Meeting With the Dushinsky Rebbe

Early this morning I went with an acquaintance to meet with and speak to the Dushkinsky rebbe, Harav Yosef Tzvi Dushinsky shlit"a, of Israel. The rebbe, who is one of the leaders of the Eidah HaChareidis and the son and grandson of the previous two Gavads of Jerusalem, has been in New York for the wedding of one of his sister's children, and to visit with his chasidim and followers here in New York. Instead of appearing like many rebbes, with throngs of people waiting to do his every need and carrying a silver-tipped cane, the rebbe appeared very simply. When he entered the house, he came carrying the newspaper that had been left outside. Because the owners of the home where he was staying were not in New York, he said that he didn't want them to build up outside, making the walkway look cluttered and alerting would-be thieves that the homeowners are away. This may seem like something small and logical, but when someone speaks of or thinks of a rebbe, it conjures up images of being consumed by holiness and spirituality that places them elsewhere, on another plane of existence, not someone who pays attention to the minutia of small things that worry those of us engulfed by the physical world.


Dushinsky itself is rather new on the Chasidic landscape, having only been formed in the early 1930's after the current rebbe's grandfather moved to Israel and accepted the mantel of leadership of the Eidah HaChareidis upon the death of Harav Yosef Chaim Zonnenfeld zt"l. The first Dushinsky rebbe was one of the most outspoken opponents of the formation of the Zionist State of Israel, delivering a famous speech to the United Nations explaining the Jewish case against establishing the country. After his death in 1948, his son (the current rebbe's father) Harav Yisroel Moshe Dushinsky zt"l became the rebbe and leader of the Eidah until his passing 2003, when the current rebbe accepted the mantel of leadership of the chasidus, with Harav Yitzchok Tuvia Weiss shlit"a becoming the head rabbi of the Eidah HaChareidis.

When I sat and spoke with him, he was very interested to hear what was going on in my life, and showed himself to be very simple and humble. After learning of where I daven (pray) here in Boro Park, he commented that he knew the rav of the shul, and he also happens to be a close cousin of my rosh yeshiva from Israel. The rebbe's wife, in a somewhat unexpected way, also sat at the table with us and spoke. She was very animated and open, and when she spoke to be she looked at me directly in the eyes, which is not something that religious women of her caliber would normally do. The rebbetzin (rebbe's wife) spoke to me at length about shidduchim (the matchmaking process), and proved to be a very clever woman. When it came time for me to go, she told me that she and her husband would very much like to hear from me when they return to Israel, and that they would like to have me in their home on any trip that I make to Israel. As I left, another man entered to meet with the rebbe, and the rebbe walked to him, introduced himself to him, and began to take interest in hearing his many requests from the rebbe, something that would usually be more formal with other rebbes, who have assistants and secretaries to listen to and organize visitors. At the end of the visit, I came away with a very positive and comforting view of the rebbe, who, along with his wife, seemed very down-to-earth and genuinely kind, a mensch-par-excellence.

Read 'Em and Weep

In this week's parsha (Torah portion), Vayigash, we find several instances of people crying. In Bereishis (Genesis) 45:14, Yosef (Joseph) and his brother Binyomin (Benjamin) fall on one another's neck and weep. Rashi explains that Yosef and Binyomin were crying because of the future destruction of the beis hamikdash (temple), which would take place within their territory in the Land of Israel. Similarly, in the very next verse, it is recorded that "Yosef kissed his brothers and cried over them." In this instance, however, Rashi does not explain that they were also crying over the destruction of the beis hamikdash.


To explain the difference between the two situations, the Aish Kodesh brings support from the Gemara in Rosh HaShanah 28a, where it states, "Commandments were not given to provide enjoyment." Rashi, in his commentary on the Gemara, explains that commandments were given to Israel as a yoke on the neck. This, then, is an explanation of the symbolism found in the account of Yosef and Binyomin. When the two cried with one another, they did so on each other's necks, showing that they mourned the instances of Jews throwing off the yoke of the mitzvos that would happen after the beis hamikdash would be destroyed.

The Aish Kodesh explains that each Jew carries the yoke of the mitzvos on their neck, as we go through life with a specific Divine task. We are required to learn Torah and observe the mitzvos everyday, and are charged to have holy thoughts and speech. The Aish Kodesh says that even at times when we are physically prevented from observing certain mitzvos, we must put forth even greater effort, as we still have the yoke of the mitzvos. In a time of complete catastrophe, when suffering is overwhelming and the world seems to be turned completely upside down, people can not only come to abandon certain mitzvos, but they can shrug off the entire yoke of the mitzvos altogether.


When Yosef was once again reunited with his father Yaakov (Jacob), the Torah records (Bereishis/Genesis 46:30) that Yosef cried on his father's neck, but it does not say that Yaakov cried on the neck of his son. Rashi notes that while Yosef cried, Yaakov was reciting the Shema (the group of verses that are of central importance in Judaism). The Aish Kodesh explains that Yosef came to his father, and began to cry on his father's neck, mourning the future plight of the Jewish people. Yosef also knew that his father, as well as the rest of the people, were now coming into Mitzrayim (Egypt), which would result in an eventual enslavement that would introduce the Jewish people to great levels of tumah (impurity). Yosef, therefore, wanted to know how the Jewish people would survive their time in Mitzrayim, and persevere to reach Har Sinai, where they would receive the Torah. Yaakov, to answer his son's deepest yearning for understanding, began to recite the Shema, showing Yosef that the people would survive by a constant returning of their souls to G-d. This is because the recitation of the Shema, when it is recited carefully and with great intent, serves to rededicate ourselves to Divine service, echoing the words of the sefer Ma'or v'Shamesh, which states that one who recites the Shema properly during shacharis (the morning prayer service) will find his avodah (Divine work) successful throughout the day.

The Ongoing Wow

After much thought and contemplation, I decided to return to America, at least for the current time. When that "current time" ends is anyone's guess. Of course, my last moments walking around Yerushalayim (Jerusalem) still move through my veins, as Israel is not a place that one can forget. In fact, according to Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, eventhough I left Yerushalayim, I am closer than ever. He used to say, "Everywhere I go, I am going to Jerusalem," meaning that in every corner of the world in which a Jew finds himself, he is there to do his unique job in that unique space in order to bring the world one step closer to completion, redemption, and the time when we will finally all live in the new, real Jerusalem.

So, for now, I find myself heading toward Jerusalem in America. While learning is something that I truly enjoy, my need for action has gotten the better of me. Having spent my first week back in New York, I am visiting my father for his birthday. My visit this time has proven to be more relaxing and enjoyable, and I don't feel as out of place. Perhaps I am coming more into myself, being able to be myself wherever I happen to be at the moment.


Upon my return to New York, I will start to look through the job opportunities that I found the last few weeks of being in Israel. Ever since I can remember, my aspiration has been to work in a profession where I feel myself making a difference in the world, and hopefully I will find myself working in such a job. I always feel the need to move around and get meaning out of everything in life, add to life, and try to find something new.

