By Rabbi Carl M. Perkins:

Israel—An “Ahuzat Olam”
Parashat Haye Sarah
November 22, 2003 

At the very beginning of this week’s parashah, Hayei Sarah, Abraham’s wife, Sarah, dies. After mourning her loss, the very first thing Abraham must do is to purchase a burial site for her. A burial plot requires a particularly long-range kind of ownership—a family wouldn’t want, for example, to have to vacate a relative’s gravesite years after he or she is buried there. And so, Abraham seeks to own a piece of land in what British or American law would call “fee simple.” The Hebrew term is “ahuzat olam”—an “eternal holding.” And indeed, Abraham goes ahead and acquires the Cave of Machpelah in the city of Hebron as an eternal holding for himself and his descendants. Eventually, he himself is buried there, as are Isaac and Rebecca and, later, Jacob and Leah. Our tradition recognizes this purchase as the very first acquisition of property in the Land of Canaan by Abraham or his descendants. It is, then, the precursor to the Zionist enterprise of acquiring land in the Land of Canaan—later to be called the Land of Israel—through legal and peaceful means.

As some of you know, I’ve just come back from Israel. I participated in the CJP mission to Israel and attended the General Assembly of the United Jewish Communities. I want to share with you some reflections on my trip. Of necessity, this will be somewhat impressionistic. If I told you every interesting thing that happened, every moving moment, every epiphany, we’d be here all day. But I feel compelled to bring at least some aspects of that trip alive, for one simple reason: You’ve got to go. You must commit yourself to go—and soon. Israel is central to our Jewish identities today. Israel isn’t just interesting or important; it’s at the center—or should be. This marks a change for me. I’ve always understood Israel to be a center of Jewish life, of course. But I’ve also looked upon other centers of Jewish life in the diaspora as equally important. You might call it the ellipse theory of Jewish identity, with Israel, on the one hand, and the key centers of Jewish life in the diaspora on the other, serving as the two foci of the ellipse which represents Jewish identity in the modern world.

Now, partially because of the increasingly critical political situation in Israel, partially because of the rise of anti-Semitism (which often expresses itself in anti-Israelism) and partially because of the sustained high levels of assimilation in America and in other great diaspora centers, I’ve come to view Israel as not just increasingly important, but increasingly central. You might say that the ellipse’s two foci are getting so close together, it’s hard to tell them apart.

In order, than, to understand ourselves, we have to make sense of the role Israel plays in our lives. We have to go there. We have to be there. The situation is, in fact, increasingly critical. Too many people, not just outside of Israel but inside it as well, are doubting that it’s going to be here in another fifty years. That would be, I believe, catastrophic. The Jewish people would survive it, I believe, but it would be enormously traumatic, akin to the destruction of the Temple and the loss of Jewish sovereignty during our defeat by the Romans in the year 70. And the questions will then arise: What was our role? Did we do all we could? If not, why not?

It’s not easy to sum up Israel.

Israel is a paradoxical country and it always has been. The paradoxes that were there at its birth are still there. It’s called “The Jewish State,” yet one fifth of its citizens are Arabs. It’s a democracy and yet it lacks a constitution and many of its citizens don’t appreciate democratic values—even though others are working hard to get the Knesset to adopt a constitution. It’s a nation of six million and yet sometimes it feels like a large family.

The welcome we got in Israel was explosive. There’s a reason for that. There were over 360 participants in the mission and over 4,000 at the General Assembly. People were honestly and openly happy to see us, grateful that we were visiting. Our tour guide told us he hadn’t worked in two years. Another told us that, although Jewish groups had, for the most part, stopped coming, Christian groups had continued to come and so he’d developed his expertise in the Christian holy sites.

