that the Jewish people are supposed to provide a light to the nations.  But it had been Paulina, and many others like her, who had provided a brightly shining light to the Jews for so many years.  I thought it very comforting to know that during an era marred by pure evil, there was still a great number of people that exemplified goodness, that exemplified light.  It was an honor to meet her.

After making Havdalah, we took a ride to a site (well, really a ditch), where the Nazis shot people, whole families, right in the back of the head and left them to rot under the Earth’s surface.  I pictured myself as a four-year-old.  Beside me stood my mother and father.  They slaughtered each of them, pausing a minute in between shots so that I could best grasp what was taking place.  They teased me.  They instilled horror in me.  Then they shot me.

Sunday marked the culmination of our trip.  After a long few days of shock and horror, we hit the climax of our experience: Auschwitz-Birkenau.  Being the most effective, and maybe the most famous, murder factory in human history, we all held a fierce anxiety about our upcoming visit there.  First we came to Auschwitz II-Birkenau, where over one million Jewish people met their brutal demise.  The most traumatic exhibition there was the menacing gate that greets you upon your arrival.  Train tracks pass through the entrance, and once inside, a chill runs through your spine.  “This is Auschwitz”, I was thinking.  “This is Auschwitz.”

We toured the latrines, a line of holes on a long cement bench, none separated from one another.  Some of the most private actions one does during the day were made public as men, women, and children were embarrassed and completely dehumanized.  We then walked through the sleeping quarters and the gas chamber.  But after walking out, we continued to inch closer to the light at the end of the tunnel.  Many of us were sporting Israeli flags as capes, and we were joined by several other tour groups who raised King David’s star high above the ground.

Next, we approached Auschwitz I, which today functions as a museum.  The myriad barracks, which are quite disorienting as they are similar in appearance to school halls one would find on an East coast college campus, house authentic pictures and documents that ran through the S.S. administrative body.  We came across rooms filled from floor to ceiling with the shoes that the inmates wore, with suitcases, with leg braces, and with pots and pans brought there in a naïve attempt to uphold the laws of Kashrut.  But the most shocking display there, and one of the most relentless displays of affliction that I have yet to see, was a room, twenty five yards long or so, where behind a window human hair encompassed almost every square inch of open space.  The mountain of hair was completely demoralizing.

But after we spied the direct evidence of these indescribable horrors, the light began to grow thicker once more, because just after exiting our final barrack, we stood together, united, and sang Hatikvah and Am Yisrael Chai with all of the ruach we could muster.  After enjoying a moment of bliss there, a security guard came over to us to report our guide, Hazy.   He scolded us, yelling, “You cannot sing here.  This is not McDonald’s”.  The comparison made very little sense, and we began to crack up.  Well Hazy and the rest of us argued her way out of any consequences she would have to suffer, and she got off with a warning.  My friend Brandon remarked that they had just kicked the Jews OUT of Auschwitz, and we began to laugh hysterically once more.

We ventured back to our hotel, and on the way, we witnessed a rainbow shining brightly outside the window.  I thought it to be the greatest of coincidences, if there are such things.  On our way back from Terezin, the death camp we visited on my trip to the Czech Republic, a rainbow also smiled at us from a near distance.  When we arrived back at our hotel, we held a wrap-up ceremony, each of us sharing our feeling and personal struggles from the last few days.  The light was brightening more and more.

The flight back to Israel broke the threshold between night and day, darkness and light.  There was a group of young Israelis, perhaps a year or two younger than us, who cheerfully led Israeli anthems for about twenty minutes, the entire duration that we were landing.  We happily joined in.  There is no other ethnicity, community, or nation that I know of that sings so blithely for such a long time while returning to their beloved motherland.  Then we landed back in Israel.  We had overcome the darkest of darknesses, and everything was illuminated once more.


Shavua Tov!


Zac