During my last few days in Israel, I really think that I got to that place where I was in love with everything that was swirling around me. I began to really stop and appreciate things, and recognize that my life was made up of, as Speed Levitch says, "moments flabergasted to be in each other's presence." However, my hunger and need to experience do not let me sit in one place for too long. It seems that each new place I see, I see a new part of myself. Interestingly, the Yalkut Shimoni (an homiletic telling and explanation of the Torah) says that this is exactly the case. In explaining the creation of man, the Yalkut Shimoni says that G-d gathered dust from the four corners of the world, and everywhere in between, in order to form humanity. And through this, relates the Yalkut, "every place a person walks, from there he was created, and to there shall he return." To me, this validates travel and life experience as part of true religious awakening, which is an infinitely motivating idea. Ahh, emes is good...


I once had a discussion with a man in a bank who simply could not understand a religious experience that didn't revolve around begging G-d for things like A's on tests, lottery winnings, and that your most coveted item at the mall soon goes on sale. I, on the other hand, couldn't fathom a religious experience that included such things. To me, Judaism has never been about finding a cure for life, or ways to escape reality, simply wasting time until some day comes in the future when you're "off to a better place." I've always felt that Judaism was much more honest than that. It's not escaping reality, but engaging in life head on, wrestling with angels and men to bring out the divinity in every place at every instant, knowing that that "better place" isn't found in a new location, but in a deeper understanding of the actuality of the here and now. Judaism doesn't seek to run away from physicality, but elevate it, transforming it by doing mitzvos that connect all planes and times of existence to reveal the hester panim (hidden face of G-d) residing behind creation. When that's the focus of your life, who has time for all the competition and begging? You're a partner with the Ribbono Shel Olam (Master of the Universe) in the continued creation and reparation of the world! That's always been the point of Judaism, and life in general, to me. So, for now, I guess I'm off to keep finding myself in places where I've never been, meeting G-d on new street corners, repairing little parts of creation, each step treading closer and closer to Jerusalem.

Slow and Steady

Yesterday afternoon as I was hurrying off to get lunch, I was stopped at the corner by an elderly man. The man, as I recognized, was the gabbai (person in charge of the inner-workings) of the Gr"a Synagogue in my neighborhood. Being very old and unsteady, he asked me if I would help him make it across the street, and then to the door of the synagogue. Of course, I said that I would help him, and I walked with him arm-in-arm across the street. As we got closer to the synagogue, a car pulled up behind us, and in an attempt to rush us or move us, began to blow the horn. Immediately, I attempted to move out of the way, trying to lead the gabbai onto the sidewalk. He refused, and after asking me if I understood English, told me, "Slow and steady".

After helping the man reach his destination, I started thinking about what he told me: slow and steady. As I walked to lunch, I began to look around much more, stopping to see things that I might have missed previously. Ahead of me, a woman also stopped at each small garden, pressing her nose into the flowers surrounding each gate. The rest of the day, I tried to do everything and say everything with much more intent and concentration. Walking, eating, and praying especially, are much more meaningful that way.


This morning, as with last night, I prayed more slowly than usual, concentrating on the words that I was reading, and thinking more about what they meant. That's the wonderful thing about Hebrew. No matter how many times you've read a text, or how obvious the meaning seems to be, you can always make a new connection, definition, or understanding, whether through proximity, spelling difference, numerical value...there's always something new to find.

This is true of everything. Within the legal times for prayers, the earliest time that one is allowed to pray the morning prayer is after a time called "Mi SheYakir". This is when there is enough natural light, or should be enough natural light, to recognize the face of an acquaintance at the distance of four cubits. Knowing this halacha (law) I never thought more about it, until when I recently read an interesting lesson on the particular zman (time).


The story goes that a rabbi onced asked his students how one could tell that the night had ended and the day had begun. "Perhaps," one suggested, "it is when you can see an animal in the distance and determine whether it is a sheep or a dog." However, the rabbi answered that this was not the determinant. "Could it be," asked another, "that it is when you can see a tree in the distance and tell whether it is a fig tree or a peach tree?" Again, the rabbi answered that this was not how to tell when the night had ended. Finally, after all had suggested their own idea, they demanded that the rabbi tell them the answer. The rabbi looked at his students and said, "It is when you can look at the face of a man or woman and see your brother or your sister. Because if you cannot see this, then it is still night."

The More I See, The Less I Know

This Shavuos seemed to drag on longer than those in the past. While the staying up on the first night did feel like it flew by, I think the following day-and-a-half took three days to pass. Initially, everything seemed to be going well: I had a nice, small meal followed by learning with one of my roommates. With the learning, I felt like I accomplished more than I have my whole time here, which was very inspiring. However, when it came time for shacharis (morning prayers), things took a turn…


Instead of staying in the yeshiva like most other people, I decided against the warnings of those around me, and my own reason, and opted to walk to the kosel. Once there, I realized just how much of a mistake I had made: I was confronted with not a sea, but a wall of people, thousands upon thousands, smashed into the area around the kosel. Not wanting to turn back, and completely exhausted, I fought the crowds to make it inside the kosel where there are bookcases normally holding siddurim (prayer books). Clearly, I knew that this wouldn’t be the case this morning, but I felt that something had to go well after such a night of learning. Finally, after digging and searching behind books that were behind books that were behind books, I found a small siddur. Having been awake for more than 20 hours, and being amongst a wall of people in the same state, the prayers were a mixture of exhaustion, frustration, and tiny glimpses of solace. After finishing, I walked back to my apartment totally alone with the sun rising around me, trying to beat the masses and get into bed.

Once back home, I got into bed only to have my roommate’s alarm go off three hours later, reminding us that we had a meal to attend. The meal was at the home of my favorite neighbor, and the lighthearted, relaxed nature of the meal (with the addition of lasagna, quiche, and cheesecake) was enough to alleviate my fatigue momentarily. After the meal, I committed myself to walking with my roommate to the kosel again. After the trek there and back, I finally got into bed at 4:30, and slept a whole three hours again. At night I went to a meal with people I didn’t know, only to find myself talking to the 30-something year old cousin of the hosts about annoying Israelis. After this meal, I went to Belz, which was packed beyond belief. Eventually, I made my way home and crawled into bed at 2:15. Through the rest of Shavuos (the second day of which was also Shabbos), I basically slept, only to wake up to feed myself and daven (pray).


While I was at the kosel, watching the interaction of the people and experiencing the way in which things were handled, I started thinking about something that I previously began to write about, but never finished. I could try to explain it on the basis that people were tired, but that wouldn’t explain other times in which the same holds true, and regardless, excuses only go so far. The issue is this: while religious people always seem ready, even proud, to take on stringencies in their religious practice, they never seem to want to take on any stringencies on the mitzvos dealing with interpersonal relations. This seems ridiculous to me, as human beings are the creations and extensions of G-d. Why would you miss a chance to engage with, be kind to, or express general love and compassion to such a creation? Indeed, the great sage Rabbi Hillel said that the whole point of the Torah can be summed up in the mitzvah to love another person as you love yourself, with the rest of the oceans of knowledge and practice meant to drive this point home. Many, however, sadly feel too proud that they keep more restrictions on themselves, bringing their religion to be about objects and stringencies instead of love and expressions of Divinity. This is something that I continue to struggle with, as I see it all around me, with people pushing, struggling to be first and right, and acting as if everything is going well in their learning and life. Can’t they feel that something is missing, or are they too far gone?