I saw visual proof of his assertion. In the lobby of one hotel in which we stayed in Jerusalem, close to Binyanei HaUmma, the Israeli Convention Center, in the heart of West Jerusalem, there was a gift shop, and its window was full of crucifixes and other Christian religious paraphernalia and trinkets. Now, whenever I’ve been in Israel, I’ve of course seen Christian religious objects for sale, alongside Jewish ones. That’s only natural. But on this trip, the former seemed to dominate, and not just in places like the Old City of Jerusalem, or near Christian shrines. It seemed a concrete reflection of the sad reality that, although Christians have continued to travel to Israel during the past three years, Jews have hesitated to do so. During the first week of my trip, during the mission, and during the week of the General Assembly as well, the only other tourists we bumped into were Christian. Now, as I like to remind people, there are almost 250 million more Christians than Jews in this country, but still, tourism to Israel used to be as much a Jewish activity as a Christian one; and it just isn’t right now.

There are parts of “Greater Israel”—that is, the state of Israel plus the territories under its control, if not jurisdiction—that we traveled to, and there are parts we avoided. There were people we encountered—and others whom we chose not to.

The question of the fate of the administered territories (also known as the occupied territories or Judea and Samaria) hovers over everything. It’s like an unseen, yet surely felt, impending storm. On the one hand, there are those who point to the demographic reality—that within not too many years, there will be more Arabs than Jews between the Mediterranean Sea and the Jordan River. If a two-state solution is not vigorously pursued, one necessarily bi-national state will result, which will mean the end of Israel as we know it. Either it will cease to be a Jewish state, having lost its Jewish majority and its legitimate right to a dominant, culturally Jewish environment with Hebrew as its first official language, the Jewish calendar as its official calendar and Jews all over the world having the legitimate and exclusive right to return and gain citizenship; or, it will cease to be a democracy. Tom Friedman pointed this out as long ago as the early 1980’s, when he wrote that Israel understandably wanted to remain democratic, to remain Jewish and, for a variety of reasons, both historic and strategic, to retain control of the disputed territories. Israel can have any two out of these three, he wrote, but no more. That analysis, I believe, remains correct.

Other Israelis point to the fact that there is no dependable, reliable, believable Palestinian peace partner with whom to negotiate. This has left progress on the political front stalled. In its place, Israel is unilaterally taking matters into its own hands. It is building a fence to protect itself. The fence is, of course, controversial, because it interferes with the daily life of many thousands of Palestinians. From the Israeli point of view, that’s a reasonable price to pay for the diminution of the rate of suicide bombings. What isn’t always appreciated, though, by those who want the fence to be completed as soon as possible is that it may have unintended long-range consequences: it may very well influence what will become the border of a Palestinian Arab entity—be it a formal state or something less than that—and the state of Israel. It may indeed lead not only to separation and security but sovereignty for the Palestinians on the other side of the fence. This remains the issue confronting Israel in this decade. The longer it remains unresolved, the more unstable and volatile the situation will become.

Israel just isn’t what it used to be. Times have changed. Let me give you an example. The General Assembly was held in a convention center called Binyanei HaUmma. That building, for most of those who attended, was, I imagine, just a building. They either took a bus, or a cab or walked from their hotels, and returned from it at the end of the day. No one seemed to be aware of the significance of that hall.

One day, we took field trips, and I sat next to a woman from the Mid-West who had come to Israel many, many years ago to be in the first class of overseas students at the Hebrew University. On the boat over, she said, people were given invitations to attend the dedication of that building. That was a big deal then. It was not only the first convention center in Israel; it was the first national center built by the Jewish People in their own national, sovereign state, in two thousand years. Igor Stravinsky wrote a special piece of music to be performed on that occasion, and he came to Israel to conduct it! It was that big a deal!

That all seems a bit much as we reflect on it today, but it reflects two things: first, the remarkable, miraculous “new-ness” of the state, and therefore the significance in Israel of almost everything that elsewhere we might take for granted, and, second, the enormous amount of change that’s occurred. When my bus companion was at the Hebrew University, there was one phone for the entire campus. Students called home once each semester, and they had to reserve their calls a week in advance. Today, of course, every Israeli, it seems, has a cell phone. Once I was in a cab with two other passengers. At one point, I realized, all of us were on our cell phones. One was talking to Warsaw, another to New York, I don’t know to whom the driver was speaking, but I was talking to Haifa. It felt so mundane. Just the other day, an Israeli soldier was killed by a Palestinian who hid a rifle in a prayer rug. It was later determined that he had been talking with his mother on his cell phone when the shooting occurred.

