An alte-kaker Seder

"How is this night different from all other nights?" It's the first of the famous Four Questions, the centerpiece of the Passover Seder traditionally recited by the youngest child present. Having received a permanent get-out-of-jail-free card when my oldest nephew, Shai, had matured enough to replace me in performing the task, I couldn't help but feel a little anxious about this year's invitation to a Seder with friends of my parents in Jerusalem, far away from my extended family, especially the youngest generation. "Just the alte-kakers this year," my mom repeatedly warned me. Please, please, I thought, don't make me perform. Imagine my delight when, upon entering Micky and Nili's Mevaseret home, we were greeted by their somewhat gangly sixteen-year-old son and thirteen-going-on-thirty daughter whose shimmery lipgloss framed a smile full of metal. Phew! Braces! A clear sign I'm off the hook!

After touring Micky and Nili's recent kitchen renovation, which included an incredible meat smoker and a taboon (a clay oven, used for baking Arab-style bread and other delicious things), I knew we were in for a treat... although I must admit I felt a pang of disappointment when it dawned on me that no fluffy pitas would be emerging from the taboon tonight!

Our friend Jonathan was the master of ceremonies and did an incredible job. I always thought what made the Seder enjoyable was all the munchkins singing songs and tearing the house apart in search of the coveted Afikoman. But the alte-kaker version turned out to be a lovely change. We discussed some of the theological and philosophical questions behind the story that we are compelled to recite year after year. For example, if Moses was the hero of the exodus tale, why does he escape mention in the Haggadah? One explanation, we learned from our guide, is that the book was compiled during the Mishnaic or Talmudic period (3rd-6th century CE), when Christianity was gaining in prominence and popularity, and the rabbinic authors feared that a great hero like Moses might be transformed into a Christ figure. Good luck getting a point like that across at a Seder packed with children spilling grape juice and dipping sticky fingers in the charoset!

Both Livny brothers, Jonathan and Micky, divorced and remarried a number of years ago, effectively trading in the original Polish wife for the younger Sephardic model. For the rest of us yekkes (German Jews), it was nice to hear explanations of Moroccan and Iraqi Passover traditions. More importantly, though, it also meant we got to supplement the standard gefilte fish with turmeric and paprika-spiced fish, and the bland Manishevitz-soaked charoset was replaced with a Yemmenite concoction redolent of ginger, cloves and cardamon.

Having cruised past midnight, the minimum hour marking the end of the Seder, we sang a verse or two of Chad Gadya, nibbled on chocolate and listened to Jonathan and Micky recount a few inappropriate tales about extramarital affairs ... in the presence of the protagonist, I might add. Good thing the protagonist happens to be their own mother, who, at 94, is sharp as a whip but can barely hear a word. Yet another reason to appreciate the alte-kaker Seder.

At one point, the attention turned to me. How am I liking living in Israel? What keeps me busy? What do I want to do next? And then, of course, How old are you? "Twenty-eight," I replied, now feeling content to be one of the few young people at the table, one of the few who can't claim multiple marriages, divorces or affairs. For some people, it turns out, twenty-eight is no spring chicken. Just imagine my surprise when the bubbly thirteen year old piped up: "Wow, but you look good!"

Tango lessons, life lessons

It's probably the most overused cliche, but I never thought about it carefully until it entered my life in a literal way: It takes two to tango.

People jest that it's classic misogyny. "El tango es macho." Just take a look at the proud, purposeful gait of the milonguero. He not only leads his partner, he controls her completely. She shifts her weight when he does, swivels when he lets her, steps when he gives her the chance. But in fact there's much more give-and-take. The tango could be a metaphor for any relationship. So often disagreements arise when we refuse to listen to one another, whether out of pride, stubbornness or simply the instinct of self-defense. I came to the tango stiff, exuding that false-pride that stems from insecurity, but soon discovered that the moment I stiffen, straighten up and pull away is the moment I have stopped "listening" to the person across from me. As one teacher put it, "It's as though you've plugged your ears."

So...

Let go, let go, let go. In Hebrew it all makes sense. Release = שחרור = liberation

I try. I lean forward slightly, finding that subtle angle of inclination that draws the ball of my foot into the floor and my upper body toward my partner. I am grounded, independent, but also aspiring toward the other person. I am embraced yet unrestrained. Now I can hear what he is telling me. And if I do all this and he still doesn't get the response he was looking for? Well, chances are he hasn't been clear enough in his message. He was too meek, or too aggressive. Or maybe he refused to give me the time and space I need to express myself? When he guides me confidently yet gently it all becomes clear ... and I will try to respond with equal clarity and grace. As on the dance floor, so in life: we can always work on communication.

