Yesterday, I took my final exam for my Ulpan (Hebrew Intensive Course) in Haifa, and as I was writing the essay at the end, I suddenly found that I had the words. Well at least more words. Before getting to the Ulpan I could have conjugated verbs until the day I died, knew a smattering of verbs and nouns and adjectives, but couldn’t spit out much in the way of sentences that went beyond ‘I love my family’, and ‘this is a good book.’ Although at the end of Uplan I hadn’t gone through a magical transformation into a fully functional, all-Hebrew-knowing Israeli look-and-sound-alike, when I wrote that essay there were words coming out of my pen almost as easily as if they were in English. The usually pain-staking work of carving out ten to fifteen sentences from my limited vocabulary was not so full of anguish this time.
I had been worried throughout my month in Uplan that this stuff was just not sinking in, that it was hopeless to try to learn a language where every word sounds like every other word and there are three letters that sounds like an H that are basically indecipherable to me but made my Israeli teacher squirm when I put too much or too little H in it. But somehow it seems that, without even fully realizing it, that I have built a foundation for myself, that from here maybe it will be easier to learn because I have learned the basics and understand how to speak about the present, past, and future. When a waitress speaks to me in a restaurant or a woman asks to sit with me on a bus or to take my feet of the seat (which has happened more than once actually), I may not understand every word, but I’m beginning to get the picture and even a few key words can help me navigate what was before a completely foreign and unintelligible sentence or question.
And as I ascended into the Jerusalem hills yesterday, looking out the bus window, equipped with my new, better, larger, though still quite inadequate vocabulary, I felt…jubilant. I felt like I was coming back home. My heart swelled, and I couldn’t help but smile as I saw the illuminated path that lay before me. I have been a nomad for the past two months, travelling across this beautiful, confusing, foreign country. I have slept in Bedouin tents with a cool evening breeze and university dorms in the most humid part of Israel without the luxury of fans or air conditioning. I’ve hiked Masada, ridden a camel, lost my wallet and gained enormous amounts of perspective. But driving into Jerusalem on this green coach bus brought me some of the greatest joy I’ve felt in Israel to date. I have come home and I am ready to begin the true journey inside of myself that I have been longing for ever since setting my sights on coming to Israel one year ago, or maybe even before. I am so ready. In these two short months I have gone through immeasurable changes and considered ways of life that I used to mock or laugh at or even deplore before and I have become stronger and wiser, but also have come to realize how far I have to go. And I can’t wait to begin.
I have a friend who came to Israel and started Yeshiva (school for Torah study) right away, and I also have realized how grateful I am that I got to do everything else before and didn’t just dive into study. I now know about the bars in Tel Aviv and the beaches in Eilat and the restaurants in Haifa, and I also know that I want so much more than that. I’ve had two months to experience it and to feel that emptiness that sits within me as I sip a cranberry and vodka in a bar with its walls vibrating, scantily clad women and predatory men searching for nothing special to the beat of the unbearably loud music that barely allows you to hear and the dim lights that barely allow you to see. And I saw the irony there. And the emptiness. And have also felt its pull. But when I drove into Jerusalem, a brighter, more holy pull rushed through me, almost commanding me to be smarter and stronger and better so that I could then reap the pleasures and joys and triumphs of truth and knowledge and belief.
Jerusalem just has this way of opening me up and slicing through my doubts and fears, and I think it is because it’s a place where people have gone for thousands of years to do exactly what I’m doing. I’m just one in a line of millions of souls searching for something greater and more whole. And it’s as if when I come into Jerusalem I can feel those millions of souls resonating at my frequency, singing and searching with me. There is a lot of hate here, there are bad people and good people, religious and secular, Arabs and Jews, but there is something else here that transcends all of that which I cannot describe except to say that the air is filled with…potential. And I can’t help but breathe it in.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
The World is in the Words
In the past two days I have embarked upon a voyage, a ‘journey’ if you will, to learn Hebrew. I am in Haifa, a beautiful and mountainous city in Northern Israel, full of beaches and hills and now about 190 students of all ages and nationalities who want to learn to read, speak, and write the national language all in the next month. It’s one of the best programs of its kind in the country and people really have come from all over to learn here. I already have friends and/or acquaintances from Denmark, Finland, France, Holland, Germany, Czech Republic, Egypt, Italy, and the list goes on. One of the main reasons I decided to come to Haifa is that it is one of the only parts of Israel where Arabs and Jews live in relative peace and even sometimes camaraderie. The University I’m studying with, the University of Haifa, is known as a leading University in studying and working for peace. This is a part of Israel that I have really wanted to see because considering all of the doom and gloom in the papers and around some parts of Israel, I wanted to see a different situation. In the dorms I’m staying in, there are both Jewish and Muslim students, and there are no dirty looks or angry shouts…there seems to be no tension at all. Everyone is just off to learn as themselves. It seems so easy to coexist in this peaceful microcosm, but it’s as if most of the rest of the Middle East is blind to such possibilities. More on that can be found at nytimes.com, cnn.com, jpost.com, etc. You don’t need me to tell you.