When I was a student in Israel in the mid-70’s, I remember going to Binyamei Ha-Umma twice: once, to attend a series of boring speeches by Israeli politicians on the occasion of the Tenth Zionist Congress and to attend a concert by Nina Simone, the late, great singer. I walked to and from the hall and my campus. There were very few cars in Jerusalem—and even fewer cabs—in those days; buses were the preferred mode of transportation. Israel was very proud that an international performer had come there. She was still seeking recognition.

Although religion and religious practice still tend to divide Israelis more than uniting them, there are signs that the traditional understanding: that most Israelis are militantly secular and the rest are intolerantly Orthodox, is changing.

On my way to Jerusalem, between the mission and the General Assembly, I had a long chat with a cab driver, who was thrilled, of course, that Americans were back in town. Because of the situation, he hadn’t worked in months! But one consequence, on this particular day, was that he wasn’t able to carpool his kids, as he had been doing since the beginning of the school year, so he arranged, by cell phone during our ride, for one of his buddies to drive his kids home. (Sometimes, it seems, it’s an advantage to have a father who’s a cab driver.)

Anyway, his kids attended the local Tali school, which is a school that teaches courses in Jewish identity as well as in secular subjects. Why? Because, as he put it, he wanted his kids to have some connection with Jewish tradition, though he didn’t want them to end up “dati,” or “religious.” Sound familiar? On the other hand, when I asked him if he was a member of the local Conservative congregation, he said, “No.” He as much said that the shul he doesn’t go to has to be Orthodox. Obviously, Masorti (Conservative) and Mitkademet (“Progressive,” or Reform Judaism) have a long way to go in Israel.

We did go to shul in Israel. I was in Haifa for Shabbat and I attended Friday night and Shabbat morning services at Kehillat Moriah, the Conservative synagogue there. The new rabbi is a young, dynamic Argentinian, who will certainly expand and promote the status of the shul in the community. A bar mitzvah took place the morning we were there. This is now typical in Conservative and Reform congregations in Israel. Local secular families who would like their child to celebrate a Bar or Bat Mitzvah join the shul for a year, participating in a series of family education programs designed to help them understand and prepare for their simcha. And then they do what we do here: they celebrate a child becoming a Bar or Bat Mitzvah in the context of a congregational service.

Bar Mitzvahs in Israel are considerably less fancy, less ostentatious, than American ones. Our two b’nai mitzvah may be surprised to learn that the bar mitzvah boy last week came in jeans and sneakers. (Don’t get any ideas!) There were only half-dozen or so guests besides his immediate family. The boy read the maftir aliyah and then the haftorah. He didn’t lead any other part of the service.

I got to speak with the boy’s mom after services. That was a real highlight. She shared her reflections on her son’s coming of age. In Israel, coming of age as a Jew is experienced differently from here: the focus is on becoming an adult citizen of society—not on maintaining one’s Jewish identity as a minority in a majority Christian culture. A mother, in particular, she suggested to me, sees the boy before her as a future soldier in the army of Israel. Just a few days ago, the boy was playing soccer; in just a few years, he will be wearing a uniform and carrying a gun. Some—admittedly, not many—young American Jewish boys and girls becoming bar or bat mitzvah these days may one day bear arms to defend their country, but only those who immigrate to Israel will do so in fulfillment of their responsibility as Jews. It’s different!

During our visit to Haifa, I was privileged to visit our Israeli adopted families. A week ago Friday, Amos Eisenberg, the co-chair of our Kesher Committee and the “commander” of a tank-sized Israeli SUV, took me, Neil Sacks, Jeff Liberman, Geoff Kurinsky and Herb Glanz, Beth Moskowitz’s dad, on a whirlwind tour of Haifa. We visited three of our adopted families: Hili Shusin, a math teacher at the Leo Baeck School, whose daughter, Adi, was killed in the Matza Restaurant explosion a year ago Pesach; the Hershkos, an elderly Roumanian couple whose son and grandson were killed on the #37 bus bombing in Haifa last March, and the extended Katav family, whose daughter and sister Meital, was also killed on that bus. Each family welcomed us with open arms. Each family is hurting. Each one is grieving. It meant an awful lot to them for us to visit. Each family pushed food onto us, especially the Katavs. Mrs. Katav is from Yemen, and the quality and the exquisite taste of the food she put before us was unparalleled.