Yoga teachers tell you to turn your gaze inward. "Don't look around you," they say. "It's not about anyone else! Focus on your own breath. Listen to your body." I used to relate to all of that ... but now, less so. Maybe it's because I spend so much of my time holed up researching and writing, maybe it's because there are days that I don't hear much more than the sound of my own breath. Whatever the reason, I'm starting to think that meditation doesn't need to be so inward, and that finding peace is not necessarily about retreating from the outside world into yourself. After all, don't we have to live in the world?

There's another reason that all of this speaks to me. One of my biggest fears about moving to Israel was that my personality would get lost in translation. Sure, most people speak English, so I've always got a fallback when I feel tongue-tied. Stubborn wench that I am, though, I never wanted to rely on the linguistic crutch. On the other hand, I was worried. I thought, How will I win over new friends? How will they discover my humor?! My knowledge?! How will I IMPRESS them?!?! In Hebrew, I'm a little quieter than I am in English. I have to focus a bit more to keep up. But I'm starting to realize that quiet carries a great advantage. When I feel strained or uncertain, I just lean in. I listen. Funnily enough, I get the feeling it actually makes me more easily heard.

Purim, 80s style

The last time I celebrated Purim in Israel I must have been four-years-old. I showed up to my nursery school in Jerusalem, "Gan Rachel" it was called, in all my regal majesty as a glittered-up Queen Esther. To tell you the truth, the costume wasn't much of a departure from my usual attire...let's just say I was a child with a penchant for accessories (my mother once quipped that I was the only toddler who insisted on going to to daycare dressed like a hooker!).

This Purim was a blast from the past for more than one reason. Not only did I indulge in the costume tradition but I also hit up a 1980s theme party. Being a true child of the 80s, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of nostalgia when I heard those first few familiar beats of the theme song from Flashdance. I recall performing a poignant interpretation of the song, choreographed by Reisa Schwartzman, at the Vancouver Jewish Community Center Spring Dance Show in 1987. If only I had kept the costume!

Anat and I tried to stay focused during our costume hunt, but, as usual, ended up getting distracted by baked goods (chocolate hamentashen...to die for!). As a result, we wound up with the following: a poorly hand-sewn tutu (ultimately worn by my friend Maya), a sheath of poorly cut black lace precariously held up by a patent-leather belt, neon fishnet gloves, a plethora of plastic dollar-store jewelry, and, of course, the requisite side ponytail (this, too, was nostalgic; the one hairdo my mother knew how to achieve—which in turn ruined many a class-photo—was a little something known as "the pompom"). We started to get a little desperate when we realized that we had loads of accessories but not actual clothes, which is why I ultimately caved and dropped 50 shekels on a hot pink leotard with a picture of a lion on it. The fact that several people had purchased this leotard for Purim had the saleswoman dumbfounded: "I don't get it. It's so beautiful! You'll wear it later, right?" I nodded, not wanting to offend her or challenge her sense of style. I think we wound up looking fairly 80s in the end, but I can't say our costumes deserved to win any contests. Anat blames being pregnant. What's my excuse?

The true winner, in my book, was Yochai's incarnation of Krishna. Blue face paint, kathakali dance moves and all. It's well-known that Israelis have a special bond with India (the Hebrew mural I found in Varanasi is obvious proof), but Yochai really brought it home. After the 80s party, we piled into a taxi with the Hindu god (puh-lease, deities don't ride the bus!) and rolled down to Jaffa, which on Purim becomes a kind of miniaturized version of the Castro on Halloween. Maya and Jesse, my guests and former residents of San Francisco, must have felt right at home. The pubs overflowed into the streets, music was blaring, and firemen, flappers, matadors and men in unconvincing drag danced into the wee hours. That's right people, Purim's not just for kids.

Who will remain?

This is the title of perhaps the most famous poem by the Yiddish poet Abraham Sutzkever, who died last week in Tel Aviv at the age of 96.

Who will remain, what will remain? A wind will stay,

the blindness of the blind man who has gone away,

a string of foam, the sign of the sea,

a little cloud entangled in a tree.

Who will remain, what will remain?

A primeval seed will sprout again

A fiddle-rose honoring herself will live.

Seven blades of grass will know what's hers to give.

Of all the stars due north of here,

the one that landed in a tear will stay.

There will always be a drop of wine left over in its jug.

Who will stay? God will stay. Isn't that enough?

(You can hear Sutzkever recite the poem in the original Yiddish here.)