A story was told of the Satmar Rebbe, dealing with stringencies and the ways in which people view them. In the early 1930’s, a student from a more modern yeshiva came to visit the rebbe. This student, being from a more modern city and background, had his beard completely trimmed off, a leniency that no one in the yeshiva of the Satmar Rebbe would dream of taking. After the young man left, one of the rebbe’s students approached him, asking him how he could welcome and meet with a Jew who didn’t take his religious life seriously enough to be stringent in this area. Sensing the complete lack of understanding and truth in his student, the rebbe responded, “It is possible that when this young man reaches the World to Come, HaKadosh Baruch Hu will ask him, ‘Holy Jew, where is your beard?’, but it is also possible that when you come into the World to Come, you will be asked, ‘Holy beard, where is your Jew?’” The simple story speaks volumes.

Az Hinei Shuv Magiah...

Today, in addition to the normal, I found the most amazing place to have lunch. I had great eggplant lasagna, salad with spicy chumus, and butternut squash soup. The whole atmosphere was so un-Israeli, it wasn't even fake American Israeli...it was quite nice. I thought that today I would re-visit the notion of things that differ between Israel and the United States...

1. Prices do not appear on a large number of items. This generally isn't a big deal in the United States, because the pricing in different stores tend to reflect some sort of standard. However, in Israel, something may cost 16 shekels in one place, but 8 in another.

2. Toilets. I'm not sure why I haven't written about this before, but Israel has two basic types of toilet. The first type has a large separation between the bowl and tank, and the two flushing handles are sticking out. The other version has the "bowl and tank" set-up more like in America, and the flushing handles are actually buttons. The reason for the two types of handles, one for light flushes and one for heavy flushes.


3. Jerusalemites and Israelis in general are more public about their events. During the past month, including today, there have been so many outdoor celebrations for Israel, Jerusalem, and who-knows-what that stages have hardly been taken down.

4. Except for the meat, which is killed in Uruguay and Argentina, food in Israel tends to be very, very fresh.

5. Unlike America, where it seems that people tend to, and are even encouraged to shluff off their unique backgrounds, Israelis of varying heritage have a way of being fully Yemenite/Moroccan/Galicianer, and fully Israeli at the same time. The social structure, in this way, tends to mimick the "salad bowl" idea of multiculturalism rather than the "melting pot".

6. In America, it isn't too common to hear someone yelling uncontrollably at the top of their voice about how So-and-So said he would be here in 5 minutes, and after 5 minutes and 10 seconds he hasn't arrived. In Israel, however, it happens every day.

7. My personal favorite of the moment: You can see a check-point for the West Bank from the rhino exhibit at the zoo.

Kimsois Chuson Al Kalu

Arriving back in Israel immediately threw me back into the whole system. As soon as I walked out of the airport, I found myself having to go through the motions and stress of getting a sherut to the proper place in Jerusalem. For the unacquainted, anyone who wants to save money takes a sherut from the airport. A sherut is like a small bus, fitting around 12 people, that goes between the airport and one of the larger cities in Israel. In Jerusalem, because of the large area and the number of people going, the system is broken up by area, and to "save time" the drivers spend hours making sure they place people in a sherut by street. On my sherut, I had several secular Israelis and a group of Mormons from Salt Lake City. Lovely. As soon as we entered Yerushalayim, the Mormons were shocked to see people walking around openly with rifles. This was after they survived the trauma of our sherut driver attempting to run over all cars in his way. I wonder how the rest of their trip turned out...

My first two days back in Israel happened to be national holidays, Yom HaZikaron (remembering fallen soldiers) and Yom Ha'Atzma'ut ("independence" day). Most religious people are too keen on these days. I asked a friend why it was that Zionists and daati leumi ("National Religious", or modern orthodox) wanted to remember the bodies of the soldiers killed defending an anti-Torah agenda, but not all of the souls that the state of Israel has destroyed by putting nationalism above spirituality. He didn't have an answer.


On thing about secular holidays in Israel, unlike in America, is that EVERYTHING closes. I wish that Israelis could be as makpid (strict) about closing on Shabbos as they are to close on stupid holidays like Yom Ha'Atzma'ut. On Yom Ha'Atzma'ut, I found myself standing in line at the only falafel shop open on Geulah. As I stood in line with 50,000 other hungry people, the lone man-behind-the-counter acted in typical Israeli fashion, barking out requests and shoving food to people. A man from France two ahead of me in line, someone who seemingly had never been to Israel before, told the worker that his customers are not animals, and his disrespect and tone are sickening, and that he wouldn't pay. Not really caring, the Israeli shoved the food to him, and he went back to the seating area. Two seconds later, as I still stodd with unknown children latched onto my legs and someone's elbow in my back, the Frenchman returned, took his falafels in both hands, and threw them at the Israeli behind the counter. At this point, even the most aggravated people in line turned on the Frenchman, and people on the street watching through the window verbally assaulted the poor guy as he left. In Israel, you have to have a sense of humor about everything, or you won't even last a day.


Friday was the type of day that makes Israel magical. The sun was bright and warm, the white clouds floated by soothingly, and the whole day seemed to embrace you. As I walked to the kosel for shacharis, I found myself really engrossed in enjoying the day. The Old City seemed more packed with tourists than normal, and the whole city hummed with noise. After davening and an early lunch of chips im charif, I walked back to my apartment. Hotter now than in the morning, Israelis were huddled under treesand below walls, looking for a place cool enough to allow them to drink handmade espresso without completely melting. The city is really wonderful. "Yusis ulayich Eloikoyich, kimsois chuson al kalu..."

How Way Leads On to Way

While speaking with someone over Shabbos, I was asked how I felt going back to the place where I used to live. My immediate response was that I felt awkward and somewhat out of place, eventhough it was nice to see places and people that I hadn't seen in several months. At first, I wasn't able to explain why I felt this way, as I didn't think anything had changed between when I left to go to Israel and now, when I came back to visit for Pesach. As he and I walked after lunch, I talked more with him and was able to understand and explain why I felt slightly uncomfortable.

Whenever I began to change years and years ago, I always had some view of the world I left behind. As far as I moved away internally, I was always connected to a different way of life by virtue of proximity; whether I liked it or not, I couldn't completely break free of a particular viewpoint. No matter how I changed, and how much I advanced in my own life, eventhough I felt and looked different I wasn't that far away from what used to be.


As more and more choices are made based on a particular viewpoint, the further separated from the past you can move. This seemed to become really obvious when I visited America. I found everything as I left it, but I suddenly realized I didn't feel the same. After going down this path, and allowing it to take me somewhere new geographically, I unknowingly broke with the past. I wasn't expecting this to be so obvious to me, or to come with such a rush of emotion. While I didn't realize it in Israel, where I seemed to just be continuing naturally and identified with most of the people around me, I saw how much I had changed when I came to visit. Topics of conversation, ways of looking at things, news, interest...nothing seemed to be the same anymore. The visit showed me just how real the differences are, and how I am completely in a new place, physically and mentally.