We also visited the special section in the Haifa cemetery where all terrorist victims are now buried. This meant a lot to the families.

There is a story about that cemetery that tells you something about how things get done in Israel. That cemetery adjoins a plot of land on which a family that happens to be Arab lives, with their goats, their chickens and their other animals. Soon after the Matza Restaurant victims were buried there, Rachel Koren, another Israeli whom we’ve adopted, whose husband and two sons were killed on that occasion, noticed that the animals were not fenced in; they spent much of the days in the cemetery running over the graves. Rachel called then-Mayor Mitzia and told him that this was a disgrace, and that if the municipality didn’t do something about it—and soon—she was going to exhume the bodies of her husband and sons—after making sure that the television, radio and newspaper correspondents would cover the story. Within three weeks, a sturdy stone fence with a railing was installed and, over time, other improvements were made. The cemetery is now a beautiful, dignified place where the many Haifa victims of the various terrorist attacks lie—most recently, the seven newly dug graves of victims of the Maxim Restaurant bombing.

Speaking of the Maxim Restaurant bombing, the entire Boston Mission contingent of 365 people gathered there for a memorial service on the day we arrived in Haifa. We heard words from our own Rabbi Chiel, CJP’s scholar in residence, and Rabbi Emeritus of Temple Emanuel, and from the Chief Rabbis of Haifa.

We also heard words offered by one of the two co-owners of the restaurant. The restaurant is owned by two men: one Jewish and one Christian Arab. It was the Arab owner who spoke to us. He spoke eloquently of the affection between him and his co-owner and of their desire to rebuild the restaurant as a place where Jews and Arabs can gather to eat and socialize. His uncle was in the restaurant at the time of the explosion and was killed. As the speeches and prayers continued, I suddenly noticed that the uncle’s family was standing beside me. At the end of the ceremony, we spoke. At the end of our conversation, I offered, in Hebrew, an abridged version of the traditional words of consolation: “Ha-Makom Y’nachiem Otcha!” “Todah rabbah,” “Thank you very much,” he replied, also in Hebrew. This was the first time I’ve ever offered those words to someone who wasn’t Jewish; and I didn’t even have to translate them!

I’ve shared with you some reflections on some of the tsuris, some of the challenges that Israel is facing. I want to conclude on a note of hope.

On our first night in Haifa, following that memorial service at the site of the Maxim Restaurant, we attended a gala celebration at the Haifa Convention Center. Close to a thousand people—Americans and Israelis alike—filled the place. All night long we listened to music, we saw dance and other artistic performance, and we ourselves danced.

There was one special moment I want to capture for you: the sight of dozens of young people on the stage: Sabras and Ethiopian immigrants and Russian immigrants and South American immigrants: all there, all joining together in a closing song—a new number called “Sh’ma Yisrael”—all testifying to the vitality of modern Israel and the way in which, in some respects, it’s doing exactly what it was created to do: to serve as a center—if not the center—of modern Jewish cultural expression, even as it serves as a haven, a refuge, for Jews in need.

Israel is more than the Cave of Machpelah. It’s more than that cemetery in Haifa. It’s a living, breathing, exciting experiment in Jewish living and Jewish _expression that it is our extraordinary privilege to be a part of. When they set up that cemetery, they set it up with space for additional plots. May they never be filled.

When all is said and done, it’s really our choice: Do we want to be in the center, in the heart of the Jewish world … Do we want to be contributing to the Jewish future? Or do we want to be on the sidelines, on the periphery, and allow Jewish history to pass us by, playing no role, having no say, not sharing our lives, ourselves, our souls, with those of our people?

The choice is ours.