I am compelled to dedicate an entry to Sutzkever for two reasons. First, he was one of the main reasons that I fell in love with Yiddish. And second, he was not only one of the greatest Yiddish poets but also one of the greatest Israeli poets, even if he remains largely unknown in this country due to his commitment to a language long repressed and derided as a vestige if the "exilic" Jewish past.

Sutzkever was an extraordinary poet who lived an extraordinary life. Born in Smorgon, near Vilna, in 1913, he spent his early childhood years during WWI in exile in Siberia. During WWII, he survived the Vilna Ghetto. In 1941, he was appointed by the Nazis to a diabolical mission. He and several other writers and intellectuals, including the Hebrew poet Abba Kovner, were forced to congregate at YIVO (The Institute for Jewish Research) to assemble Jewish books and documents that would be displayed in a perverse exhibition called Wissenschaft des Judentums ohne Juden ("The Science of Judaism without Jews"). The exhibit would be erected in Frankfurt once Hitler's "Final Solution" was complete and the world was, indeed, "without Jews." Documents deemed unfit for display were to be sent to a paper mill, where they would be destroyed. Risking his own life, Sutzkever smuggled hundreds of books, drawings (including some by his close friend Marc Chagall) and unpublished documents into the ghetto, where he buried them. In 1943, he and his wife Freydke snuck out of the ghetto into the surrounding forests, where they joined the Soviet partisans in resisting the Nazis. Throughout all of these experiences, Sutzkever never stopped writing poems.

After the war, he returned with Kovner to Vilna to dig up the treasures they had buried as members of the so-called "paper brigade." These treasures were eventually sent to YIVO in New York and Jerusalem. He recalled those days as follows:

“I felt that I must be the witness of all those events, that I was destined to be the witness. I entered a spectacle someone staged, I thought I played a role in it. Who staged the spectacle, I don’t know. Who needed it? What for? In those years of destruction, I always felt I was a witness to an immense earthly and cosmic play. I felt a divine sense of messianic mission, those were the most elevated moments of my life.”

Following a few years in Moscow and Paris, Sutzkever arrived in Palestine in 1947. Almost immediately, he established the Yiddish journal di goldene keyt (The Golden Chain) with funds from the Histadrut (Israeli Trade Union), which he edited for nearly 40 years (1948-1984), producing a total of 130 volumes. This was an extraordinary feat, considering Yiddish was barely tolerated in Israel. In fact, it was the second of two nearly impossible tasks that Sutzkever fulfilled: the first was rescuing Yiddish literature from the Vilna ghetto, and the second was sustaining Yiddish culture in Israel, where is was believed to have no future. Although he received the Israel Prize in the 1980s, and although he was a committed Zionist, Sutzkever has always remained obscure in Israel (and worldwide) simply because he wrote in Yiddish.

Sutzkever's poetry has an almost mystical quality, expressing the beauty inherent in creation and respect for the power of the Jewish word to discipline chaos. And yet, it is clearly the work of a "Litvak" (Lithuanian Jew), as evidenced by its frequent wordplay and quick-witted questions. The scholar Ruth Wisse suggests that Sutzkever's almost pantheistic approach to nature remained a constant thematic thread in his poetry, though he and his work traveled between locations as disparate as Siberia and Sinai:

“In the vastness of the Negev and the Sinai he found something akin to the stretches of Siberia, space where a solitary observer could once again take his bearings in the scheme of things. The landscape might no longer elicit the joys of virgin discovery, but the lasting imprints of the past that one found everywhere in the desert gave solace to a survivor of lost civilizations" (Ruth Wisse, “The Last Great Yiddish Poet?” in Commentary, 76, November 1983: 41-48).

Unfortunately, I don't have many of Sutzkever's poems at my fingertips (since my library is currently packed into boxes in Chicago), but I did a quick search in my computer and found a rough translation of my own. I don't think it does justice to the original, but perhaps it can offer you a bit of a taste. Plus, it seems fitting, because the poet speaks beyond the grave...

From Lider fun togbukh (“Poems from a Diary,” 1976)

Trees are made into wonderful paper. And I – the reverse:

I transform paper into trees, into the tree of life.

I root myself in it, till the song of

Birds ascends.

The birds bloom and bud the first

Blessed sounds. Unmatched, unique is my mission:

I transform the transformations into their source,

Transform myself into the protoplasm of my dream.

Transform the clumps of clay into their human face,

Transform precious stones into a living goldsmith.

And solitary mysteries, miles away from words,

I transform into a ray that reaches the bed of tears.

I dip my seal-ring in the sun and stand it in the dark

To watch over the transformations. My future heir,

The cosmic poet, will seek it and will find,

And my bones will smile.