Now that I'm going back, I wonder how different things will be the nex time I visit...

Nothing But Teeth

As I walked into shul (synagogue, whatever) for the start of the last two days of Pesach (Passover), I found myself immediately confronted with the need to give a running report on my time in Israel. With each, "How is Israel?" I got a sense that everyone was expecting only the rosiest of pictures. "Well, you know, it has certain problems..." wasn't a response that was going to be well-received by the masses. No one wants to hear that their fantasy land is just a fantasy, but that's the reality of the Not-So-Promised Land.


I think that just being in America, with busses and planes that run on time, people who don't purposely step on you, and requests that are both coherent and practical, has made me a disgruntled expatriate. I was talking with someone in Israel who owns a restaurant that often employs young Americans who have recently moved to Israel. He said that the success rate of people staying in Israel after moving there isn't so high. I can believe it. Luckily, it isn't my experience, as I am neither an immigrant nor a secular soldier, but it is the reality. Countless teenagers move to Israel; immediately enter the army after intense, but meager classes teaching Hebrew; spend the next several years of their life living in standards that are even low for "Israeli standards"; and are then thrown into a working environment of 14-16 hour days to pay for their 1/8 of the share for a two bedroom apartment. I'm sure that people who move to America don't always find it much better, but at least the promise (or lie) of America is better. Of course, this doesn't mean I'm all for America, and dislike Israel, my previous few blogs show the reality of that. However, I am all to aware that Israel has troubles itself. The huge sign at Ben Gurion Airport saying "Welcome to Israel", would be wise to follow-up with, "Watch Your Step".

As the conversations rolled on at shul and by meals, invariably it would turn to, "Do you want to live in Israel?" or "Would you marry an Israeli?", and I would try to phrase my answer so as not to be so harsh. However, in the company of several Israelis and other people who know me well, I was more honest. "I doubt it. I like carpet, air conditioners, things set for arrival at 5:15 not arriving at 5:45 as a rule" and so on. For others, I understood that they didn't want to hear this sort of thing. So, for their sake, I was nice and sociable, but as a wise man once said, "Sociability is just a big smile, and a big smile is nothing but teeth."

Whither Goest Thou, America...?

For the past week I have been on the road, somewhere between Israel and America, future and past. When I left Israel, I left in the middle of the night. My sherut (small bus or van rented by multiple people) took me and two Russian families from Jerusalem to the airport. From Tel Aviv, I flew to Belgium, where I met a friend of mine from yeshiva. Because I hardly slept the night before, and my flight had hardly been long enough to make a nap possible, I arrived in a daze. My friend and I took the train from Brussels to his parents' home in Antwerp.

The contrast between Israel and Antwerp could not be greater. I left a country where order and stability are hardly even recognized to exist, and found myself suddently thrust into a place where trains arrive at exact times and everyone says "please" and "thank you". My friend showed me around his city, the historic buildings and large plazas scattered with modern-looking people speaking one of any number of languages. Antwerp was very nice, and the easy pace and calm atmosphere felt odd after being in Israel for such a long time.

The day after I arrived, my friend and I rented a car and went to Germany. Crossing borders between members of the European Union is like going from one state to another in America. The border simply showed a sign indicating that you were entering a new country, and no policeman or customs officer could be seen. The language also shifts at a whim, especially in Belgium, which officially speaks French, German, and Dutch. Once I crossed into Germany from the Netherlands, I found myself on the famous highway system without speed limits. This isn't quite true, as the areas within larger cities do have speed restrictions, but outside of the cities 90 mph is barely enough to stop other cars from running over you.


Our first stop in Germany was Frankfurt. Frankfurt is a huge city, and home to the famous Rothschild banking family, and a historically important Jewish community. When we found the beis hachaim (cemetery, literally "house of life"), we couldn't find out how to get past the gate, but thanks to some crafty ideas by my friend, we found a way. Inside, we found the graves of some of the most important figures in Judaism: the Pnei Yehoshua and the father of the Chasam Sofer, both from the 1700's. Frankfurt had an awkward feeling, especially since so much of the Jewish history was now only represented in plaques showing where this synagogue or that religious school stood before being destroyed by the Nazis.


From Frankfurt, we traveled southwest to the city of Worms. Worms is the home of the oldest known Jewish cemetery in Europe, and the home of Rashi (1040-1105), perhaps the greatest Jewish commentator of all time. The city had a very calm feeling, and was full of culture. The Jewish cemetery was already closed when we reached Worms, so we jumped over the wall and made our way through the countless graves to a place where we could learn some gemara and daven mincha. After walking around Worms, finding the old synagogue and the house where Rashi lived and did much of his writing, we left for Michelstadt.

Michelstadt was the real goal of our trip. Located in the mountains, the drive from Worms to Michelstadt took us through tiny towns with typical German architecture as we went up winding roads. When we reached the beis hachaim in Michelstadt, everything was locked, but a sign stated that the code was the current Jewish year. Being able to easily crack this, we had complete use of the area. As we entered the beis hachaim, I could tell this was a different place. The elevation made the air a bit chilly, and a breeze blew constantly. My friend led me down a small, dark path. At the end of the path, I could see a tall grave, covered in stones and white pieces of paper. This was the grave of the Baal Shem of Michelstadt, HaGaon HaRav Yitzchok Aryeh zt"l. We davened maariv by the kever (grave), and there was a noticable feeling of uniqueness. After davening, we read the plaque near the kever, which explained that the Baal Shem had been a gilui (exposure) of Eliyahu HaNavi (Elijah the Prophet). After spending more time by the kever of such a tzadik, we left feeling that we had truly exprienced something special and moving. The ride back to Antwerp was long, but the feeling of being moved by the Baal Shem stayed with us.

After two more days in Belgium (between Antwerp and Brussels), I flew to New York. Arriving back in America was very odd. While I have lived so long in America, and it represents all of the comforts that anyone could want, it just doesn't feel like it did before. Eventhough I haven't been away for terribly long, Israel has changed me. I think I'm lucky to have had this happen. I see people who travel and travel, but never see anything new. William Blake wrote, "If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern." It seems that one doesn't have to be in their physical cavern to have this be true, but the mental cavern is just as strong. For some people, going to Israel is just about freedom, or just about increasing their religious knowledge. I can't understand how some people can think so limitedly. For me, each experience is a chance to see the world anew, with new eyes and revolutionary ideas. I need the constant growth and "POP" of life to survive. Commenting on his life experiences, and writing closely in connection with the previous Blake quote, Aldous Huxley said, "The man who comes back through the Door in the Wall will never be quite the same as the man who went out. He will be wiser but less sure, happier but less self-satisfied, humbler in acknowledging his ignorance yet better equipped to understand the relationship of words to things, of systematic reasoning to the unfathomable mystery which it tries, forever vainly, to comprehend." Indeed, Judaism confirms that we are born anew each day, and that each day is a constant growth and renewal within G-d. As we reach this holiday of Pesach (Passover), let us all not be the same. As we remember the exodus from Mitzrayim (Egypt), we should internalize the reality of the lessons of the story; we should no longer be satisfied with the status quo in ourselves or society, we should feel the plight of the world as we are all without geulah, and we should be inspired to move beyond our "selves" to our souls, so that we can bring the final redemption now.