What I can tell you though, is about what I’ve experienced so far in my intensive language classes, and outside of them. We have five hours of Hebrew classes five days a week. I am in level 5 out of 15. Basically, this means that I know very little, but I know more than 4 out of 15 people here, or less than 10 out of 15 people here (for the glass half-empty people). The classes are good and I’m comfortable in my level. There are people who are struggling more than me and a few who are doing better, so I think I’m a good fit. Though it is a very different situation for me than in Jerusalem, where I am constantly taking the religious and the spiritual into account.
Haifa is a relatively secular city, and although of course there are religious people, it lacks the overwhelming visual references to Judaism and Orthodoxy. Gone are the wigs, long skirts, and long sleeves from the women and off are the black hats, black coats, and long sideburns (called peyus) from the men. It is a city just like any other city in America, just all of the signs and conversations are in Hebrew. And the toiletries are more expensive. But anyway, the point is that I’m not having mystical experiences by just being here as seemed to be the case in Jerusalem. I’m working much harder for my divine revelations.
Really, so far, nothing major has happened. I have not gone all the way up the mountain, but I have not gone all the way down it either. I am just concentrating on my studies and cramming as many words and phrases as possible into my head. This is where my most interesting thoughts come from: words. Tonight I took a walk just outside of the university gates just as the sun was setting and I sat down on a bench to try to digest all of the knowledge, people, and words that I have encountered in the last few days. And I was thinking about how little Hebrew I know, about how little I can communicate in this foreign, very confusing, tongue. And it dawned on me how much we take our words for granted. How I can say, usually, what I’m feeling and what I want and need without great effort or aggravation. With words, the world is at my fingertips. At least the English-speaking world. And this is where it stops. When I need something or feel something, I many times cannot express that need or feeling in Hebrew. I can say “I want,” and “I feel,” but I simply do not know the rest of the sentence. And so I must pantomime and improvise, but cannot at this point convey almost anything important in Hebrew. I rely on the kindness of strangers who have already taken the time to learn my language to get along. And it is the words that I am missing, the words that I know in English and (usually) even in Spanish, that hold the most power. Because I do not have them. And how can you learn all of the words in a month? A few months? Most likely I can’t, no matter how highly acclaimed the program may be.
In Judaism as well as in Yoga (Hinduism) and other religions and belief systems, there is great attention paid to our words and the ways in which we use them. It is a truth universally acknowledged that words hold great creative power. And that I cannot use mine in many situations is debilitating and isolates me from the world I live in and the people who surround me.
Not to worry though, I am not being paralyzed by my fear, I have not become incapable of receiving information or memorizing, I have just become keenly aware of how vast the world is, and how, by having the words, we have the ability to pare it down, to make sense of it all. And how, when we don’t have the words, there is less sense, less understanding, less comfort, less peace.
So, as I slowly begin to gain the words over this month and the months to come, I hope that with these words come all of these things that in many ways I feel that I lack here. I hope that once these words become my own, this place and these people will become my own, too. That I will be able to express my needs and thoughts and feelings, and equally importantly, that others will be able to express themselves to me.
