“Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to remind you that this is a full flight. Please refrain from making last-minute requests change your seats as we can not accommodate them.”
The announcement of the Continental gate agent is given in a world-weary tone. For most passengers, the first sentence would naturally imply the second. But the group gathered for the Christmas eve flight to Tel Aviv is not an ordinary group of passengers. It is almost entirely composed of Members of the Tribe, Israeli and American branches. Prior to giving the message, a steady stream of passengers had followed the age-old Jewish adage that it “never hurts to ask.” The gate agents do an admirable job corralling the crowd in a semblance of a line when it comes time to board the plane, through repeated verbal herding. I may technically still be in America, but I am clearly on the way back to the Jewish state.
The flight over is more eventfully than I had hoped. I am seated in between two ba’al teshuva defense attorneys in their 40s. The attorney on my right has gone the Full Monsey. He is full of good cheer, peppering his speech with “Barukh Hashem” and armed with plenty of food for the flight. His friend on the left is for the moment, going with the clean-shaven black leather kipah look. Our generally cordial conversation runs aground at one point with his claim that we are in the midst of a World War 3 with the entire Islamic world, and that there was no substantive difference between the Iranian Regime and the Green movement opposing. A sensible person would have retreated to his on-screen game of Othello rather than attempting to conduct an impromptu class in Islamic Law 101.
I’m jostled awake in the still dark morning as the plane begins an emergency descent into Rome. Even in my groggy state, my rusty Hebrew is enough to pick up the standard “kol beseder” promise that Israelis give when they have no idea what the problem is. The business-like English announcement in contrast does not promise that “everything is OK. The stop in Rome is chaotic. It is Christmas morning in the Holy See, and the Continental ground crew had the day off and needs to be roused. The large observant contingency is palpably aware that the margin of error for arriving in Israel before a Friday sundown is dwindling. And yet, the more chaotic the scene, the more the passengers pull together. A young modern orthodox woman possessing one of the few functioning blackberries, lets me send a message ahead to my wife, who has long sicne arrived in Tel Aviv. Two haredim break out an impromptu fiddle and guitar performance. After five hours, Continental fixes the electrical system sufficiently to continue on to Israel. The flight staff offers any shomer Shabbat passengers an opportunity to stay in Rome, but warns them they are “on their own.” Armed with a ruling from Israel, even the frummest passengers opt to take their chances on the flight. On arrival in Ben Gurion, my aisle mates, along with the other strict Shabbat observers bound off the plane, leaving luggage and customs for another day as they pack into taxis for the nearby haven of B’nei Brak.
It has been 9 years since I’ve last visited Israel, more than 13 since I lived there for a year. In the interim, much has happened – the collapse of Oslo, the horrors of the Second Intifada, the building of the fence/barrier/wall/border, the withdrawal from Gaza, the Lebanon War, the Gaza War, and somehow throughout all of this, the rise of Israel as Start-up Nation. I am traveling to see what remains familiar, what has changed. It is not really a vacation – rather a visit to extended family. The metaphor is more apt this time, as I am traveling with my wife to find her long-lost extended family.
After clearing customs, I am greeted by the welcome site of my wife, who had been conducting dissertation research in Cairo for the past month. We immediately head out to Zikhron Ya’akov, 23 miles south of Haifa, to meet her presumed long-lost cousins, who live in. On the basis of no more than the same, extremely rare last name, we are warmly welcomed into the lovely home of Yoni, his wife Sara and their 19-year old son, Ofer. Both my wife and Yoni had believed that all but their immediate family had perished in the Shoah. Yet through the miraculous power of a typo and the internet, here we are, sharing Shabbat dinner with them. The next day, the rest of the family streams in to meet us. One asked if they know for sure if they are related. No, Yoni replies, “but we’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.”
Yoni and Ofer both give us tours of the town. Zikhron Ya’akov was one of the first Zionist settlements in Israel, established in 1882 and settled with funds from Baron Rothschild. Today it is best known as the home of the Carmel winery. There are spectacular views of the mountains and the sea. Completing the Bay Area vibe are the fruit trees that line the block. In contrast, the call to prayer from the neighboring Arab village of Faradis brings you back to the Levant. The center of town has been converted to a pedestrian mall, with many of the original structures preserved. Everything about Zikhron Ya’akov stands in contrast to the Israel I most familiar with - the extremes of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. It is neither timeless nor evanescent, neither purely religious nor secular, neither wholly separate nor wholly integrated with the outside world. It offers a tantalizing glimpse of a rooted, balanced Israel, the Israel that is rarely seen by the tourist or even resident student. It is tempting to say that here is the “real” Israel. But on further reflection, while the beauty of Zikhron may be representative of Israel, its sanity certainly is not.
1 comment:
my son can WRITE!!!!!!!!!
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