I've Been Smiling Lately...

As the previous yeshiva period ended yesterday, I had all the time in the world to do whatever I wanted today. Luckily, today was one of the nicest days since I've been in Israel. Everywhere there was sunshine, people out on the streets, and a cool breeze blowing across the city. Times like these, where I can just wander around with my thoughts and Yerushalayim, make me realize how special this city is. Everything has as many sides are there are eyes to see them. Being here, I've seen Israel with both of mine: an irreligious occupier on the one hand, and a strangely happy place, full of life and energy on the other. However, I can never quite place what it is about Israel that brings people back. One might say the history, or the religious significance, but those are really just for tourists and extremists in the West Bank. All I can say about Israel is that it is full of life. It is full of life in a way that America isn't. Perhaps that is the result of living a life where people on all (not both, there is never simple duality) sides of the conflict face death, but it infuses Israel with something that is palpable. Author Jack Kerouac once said, "The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars...and everybody goes 'Awww!'" If he wanted to find a place like the person he was seeking, Israel would certainly be that place. Holiness can be felt in the air.

In this week's parsha, we begin to read about the korbanos (offerings) that are to be brought in the beis hamikdash (temple). Today, as I sat in the Old City, looking out on the sight where the temple once stood and korbanos were offered, it was easy to get lost in the whole situation, thinking about that which used to be carried out on the very spot where I sat. The Torah says that a person is to bring an offering "from animals, from cattle, or from the flock". Why does the Torah state animals, and then name two things that are obviously covered under the category of "animals"? Rashi (the greatest commentator on the basic meaning of the Torah) says that this was to show that not all animals are acceptable, but only those that are domesticated among the flocks of Klal Yisroel. What is the significance of this, why not all animals, such as those captured in hunting or through effort? The Medrash Tanchuma says that this is to show that all G-d wants is that which is easily available. To initially draw close to HaKadosh Baruch Hu, we need only give that which we already have in our possession. Afterall, it was G-d who gave it to us in the first place, and it was meant to be used for something greater.

Rebbetzin Esther Jungreis tells a related story about using whatever we have in our immediate possession to form a bond with G-d. Once, while waiting in the car for a friend on 13th Avenue in Boro Park, she saw an older Jewish woman begging for money on the street. After receiving money from several people, the lady moved to the side, began eating something small for lunch, and came to blend in with the crowd. Soon, an elderly man walked down the street, asking for money as the woman had just done. When he approached the lady, not knowing that she was in the same situation as he was, he asked her for money. Immediately, the woman reached into her pockets and gave the elderly man charity. This, remarked Rebbetzin Jungreis, is the mark of a real, deep-down religious Jew. This is a person who knows that what we have is only from G-d, and we must use it as G-d tells us.


This week's Torah portion goes further to say that with each one of the offerings, we should bring salt. The Midrash explains that when the world was created, and the "lower waters" were split from the "upper waters", the lower waters were upset that they were left in the physical world, seemingly further away from the revealed Divine. G-d evened this out by noting that each korban (offering) would have to be brought with salt, which is taken from the waters of the earth. If this is a way of rectifying the split between the two waters, why not have sea water given with every offering instead of salt, something that only comes out of the water? Rabbi Yaakov Kamenetsky zt"l says that this is exactly the point! The water itself is elevated simply through evaporation, an easy process. That which is left behind is the salt, which does not naturally climb on its own. In this requirement, G-d is telling us that we should offer up those parts of us not naturally drawn to spirituality and elevation. When we work to bring that which we have difficulty carrying out of gashmius (physicality), this is the greatest offering.

Now we can see a glimpse of the importance and relevance of a korban (offering). In an attempt to get ourselves back on the right path, we must first offer up that which is easily attained, and has already been put in our midst by G-d to create the initial connection. This might be our quickness to feel spirituality in song, or meditation, or religious study, or giving charity. In fact, Rebbe Nachman of Breslov said that giving charity makes up for multitudes of misdeeds, and the reason can be understood in light of this. As it is using something granted to us by G-d to open a channel of holiness in this world, and tugging our heart to move further in the right direction. Once we begin to engage in these things, and we feel ourselves open up to HaKadosh Baruch Hu once more, then we work to elevate whatever brought us to sin, that which is not naturally inclined to align itself with G-d, and in this "salt" is found our individualized task in this world. The whole system of korbanos (offerings) exists to change us internally and bring us even closer to G-d. This is why an offering is called a "korban", which has the same root as the word "karov", meaning "close" as they are meant to bring us nearer to G-d. Now it becomes more clear why, in the Nevi'im (Prophets) it says that more than sacrifices, G-d prefers humble people, contrite hearts, and repentent souls, because this is the intended result of the offerings.

With the arrival of the new Hebrew month of Nissan, may we all strive harder to elevate that which does not easily move upward, so that we can look beyond ourselves, see the life swirling all around us, and uplift the universe to see the final redemption soon, in our days. Omayn.

Ad D'lo Yada

"Chayav inish l'besume ad d'lo yada" ("A person is required to drink until they cannot differentiate"). This is what the Gemara says with respect to Purim, that we should drink until we cannot tell the difference between "cursed is Haman" and "blessed is Mordechai", the evil and saintly characters in the story of Purim. It is well known that many people, especially those who are "less than religious", take this aspect of Purim to heart, but forget the rest of the inyanim of the holiday. Even for those who are religious, it may be hard to internalize the reality that Purim is such a holy day, even holier than Yom Kippur. In fact, the sages pointed out that even the name of Yom Kippur points to the fact that Purim is holier, as Yom Kippur can be taken to mean "yom ki'pur(im)", or "A Day that is Like Purim". This explains why many people fail to internalize the importance of the day, as the yetzer hara (bad inclination) is working especially hard on this day to keep people from spiritual elevation. However, the story of Purim holds endless meaning for us on both personal and communal levels.

The nature of Megillas Esther, the scroll that contains the story of Purim, is to shroud the holiness of the day in mystery. It is commonly pointed out that G-d is not mentioned directly in the story even once, and even what we call the "miracles" or Purim seem to be nothing more than natural happenings. Even the name of the megillah, and the name of the heroine chosen to serve as the center point of the story, is directly connected to this notion of being hidden: Esther. The name Esther shares the shoresh (root) with hester, which means hidden. It is exactly in this concealment that the holiness of the day is found.