What I can tell you though, is about what I’ve experienced so far in my intensive language classes, and outside of them. We have five hours of Hebrew classes five days a week. I am in level 5 out of 15. Basically, this means that I know very little, but I know more than 4 out of 15 people here, or less than 10 out of 15 people here (for the glass half-empty people). The classes are good and I’m comfortable in my level. There are people who are struggling more than me and a few who are doing better, so I think I’m a good fit. Though it is a very different situation for me than in Jerusalem, where I am constantly taking the religious and the spiritual into account.
Haifa is a relatively secular city, and although of course there are religious people, it lacks the overwhelming visual references to Judaism and Orthodoxy. Gone are the wigs, long skirts, and long sleeves from the women and off are the black hats, black coats, and long sideburns (called peyus) from the men. It is a city just like any other city in America, just all of the signs and conversations are in Hebrew. And the toiletries are more expensive. But anyway, the point is that I’m not having mystical experiences by just being here as seemed to be the case in Jerusalem. I’m working much harder for my divine revelations.
Really, so far, nothing major has happened. I have not gone all the way up the mountain, but I have not gone all the way down it either. I am just concentrating on my studies and cramming as many words and phrases as possible into my head. This is where my most interesting thoughts come from: words. Tonight I took a walk just outside of the university gates just as the sun was setting and I sat down on a bench to try to digest all of the knowledge, people, and words that I have encountered in the last few days. And I was thinking about how little Hebrew I know, about how little I can communicate in this foreign, very confusing, tongue. And it dawned on me how much we take our words for granted. How I can say, usually, what I’m feeling and what I want and need without great effort or aggravation. With words, the world is at my fingertips. At least the English-speaking world. And this is where it stops. When I need something or feel something, I many times cannot express that need or feeling in Hebrew. I can say “I want,” and “I feel,” but I simply do not know the rest of the sentence. And so I must pantomime and improvise, but cannot at this point convey almost anything important in Hebrew. I rely on the kindness of strangers who have already taken the time to learn my language to get along. And it is the words that I am missing, the words that I know in English and (usually) even in Spanish, that hold the most power. Because I do not have them. And how can you learn all of the words in a month? A few months? Most likely I can’t, no matter how highly acclaimed the program may be.
In Judaism as well as in Yoga (Hinduism) and other religions and belief systems, there is great attention paid to our words and the ways in which we use them. It is a truth universally acknowledged that words hold great creative power. And that I cannot use mine in many situations is debilitating and isolates me from the world I live in and the people who surround me.
Not to worry though, I am not being paralyzed by my fear, I have not become incapable of receiving information or memorizing, I have just become keenly aware of how vast the world is, and how, by having the words, we have the ability to pare it down, to make sense of it all. And how, when we don’t have the words, there is less sense, less understanding, less comfort, less peace.
So, as I slowly begin to gain the words over this month and the months to come, I hope that with these words come all of these things that in many ways I feel that I lack here. I hope that once these words become my own, this place and these people will become my own, too. That I will be able to express my needs and thoughts and feelings, and equally importantly, that others will be able to express themselves to me.
Monday, August 4, 2008
The 42 Journeys
Every week of the year there is a parshah, or portion, of the Torah that is assigned, read, discussed, and questioned by Jews all over the world. Not all Jews do this of course, but the ones who do are all reading and discussing the same words and many are navigating the same thoughts and theories about what the portion means, what the practical messages are, and what deeper, hidden meanings can be uncovered and illuminated. Right now we are in the part of the Torah where the Jews are in exile in the desert and they are going on many journeys. 42, to be exact. And where is the final resting place? Israel, of course. The homeland of Jewish existence and the highest place for us on Earth.
On their journeys towards Israel, the Jews do go to 42 physical places, but more importantly, they learn something important and vital to their growth and maturity in each one. It's an interesting way to count your journeys, to count by what you learned instead of what you saw or did. For me, to think about Be'er Sheva as the place where I learned to clearly see the part of me that yearns for the middle instead of the place where I went to a street fair, transcribed some interviews, went to an archaeological site...I think that's a much more meaningful memory. The Torah teaches us that each journey is not only to a physical place, it is a journey towards greater understanding, the opportunity to build a step, to move up, to become more.