One Zimmer, Two Zimmerim?

The plural form in German is very tricky. You never know whether to stick an "n," "e," or "r" at the end of the word, let alone when to include that wily umlaut (i.e. one "Haus" and several "Häuser"). And then there's a word like "Zimmer" (room), which remains exactly the same whether singular or plural. That is, until Hebrew gets ahold of it! The Israelis use their own plural form to refer to the latest tourist magnet: Israelis don't do B&Bs, they do "Zimmerim." The latest trends in the Zimmer industry include plasma TVs, private jacuzzis, strewn rose petals, and scented candles, so I hope I don't disappoint too much when I tell you that my first experience at one of these fashionable abodes was sans mediterranean lover. As they say in Hebrew -- lehavdil! I was there with my parents for their 40th wedding anniversary. (What a sexy personal life I do lead!) In fact, I was not just a third wheel but a fifth wheel, since their friends Jonathan and Helen came along. But I'd tag along again in a heartbeat!

The drive to the Upper Galilee was a circuitous one. Following Jonathan's cue, we made an important stop in the village of Rama to purchase local olive oil from Edouard and Sohela. Now, there are those who buy theirs pre-bottled at the supermarket, and there are others, like Jonathan, who will drive many miles to collect local Galilean olive oil in sterilized gas canisters that they have schlepped all the way from home. I think it's important to have such meshugene friends. After all, the supermarket variety not only pales in terms of freshness and flavor, it also lacks the ceremonious touch of Turkish coffee and cake by Edouard and Sohela's still-standing Christmas tree. On our way out, Edouard even picked a few bay leaves right off the tree for us to take home to dry. How's that for a personal touch?

With gallons of olive oil slooshing around in the trunk, we continued north, past Rosh Pinah, to

Sde Eliezer and the Zimmer of Gabriela and Ofer. Everything at this place makes the word "organic" sound foolish. At breakfast, orange juice was squeezed, avocados sliced, and pears jarred from fruit plucked straight from the backyard. Even our wiry hosts looked "organic" -- they seemed to subsist entirely on sunflower sprouts and birdseed. Aside from a rooster suffering from jetlag (I base the assumption on a 3:30am cockle-doodle-doo), this was the quietest environment imaginable.

But the rooster wasn't the only bird making noise in the Galilee. At the Hula Bird Sanctuary we watched--and well before that heard--the descent of thousands upon thousands of cranes (new Hebrew vocab: agurim). Our initial explanation for their incessant yapping—obviously these are Jewish cranes—was soon dispelled when the local guide explained that they are monogamous, and they find one another by calling (or is it nagging?). You can forget personalized ringtones!

Evidently, the German presence in the Galilee isn't limited to the word "Zimmer." A big orange sign informs me that the crane research project is supported by Lufthansa. I guess the German airline takes its logo seriously. It's no wonder, then, that, upon entering the viewing deck, I stumble upon another German sign, which includes a typically mammoth word: "VOGELBEOBACHTUNGSTAND." That's right, it's a three-in-one deal: bird (Vogel) + observation (Beobachtung) + point (Stand). Wacky krauts.

The following day we drive even further north, to the Golan Heights. As we cruise past abandoned tanks and minefields littered with warning signs, remains from the Yom Kippur War, the radio spontaneously starts blasting Arabic and before we know it we are looking directly at the Syrian border. You cannot imagine how tiny and surrounded this country is until you find yourself at its northern tip, where you can see both Syria and Lebanon in a single view.

Finding ourselves in the heart of Israel's bourgeoning wine industry, we pass vineyard after vineyard as we enter Emek ha-bakha (The Valley of Tears), where the bloodiest tank battle of the Yom Kippur War was fought. High up, at around 4,000 feet, an abandoned Israeli bunker offers a breakthaking view of some of the most beautiful and the most disputed territory. Since the borders between Israel and Syria remain subject for negotiation, the countries are separated by a demilitarized zone patrolled by the U.N. Disengagement Observer Force (UNDOF). This is serious business, but there's always room for levity. A local cafe is named not only for its proximity to the clouds (the Hebrew word is anan), but also offers a little shout-out to the former Secretary General with a funky name. You guessed it: Coffee Anan!