This Purim, I spent alot of time walking around, seeing Purim from different locations and perspectives. I saw secular people in Mamilla, who turned Purim into a children's carnival during the day, while at night the area had served as a night club for secular Israeli youth. I also saw religious people laying on street corners in puddles of vomit. The dichotomy of Yerushalayim is an interesting thing, and I never get tired of walking between Ben Yehudah and Meah Shearim, as it brings me from one time and world to another. After leaving my meal in Ramat Eshkol, I had a long walk ahead of me, and I used my walk as an excuse to see what was going on in Meah Shearim. The first place I visited was Toldos Ahron, where the drinking seemed to be taking a real toll on the men, a few of whom were passed out along the walkway into the synagogue. Once inside, one could feel the excitement of the crowd, eventhough the rebbe had retired for the evening. After Toldos Ahron, I visited Toldos Avraham Yitzchok, where people were vomiting and crying all over the place. Most of them were teenagers, as the adults were in the beis medrash by the rebbe. However, before I could get all the way in, the crowd began to exit, and as firmly as I tried to stand and move against the crowd, the spilled alcohol and vomit on the floor made my attempts to move against the crowd worthless, and I slid along out the door. When I returned to my neighborhood, the main street was filled with people from my yeshiva. After watching their debauchery for a bit, I went back to my apartment and went to sleep.


It was once I was back in my apartment that I began to think more about the significance of the concealment surrounding the holiday of Purim. In the dvar Torah that I delivered at my meal, I spoke about the interesting way that Purim is handled during a leap year. On a leap year, there are two Adars (the month in which Purim falls), and while all other observances of Adar take place in the second Adar, Purim has a relationship to both months. While the fully observed Purim is in Adar II, there is a day called Purim Katan (small Purim) in the first Adar. According to the sages, when Haman was looking for a time to destroy the Jewish people, he picked Adar I of a leap year, assuming that religious observances (such as a date of Moshe Rabbeinu's death) would take place in Adar II, leaving there to be no redeeming quality about the month of Adar I. However, because Mordechai had ruach hakodesh, he was able to see this, and led the great rabbis of the day to change the leap year to the next, putting Haman's plan in the regular Adar, where the merit of Moshe Rabbeinu (Moses) would help the Jewish people. Because of this, each leap year we remember that Purim was originally "supposed" to be in Adar I.

Interestingly enough, the same Mordechai who did so many things to save the Jewish people, was originally looked down upon and viewed with suspicion. According to the Chasam Sofer, this was how the Jewish people viewed Gedolim from the time they received the Torah until Purim. As we know, it was only during Purim, centuries after the giving of the Torah, that the Jewish people came to fully accept the Oral Torah. The Chasam Sofer notes that this initial skepticism toward the Oral Torah is found in the Torah itself. When the Jewish people received the Torah from Sinai, they accepted, saying, "we will do, and we will understand", showing that whatever G-d wanted, the Jewish people were prepared to do. However, when the Jewish people complain about their inability to safely listen to G-d's voice, they tell Moshe do listen and then relate this portion of the Torah to them. With regard to this part of the Torah (the Oral Torah), the Jews switched their acceptance, and said, "we will hear, and then we will do". The Chasam Sofer points out that this means that would first decide if they liked what the Gadol HaDor said, and then they would act. This was the same until the generation of Purim, when they saw the Gadol's ability to use his knowledge and spiritual connection to lead the Jewish people to overturn a decree of death. At this point, they came to accept the Oral Torah fully, just as the Written Torah had been accepted at Har Sinai.

The Chasam Sofer says that the reason why the Jewish people were wary of the Sages is because they were people thought to be set apart from the rest of society, and didn't know about everyday life. The sages would be consulted regarding kashrus, Shabbos, taharas mishpacha, and other things that were "innately religious", but "chayei b'shouk", or "life in the marketplace" was not their realm of holy knowledge. The same applies to us today. People are very ready to admit that kashrus and Shabbos are places where religion has control, and that miracles such as the splitting of the Sea of Reeds are places where G-d is involved, but they seem to place less emphasis on the birth of a child, the changing of the seasons, or a simple breath. However, there is a principle in Judaism that the more "natural" (or hidden within the natural process) a miracle is, the more holy and elevated that miracle is. Because the Jews in the time of Purim were able to put their faith in the Tzadik Mordechai, they came to see the truth of "Ein Od Milvado" ("There is nothing except for G-d"), internalizing the reality that G-d extends into every area of existence. This led them to place their trust in Gedolim and fully accept the Oral Torah.


That is the greater meaning of Purim, and why the day soars higher than even Yom Kippur. Purim is the day that is meant to illuminate the deeper reality of life, to show the fullness of the truth that there is nothing except for G-d. The impact of internalizing this would have the same, if not a more enlightened, impact as teshuvah (repentance) on Yom Kippur. However, because we sadly cannot all elevate ourselves to such a revelation, Yom Kippur continues to exist. I once heard someone speak on the greatness of that which is hidden, and she said, "I think the more we get in touch with that state of not knowing the more humbled we are, the more we can listen, and the more we can surrender that there is more to all of this than we can ever possibly understand. The more hidden something is, the more holy it is." This is the message of Megillas Esther. It exists to be "maglei" the "hester panim" (to reveal the concealment of G-d in the world), where we do not know the difference between "cursed is Haman" and "blessed is Mordechai" because we exist in the reality that Hashem is all there is, and what could be holier than that?

And Moving Forward...

It seems that the comments in my previous blog were made prematurely. With what has gone on over this past week, now I can really say, "Its always something".

First of all, the toilet in our apartment had been leaking a little, and finally workmen were sent to deal with it. Instead of fixing the small crack, the workmen gave us a new toilet. Apparently, toilets in Israel do not come with seats, as we do not have one. Not only this, but when they gave us the new toilet, they didn't hook up the back correctly, and each time you flushed, a HUGE geyser shot out of the back toward the wall. Well, they came back to fix this today, and in the course of giving us a new tank, flooded the old tank out onto the floor, and under my roommate's bed.

Right now, I am sitting watch in my apartment because of the second thing that happened. At 2:15 am on the morning of my birthday, my apartment was woken up by someone banging and kicking our door, which eventually warped and came off of the hinges. Now, since the door doesn't lock when you want it to, and only locks when you close it (with no way to unlock it), I am sitting here to make sure that no one wanders in here and steals things. Both this event, and the previous toilet escapade, took place under a blanket of darkness, as our breaker box seems to enjoy tripping.


Today, seemingly unknown by many, another terrorist on a bulldozer attempted to crush a police car and a bus on a street which forms the edge of the park across from me. Because the park is large, it didn't happen near enough to impact things by me, but it happened none the less.

At times like this, when it seems like you can't make a turn without something going wrong, taking time to pull yourself out of everything and just relax and reflect is nice. This is something amazing about Judaism. Three times a day, once a week, and any time we strike a tune in our heads, we can escape the "physicality", remind ourselves that there's more to the story than we all see, and bring ourselves back to our center.

Each day, we are commanded to pray three times at specific times, and the sages gave us specific formats and words to use for these prayers. The times (early morning, afternoon, and night) operate to reinforce our strength and remind us of the greatness of Hakadosh Baruch Hu (the morning prayer serving to energize us and instruct us before we start our day, the afternoon prayer giving us a stopping point to reflect smack in the middle of the day, and the prayer at night allowing us to cleanse ourselves of the regular grabage we collect through living in Olam HaSheker).