I've been a veritable gypsy since coming to Israel. I've been all over this crazy country without stopping for more than a few days, with one exception of a week and a half in Jerusalem. It's hard not having a home, not having a place to lay my head, have my things, feel secure and comfortable in my own space. I've had to make a place for myself in Bedouin tents made of goat hair (water proof, apparently), hotels, hostels, guest rooms, side rooms. It is a difficult life when there is no routine to keep me grounded and stable, but at the same time I realize that these have been some of my 42 journeys. And Israel may not be the final step for me, as it was for my ancestors.
But, as I said, it's not about the physical place itself, it's about what you learn there. And Israel is my place of conquering fears and desires and maybe a place for learning to build a home in my heart since I do not always have the same four walls surrounding me. It's like the bedouin tents that they can take apart and rebuild whenever, wherever. There are no bricks or stones to keep it intact forever, but maybe I don't need forever right now as I journey outside of myself and, simultaneously, inside of myself. In these hectic five weeks I have found myself floating without roots, and it has really illustrated my need for some sort of routine that goes beyond having the same bed and going to the same restaurants and friends' houses. I need an inner, travel-friendly discipline and routine so that I may feel at home, controlled, and grounded wherever I am. So I am beginning to read the morning prayers every morning as a way of starting each day the same, no matter what bed I slept in or situation I've flung myself (or been flung) into. Because, as much as I want to believe that I don't need a home, that I'm an intrepid wanderer and adventurer, I have found that I do very deeply and intensely need some place, some thing, some ritual to call home.
I am coming to a place now where I am beginning to slow down. I'm at the University of Haifa for a month to learn Hebrew (the more important lessons TBA) and then to Seminary for ten months. I will be taking longer stays, building more sturdy foundations, but not my final house. And so I will need to keep building that inner foundation along the way. And I look forward to my 42 journeys inside of myself that are to come, that are already in progress. Although I have a feeling I will need more than 42 to get where I'm going.
On their journeys towards Israel, the Jews do go to 42 physical places, but more importantly, they learn something important and vital to their growth and maturity in each one. It's an interesting way to count your journeys, to count by what you learned instead of what you saw or did. For me, to think about Be'er Sheva as the place where I learned to clearly see the part of me that yearns for the middle instead of the place where I went to a street fair, transcribed some interviews, went to an archaeological site...I think that's a much more meaningful memory. The Torah teaches us that each journey is not only to a physical place, it is a journey towards greater understanding, the opportunity to build a step, to move up, to become more.
I've been a veritable gypsy since coming to Israel. I've been all over this crazy country without stopping for more than a few days, with one exception of a week and a half in Jerusalem. It's hard not having a home, not having a place to lay my head, have my things, feel secure and comfortable in my own space. I've had to make a place for myself in Bedouin tents made of goat hair (water proof, apparently), hotels, hostels, guest rooms, side rooms. It is a difficult life when there is no routine to keep me grounded and stable, but at the same time I realize that these have been some of my 42 journeys. And Israel may not be the final step for me, as it was for my ancestors.
But, as I said, it's not about the physical place itself, it's about what you learn there. And Israel is my place of conquering fears and desires and maybe a place for learning to build a home in my heart since I do not always have the same four walls surrounding me. It's like the bedouin tents that they can take apart and rebuild whenever, wherever. There are no bricks or stones to keep it intact forever, but maybe I don't need forever right now as I journey outside of myself and, simultaneously, inside of myself. In these hectic five weeks I have found myself floating without roots, and it has really illustrated my need for some sort of routine that goes beyond having the same bed and going to the same restaurants and friends' houses. I need an inner, travel-friendly discipline and routine so that I may feel at home, controlled, and grounded wherever I am. So I am beginning to read the morning prayers every morning as a way of starting each day the same, no matter what bed I slept in or situation I've flung myself (or been flung) into. Because, as much as I want to believe that I don't need a home, that I'm an intrepid wanderer and adventurer, I have found that I do very deeply and intensely need some place, some thing, some ritual to call home.
I am coming to a place now where I am beginning to slow down. I'm at the University of Haifa for a month to learn Hebrew (the more important lessons TBA) and then to Seminary for ten months. I will be taking longer stays, building more sturdy foundations, but not my final house. And so I will need to keep building that inner foundation along the way. And I look forward to my 42 journeys inside of myself that are to come, that are already in progress. Although I have a feeling I will need more than 42 to get where I'm going.
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