Musings from Israel - 21 JULY 2004 - 3 MENACHEM AV 5764
 
Dear Friends,
 
I am having a wonderfully stimulating time here in Israel.  My studies at the Hartman Institute (a Jewish educational resource center, think-tank and study center) have been very intense, and I look forward to sharing the insights I have gained for years to come—in future e-mails, sermons and Torah discussions.  I also believe, though, that we can learn a lot from the small encounters in life—which seem to happen so naturally here in Israel.  In the few minutes I have before my next class, let me just share with you a few vignettes:  I think you’ll understand what I mean. 
 
Each day, I’ve been alternating between catching the early morning minyan at the Sephardic shul across the street (they start at 5:45 am) and jogging through the streets of Jerusalem.  Today was my day to jog, so off I went down Derekh Beit Lechem—the “Road to Bethlehem”—which, unfortunately, doesn’t go there anymore.  About half way to Bethlehem is the “seam line”—the quasi-border between Israel and the territories—which I haven’t crossed so far on this trip, and which I have no expectation of crossing.  This is sad to acknowledge, for it is a reminder of how much has changed during the past four years.  
 
During my jog I had a few of those “only in Israel” experiences.  I passed a young man waiting for a bus who caught my eye and asked, “Do you have a cigarette?”  (At 6:00 in the morning?, I wondered.  I simply shrugged, “No, sorry,” and continued my run.)  A few yards down, a shopkeeper was opening his store.  As he lifted up the metal grate protecting his shop window, I saw that he was wearing a pistol.  Guns are more prevalent here than I’d remembered. The other day, I saw a romantic couple walking with their arms around each other in the center of town.  Unfortunately, It was difficult for them to get too close to each other, because the woman’s gun kept bumping into her boyfriend’s hip.  
 
Whenever I go through a security check, I’m reminded of “the situation.” Most days, when I enter the Hartman Institute, the security guard asks me, “Hamush? (Are you armed?)” or “Yesh l’cha neshek? (Do you have a gun on you?)”  It’s odd to be studying in a safe and secure micro-environment in a city in which sidearms are not out of the ordinary. 
 
For some reason, this seems to be the week for “Grandma” experiences.  I was riding in a cab the other day with a cabbie who has one of the coarsest tongues I’ve encountered here in Israel.  At one point, we were caught in a traffic jam (it’s called a “p’kak” in Hebrew—the same word used to refer to a cork on a bottle of wine.) The driver punched a number on his cell phone.  A woman answered, “Hallo!”  At that point, the following conversation ensued:  “Savta, mah nishma?”  (How are you, Grandma?) “Tov!”  (Good!) “Mah shlom Ruti?”  (How’s Ruthie doing?) “Hi b’seder.”  (She’s fine.)  “Tov, ehyeh b’kesher!”  (Good; I’ll be in touch.)  “Tov, shalom!”  “Shalom!”  Have you ever heard of such a thing:  a cabbie calling his grandmother in the middle of the day just to say “Hi” and to see how she’s doing?  It was a wonderfully Israeli moment, and it certainly redeemed this cabbie in my eyes—however earthy his language. From that point on, we talked non-stop about grandmothers.  It made the rest of the trip pass very quickly.
 
The next day, I was in a cab which pulled up to a light alongside a pair of women—one middle-aged and the other a young teen—at a bus stop.  The older one seemed to be admonishing the younger one.  The cabbie rolled down his window and said, “Betach she-at ha-savta shelah, nachon? Aten nirot domot!” (You’re her Grandma, aren’t you? You look alike!)  To which the grandmother responded, “I certainly am, and don’t you agree with me that ...” at which point she began to review all of the concerns she’d been sharing with her granddaughter.  “Mah atah hoshev?” she asked the cabbie.  “Ani maskim itach!” (I agree with you!), he responded.  And then she turned to me:  “Umah ATAH hoshev?” (And what do YOU think?), she asked. I felt momentarily tongue-tied. “Mah ani agid lach?” (What can I say?) I responded, to which she nodded approvingly and with great satisfaction.  “One of these days,” I added in Hebrew, “perhaps she’ll sound just like you!”  “Inshallah! Inshallah!” (May it be God’s will!!!) she responded. 
 
Late last night on TV a talk show host was interviewing a group of grandmothers who’d been refused permission to see their grandchildren.  In all cases, it was the divorced spouse of the grandparent’s son or daughter who was refusing permission.  These grandmothers had appeared on the program to plead for a change in the law that would grant them visitation rights.  The judges, attorneys, social workers and politicians who were on the program unanimously declared that legislation would be a bad idea—but there was an enormous amount of sympathy expressed for these grandmothers.  Somehow, one senses that being a savta in Israel means an awful lot.
 
On the news this morning were three sad stories.  First, two soldiers were killed on the Northern Front—in an operation that, army spokesmen had declared, should have turned out differently.  One imagines that an investigative commission will soon be appointed.  Another story concerned an ongoing corruption scandal revolving around a former minister of the cabinet who resigned several weeks ago.  Finally, there was more speculation regarding the murder, just the other day, of the first Israeli judge in the history of the State to be killed while in office. 
 
Nonetheless, through it all, there were notes of solidarity and hope. Even newscasters, after all, serve in the army.  The challenges of life in this vibrant, effervescent land aren’t theoretical for them. When they interviewed, for example, the father of one of the soldiers who’d been killed yesterday, it felt very real, and very down to earth.  They wore their feelings on their sleeves—with characteristic Israeli restraint, but with empathy.  We should be proud that Israel has retained that sense of common sacrifice in the face of the many forces which challenge it. 
 
All in all, this trip has given me hope.  That hope was reinforced this morning when I slipped out of one of my classes to zip over to the Israeli Supreme Court.  What a magnificent structure! What a marvelous example of the creative use of architecture!  As an institution, the Supreme Court is a symbol of the nation’s commitment to law, justice and truth—and the building reflects that commitment.  After my tour, I sat in on two hearings.  I had the privilege of seeing Justice Barack, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, in action.  As I left the building, I marvelled at how uplifting is the building—and what goes on within it.  We can and should be proud that our people, who taught the world the value of law, justice and truth, have created such a marvelous institution to promote them.
 
I’d love to write more, but class is about to begin.  I hope to write more once I’m back in the States.  In the meantime, be well and l’hitraot!
 
Shalom u’vrachah,
Rabbi Carl M. Perkins