The notion of tefillah (often translated as "prayer") in Judaism is completely devoted to "centering" the person who participates in the prayer. The verb form of the word generally used for prayer is reflexive, meaning that it has to do with the pray-er, not so much the pray-ee. The word itself does not connote the non-Jewish ideas of asking for things, pleading on behalf of this or that, and generally expressing personal desires. There is room for that in Judaism, but it is not the main purpose of the fixed "prayer". The word, instead, has to do with turning into ourselves, seeing what's going on, seeing where we are lacking, and reminding ourselves what the world is truly all about. We can see this time and again in the siddur (prayer book), which is made up of ordered verses from the Torah and teachings from the Mishna, as well as the Amidah, which is a central personal prayer composed by sages.

Each day, or more correctly, each time we pray, when we reach read these verses, we can see where we are holding in our own spirituality, and where we need work. "What did that just say? Do I really agree with that? What does it really mean? If I don't agree, what's lacking in me today that this statement doesn't click? If I do agree, what strides have I made to get to this point?" Reflecting before, during, and after praying, which was done extensively by the tzadikim in previous generations, really can increase our sense of self, and add to the meditation of tefillah so that we can better reach our goal.

Aside from tefillah, Shabbos offers a huge, 25-hour opportunity to step back from the stress and shallowness of everyday life and devote everything to reflection. When Shabbos begins, we immediately abandon the average in favor of the holy. Shabbos allows us to get back in touch with the Source and re-energize our souls. Forbidden from participating in countless weekday activities, we are free to truly get in touch with ourselves. With the wealth of Jewish songs, meditations, Tehillim (Psalms), and intensity in performing mitzvos, it is easy to carry this over into any moment where one needs to be centered. Simply humming a tune can move us from Brooklyn 2008 to Galicia 1850, and remind us that everything we do is connected forward and backward, showing us our place in whole of creation.


Many of us may not be at this point right now, but Judaism is all about growth. If we simply open a tiny part of ourselves to growth, it will spread across every area of our lives. Moving forward is what all of this is about; never believing the world when it screams how amazing you are, as the Gemara says. In an interesting quote which has shychus to a previous post, I read a great explanation as to what a Chusid is, and it is closely related to "moving forward". In a book by Rabbi Avraham Twersky, he records a small discussion between two Chasidim:

One Chusid turns to the other, "Who is a Chusid?"
"A Chusid," the other replied, "is someone who wants to be a Chusid."
"But who wouldn't want to be a Chusid?" asked the first.
The second Chusid replied, "Someone who already thinks he is a Chusid."

And So It Goes...

This Shabbos I went to visit a friend in college in Ariel. Ariel is, for those who do not know, in the Shomron (Samaria), and fairly close to Nablus and Ramallah. Going there from Jerusalem, we had to exit the officially "Jewish" territory, and go through the controversial wall built to keep out terrorists looking to sneak across the border. From the time I stepped into the taxi leaving my apartment, I entered back into what is truly "Israel". I had to once again rely upon Hebrew, and not speak English. I also had to drive through scores of crowds campaigning for Likud and Meretz, two Israeli political parties. Modern Hebrew (as opposed to Loshon Kodesh, or Biblical Hebrew) and current events tend to be played down in yeshiva, so it was a refreshing introduction into Israeli society before traveling to Ariel.

On the way to Ariel, our bus passed countless Arab villages, obvious with the prominent towers on the village mosques. The way to the Shomron is hilly, and the bus had to venture through many winding roads, which overlook valleys scattered with shrubs and boulders. During many parts of the trip, the billboards and signs were written only in Arabic. When we would drop people off in their settlements, we would have to pass through check points with armored patrols waiting for us, showing clearly that places like Maalei Levonah and Shiloh are not in the most safe of areas. Even Ariel had a check point at the entrance.

Overall, Shabbos was very relaxing. The local university is situated on the top of a mountain overlooking a huge valley. Across the valley are Arab villages, which look like stars at night. It was a very nice and easy way to spend Shabbos. I enjoyed seeing my friend, as we hadn't seen each other in quite a while. The only distraction was that everyone was dati leumi, or "national religious" (most like American Modern Orthodox). Being chareidi, I stuck out plainly, and when I used clear Ashkenazi (eastern European) pronunciation when I was called to the Torah, a few people snickered at this overt non-Israeliness. When I asked about the location, and whether or not students feel worried there, my response was, "Oh, actually I've never wanted to look at Ariel's location on a map. The less I know, the better I feel." And so it goes...



On the way back, a large group of "settlers" got on the bus in Shiloh. These settlers stand out because of their unique look: men with long, unkempt pey'ot (sidelocks near their ears), large knitted yarmulkes, and women wearing flowy dresses with large turban-like tichels (scarves used to cover the hair of married women). For both men and women, two things are the same: sandals and rifles. One of the settlers sat next to me, dressed in his army uniform, rifle on his shoulder, and holding a baby in each arm. The difference was interesting: me, black suit and hat, on my way back to a yeshiva that goes out of its way to speak of "eretz Yisroel" (the land of Israel) instead of "medinat Yisrael" (the state of Israel), and a chardal (chareidi dati leumi, or ultra-orthodox national religious) soldier traveling with his wife, two babies, and gun to report back to defending the medina (state). All the while the two of us are sitting next to one another, our bus wove through the hills dotted with Arab villages sporting Palestinian and Jordanian flags at the entrances.

I've heard people say that the relationship between the "Torah world" (world of ultra-Orthodox Jewry) living in Israel and the assortment of Zionist groups is the same as the relationship between the shevet (tribe) of Zevulun and that of Yissachar. In that relationship, one group sustained the world by devoting their lives to learning Torah, with the other shevet supporting them by earning money to support them. In the modern case, though, it is interesting to see how the ones supposed receiving the help are so withdrawn, and in most cases opposed, to those offering protection. As we see it, if all Jews would simply live a life according to Torah and true Judaism, the world opinion could not help but be in favor of Israel, and security would come simpy through the light of true Torah. However, the Zionists and soldiers say that since this cannot be at the current time, hey must do the job until then....and so goes the circle. The unreligious and misguidedly religious army exists to offer safety needed because so many Jews are unreligious and misguided.

Finally, after 90 minutes on the road, we arrived back into Jerusalem. As we approached the central bus station, I once again felt at home, seeing men frocked in black scurry behind strollers (dodging HAIL!! A rare sight in Israel.) on streets and sidewalks packed with those who have found a way to live in the medina without being part of it. Ha'lavai.

Say What?

My arrival and first days in Yerushalayim (Jerusalem) have been nice. My location is incredible, as I am in the center of the city, and really not far from anything of interest. The first day here, I took a trip to the Yam HaMelach (Dead Sea) with a few other people, and it was a nice, relaxing way to start my time here. The yeshiva is relaxing, even though the learning is fairly constant. The people are diverse, and everyone is very nice and talkative. It will take me a little while to get used to the rosh yeshiva (dean of the institution) though. He’s fairly charismatic, and with a proper British accent, is very intimidating. He has an aura about him, and coupled with the rosh yeshiva-niks who follow him around, has a real command in the yeshiva. As the rosh yeshiva is British, so are many of the students. In my apartment, there are two Americans, two people from England, one person from Switzerland, and one from Australia. The yeshiva itself is equally as diverse, with Americans maybe making up half of the students, and the rest being largely from England or Australia.