Organic veggies and natural beauty...well, sort of natural

I met my friend Anat at the namal (port) yesterday to hit up the weekly organic market. Stunning day. I'm wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt -- and sweating! We squeeze our way through throngs of people snatching up fruits and veggies for their weekend feasts, sampling, sniffing and dividing up delicious oranges, tomatoes and strawberries between us. Our sacks fully loaded, we drop off our groceries before breaking for pizza. We're in a rush to get the bill because Anat has an important appointment with one of the "artists" at il.makiage, an Israeli cosmetics company. A friend of hers had hooked her up with the appointment, she tells me, and anyway, perhaps thirty isn't too young to start wearing some makeup? From farm-fresh to primped-and-powdered -- talk about contrasting experiences! "I want to look natural," Anat tells the "artist," whose deer-caught-in-headlights expression behind a thick mask of pancake makeup does not inspire confidence. As heavy brushfulls of mineral makeup are dabbed onto her cheeks, I sense Anat squirming. "Nakhon yafe?!" our "artist" keeps asking -- "isn't it nice?!" I smile sheepishly. Anat blinks, "Uh, a little heavy, don't you think?" The "artist" looks more incredulous than insulted. Somehow the whole "customer is always right" philosophy doesn't apply here. Instead, she sees this as a teaching moment. "Not at all," she replies. "There's no makeup lighter than this! And you don't have to worry about quantities, because your skin will absorb it." Now even I'm squirming. After tabulating everything on Anat's face, the total cost comes out to 1000 shekels, or a little over $250 US. What the...?!?!?! Anat gently draws one eyeshadow and a mascara from the vast pile of creams, powders, glosses and brushes and hands the slightly defeated "artist" her credit card. We're headed back to my place when Anat's husband calls and says he'll swing by on his rollerblades to pick her up. As we come out of my apartment building, we find him sitting on the sun-warmed sidewalk, unstrapping his wheels. He looks up at her and squints. "I like you better without all of that," he says softly.

I returned to real natural beauty in the evening. My new friends Natalie and Noam had invited me to Shabbat dinner on their Moshav, just a little ways north of Tel Aviv. Everything was taken care of. Their friends Amit and Virginia would pick me up on the way. As we drive down one of the main thoroughfares of Tel Aviv, I notice Virginia ducking in her seat. She's worried someone from her synagogue will see her in a car on Shabbat. She's working toward converting and taking the process seriously. "I'm nervous about choosing a Hebrew name," she says in her endearing Alabama accent. She wonders if they'll just translate her English name directly. "I wouldn't go with Betulah," I tell her, introducing the Hebrew word for virgin. We pick up another friend and arrive at the moshav. Stars abound. It's dark, but I can still make out flecks of bright orange from the kumquat tree in their backyard. Natalie serves delicious vegetable soup in beautiful ceramic bowls, which, I quickly learn, she made herself, and Noam grills a ridiculous amount of steak. A true embarrassment of riches, but the atmosphere is so chill and relaxed. The conversation is a mishmash of English and Hebrew. Virginia, who is a dentist, tells us about the time she accidentally told a patient he had a "khor ba-takhat," that is, er a "cavity in his ass," having confused "mitakhat" (underneath) with "batakhat" (yep, in the ass). Darned foreign prepositions! Her boyfriend consoles her. "But you weren't wrong!" he exclaims, "everyone has a khor ba-takhat, right?!" As the laughter subsides and we take our last sips of tea with nana, Noam and Amit clear the table and start stacking up poker chips! Well how's that for a shabbes tradition?! I turn to Virginia: "Maybe don't mention this to your rabbi."

Israel's Breadbasket

Wheat, cotton, sunflowers and corn cover the plain known as Emek Yizre'el, the Jezreel Valley, but it's unusual to see it looking quite as green as it did this past Saturday. All five seats of the car were filled. With my parents and their friends on a scenic drive from Haifa to the Lower Galilee I marveled at the view of "Israel's Tuscany." We were headed to an exhibit that recently opened at the Art Museum of Kibbutz Ein Harod. On display were hundreds of paintings by Israeli artists from the private collection of Ami and Gabi Brown. But the building was the main attraction. A stunning example of the International Style by Samuel Bickels, a member of the kibbutz, it was erected in 1948, making it as old as the country. Apart from a few slender lamps on the ceiling, all of the gallery spaces were illuminated with natural light, the subtle curvature of the stark white ceiling facilitating its entry. The modest cafe was located in the most charming courtyard. A dream. And the paintings! Uri Reizman, Yosef Zaritsky, Yehiel Krize, Batia Apolo, and (my neighbor) Yigal Tumarkin were among those represented. I think Zaritsky is my favorite. There was one watercolor in particular, entitled "Jerusalem Habashim Gate" — something about the restrained, almost cube-like brushstrokes, which are usually so much freer-flowing, had me mesmerized.

We had lunch on the balcony of "Havat Ha-tavlin" (The Spice Farm), which has the most incredible view of the valley. Where else could I enjoy dining al fresco in January?!