Because the yeshiva is so diverse, a lot of attention is given to what we say, how we speak, and how we understand each other. The Americans often have to pause to think about what the British students mean, and the British students often have the same issue with the Americans. With the international slang flying around at every turn, some of us wait with great anticipation for the day when a someone British asks for fifty quid (a term for money), and instead receives fifty squid. The same is true in regard to interacting with most of the Israelis here. While many people in Israel are at least marginally fluent in English, they often do not understand what Americans are saying. This can lead to all sorts of disasters in taxi rides, shopping, and eating. I often wonder if butchering my English and faking a strong Israeli accent would bring me any closer to getting what I need.

The caution with which we need to choose our words in the yeshiva and Israel brings up an integral value in Judaism. Watching our speech, or “Shmiras HaLoshon”, is an important concept in Judaism. We are taught that when we do something negative, we create a malach (“angel”, or spiritual force) that has the ability to testify to our misdeeds. Because each quality can only create the same quality in the malach created, those created by actions cannot testify and say why they were created. However, when one speaks loshon hora (gossip), since the misdeed itself is verbal, the malach created has the ability to be verbal. Therefore, not only can it say why it was created, but it can also point out why each of the other malochim were created as well. This means we need to be extra careful about what we say, how we say it, and what extra lasting impact our words have on the world.

Ain't That America...

John (Johnny Cougar, John Cougar, John Cougar Mellencamp... whatever he's going by these days) Mellencamp was right when he sang that America is something to see. We've got something for everyone: karaoke songs for the Japanese, disaster recovery for Mexican "migrant workers", democracy for the assorted villainous dictatorships, and factory jobs for people in whichever country can lower their standards fast enough. Apparently, what we've got for Israel is chocolate chip cookies.


While having a quick lunch at the local kosher deli before hopping my flight to Brooklyn "Ir HaKodesh" (the Holy City), I looked around to see if there were any snacks I might like to take on the plane. My favorite airline (or should I say "jetline"?) recently stopped giving the snack that lured me to using them, so I thought I might supplement the emptiness with something. As I am a very picky eater, I have to be careful when buying things that I've never eaten before. After grabbing a few things, my eyes made their way to a bag of chocolate chip cookies with only Hebrew writing. The writing said "kmo b'amerika" (like in America), so I thought, "Sounds safe enough to me". While waiting in the terminal to board my flight, I opened the bag of cookies. As I put the first cookie into my mouth, the initial shock of extreme hardness subsided as the cookie turned to sawdust with the first bite. "Is this what Israelis think American cookies taste like?!?!" I wondered, as I quickly tossed the bag into the trash. Like someone with memory loss, I failed to remember a vital lesson: the remake is rarely as good as the original, if the original is even any good in the first place.

This tiny experience made me think about how representative it is of all American exports. We are quick to give work to "migrant workers" that flood communities after disasters, but how many Americans do we have sitting at home without jobs? As far as exporting democracy, do I even have to write about the outcomes? Not only have we failed to understand what it takes to create a stable democracy (Hello, middle class anyone?), but we have become so self-righteous that we ignore our own past and criticize others. The late, great Kurt Vonnegut said it best when he explained the lesson he wanted to give Iraq about democracy. "... after a hundred years, you have to let your slaves go. And, after a hundred and fifty years, you have to let your women vote. And, at the beginning, quite a bit of genocide and ethnic cleansing is quite okay, and that's what's going on now." Said mockingly, Vonnegut's words are sadly true. From the period of our country's stance of isolationism, we have become the exporters of everything hip and trendy, but people on both sides rarely see the underlying results of what we give them. Southeast Asian countries would rather have American factories destroy their entire domestic wildlife and landscape than see a factory built in another country. Well, I suppose local people will need that 10¢ an hour to buy food once the pollution kills off local vegetation (let's forget "cause and effect", because it seems most people have). I will, however, offer a warning to these consumers who are new to the global market: when you start seeing the "Vietnamese noodles with fresh vegetables" packages in your (recently) local grocer's freezer, and you take them home to heat them up in your (newly needed) microwave, remember that the remake is never as good as the original.

Look At Me!! Look At Me!!

Look at me! I started a blog!


I hope to use this as a way to keep those in America in touch with my time in Israel. However rare or often I get the chance, I will update with thoughts and pictures in relation to what's going on in my life, Israel, yeshiva, or just whatever happens to be floating around in my head.



It is such a fascinating time to be going to Israel! The political scientist inside of me is excited to be a direct witness to a war and an election. Watching the election process in America is interesting enough, but my heart can barely contain the joy of observing the process in a country with such a volatile political landscape! The war, while perhaps frightening, is far enough away to not be felt directly, but still present enough to be acknowledged. As the year goes on, I'm (sadly) sure that violence and politics will play a role in what I write. I will also have the chance to watch America from the outside. While I never miss a chance to divert from popular opinion and criticize America, I don't necessarily think that an outsider's view will make me more critical; perhaps the opposite will be true. Seeing the export of ideas, feeling the importance of the American government for stability in Israel, and recognizing that no country is like America may give me a previously unknown sense of pride. However, my removal from a bombardment of (understandable) media outlets may cause many of the events to go unnoticed.

Living in Israel is likely to transform my views on Israel. While I recognize the legitimacy of Israel as a state, and understand that the country was born out of an international tragedy, I have a hard time feeling comfortable with the notion of a "modern" Jewish state. From the foundation of the the current state, huge mistakes were made with regard to refugees, and Israel continues to suffer from these mistakes. Even today, Israel continues to (in my opinion) compromise where they should stand firm, while being strong where they have room to compromise. I also have religious pause in relation to the State of Israel, as the Talmud in Kesubos makes a strong statement with regard to the appropriate time for the creation of a "Jewish state". However, whether religiously sanctioned or not, the State of Israel is important to Jews, and any true threat to her security is a sakana for klal Yisroel. The balancing of these ideas, and the standpoint of a person who depends upon Israel for safety may change as my time and experiences grow.

My religious knowledge, though certainly not limited or immature, will certainly be expanded while in Israel. Attending a chareidi (ultra-Orthodox) yeshiva is sure to help in this expansion. However, since the yeshiva is so integrated into the local neighborhood, with classrooms, synagogues, and residential apartments (all belonging to the yeshiva) being spread all over the area, I will surely perceive my interesting location. The neighborhood of the yeshiva is one of the oldest neighborhoods outside of the Old City, having been built two centuries ago by followers of the Gra (Gaon of Vilna) who left Lithuania. Over the years, the area has undergone growth, making it a crossroads for religious and secular Jerusalem. To the west and northwest of the neighborhood, the city is largely religious, with complete modesty and religious observance. However, to the south and east are located areas with mostly secular (traditional at best) residents, and the bustling center of Jerusalem is mere blocks away.

All of these things and more will be written about during the course of my stay. I hope to use this medium to share my trip with you more fully, so that you get a more "inside" sense of whats happening.