Читать книгу The Mystery of You - Adin Steinsaltz - Страница 9
3: Continuity
ОглавлениеWhat is continuity? Why should one want to continue? Continue what? And what about Jewish continuity?
First one has to define what is “Jewish”. One is either born to a Jewish mother, or can convert Halachically12 and thus join the Jewish people. Anyone can become Jewish.
12 From Halacha – the collective body of Jewish religious law, including Biblical law (the 613 mitzvot) and later Talmudic and rabbinic law, as well as customs and traditions.
What is “being Jewish”?
Obviously, being Jewish is deeper than eating chicken soup or listening to Jewish music. Jewish culture is very interesting and absorbing for some; but in which period of history and within which geographical location?
A Frenchman is French to the end, as is an Englishman; but what about their grandchildren who emigrate to Canada or to Sweden? What is the identity of a person living in Germany whose great-grandparent was born in Morocco, or of an Iranian family that moved to Argentina, Peru or Brazil a hundred years ago? And how would you define a South African immigrant to Australia whose family had originally lived in Holland or Russia for centuries? And what about the children of such a person?
There is no end to the possibilities: marriage between a Spaniard and an Italian; the offspring of a Yemenite father and an Indian mother; a third-generation Chinese living in the US, or a seventh generation Ugandan African working in the Congo …
If this approach to identity were the true definition of “being Jewish”, then Jewish continuity would have been gone long, long ago. All the world’s great ancient civilisations have left behind some relics, but no readily identifiable descendants. We can visit the remains of ancient Rome, climb the Parthenon in Athens and enter the pyramids in Egypt. There are magnificent, exciting, enchanting and breathtaking ruins of great civilisations in Peru, Mexico, Guatemala, Cambodia and elsewhere – but where are the offspring of those who created them?
When we compare ourselves to every other people and civilisation, we find out that we Jews have defied every possible parameter of history and logic and all the standards of self-preservation.
But Jewish continuity is not about living in the past; rather, it is all about the future connecting with the past through the present. It is about caring, sharing and belief. It is about quality of life, spiritually and physically. Rather than ignoring or negating materialism, Judaism contains it – without worshipping it. Its truth and power are components of a lifestyle which does not allow them to be used for the mere exploitation of others. It contains justice and righteousness. It values the future even more than the present. Its focus is the priorities and commitment of the group, beyond individual self- interests; caring and sharing.
We all like to feel good about ourselves and some of us even like to feel good about others, but so what? We say that people should be “good people”, but what does this mean?
Is this a modern-day phenomenon, “A Current Affair”? Not really! It has been alive and relevant in each and every generation throughout history. Even way back, in Biblical times, our ancestors were confronted by the same issues. Throughout the Book of Genesis, the “Jewish People” are called the “Children of Israel”. They were then an extended family. In a certain sense, the Jewish people have always remained an extended family. By calling ourselves “the Children of Israel” we declare ourselves the descendants of the family of our patriarch Jacob (also named “Israel”) – his “twelve tribes”. Our patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, were real human beings. This was their continuity.
At the very end of Bereishit (Genesis), Joseph dies in Egypt. Joseph – one of Jacob’s sons, brother of twelve and father of two of the “twelve tribes of Israel”, the man who became the right hand of the great Pharaoh of Egypt and who was instrumental in saving Egypt from the great famine, thus making Egypt the mighty nation that it became – that wonderful, outstanding human being died.
The Second Book of the Bible, the Book of Exodus, opens with a short genealogy of the family of Jacob – all seventy members of this family, relating that they reproduced and prospered. Then a new Egyptian king, who became a tyrant, redefined “the people of the Children of Israel” as some kind of a mighty nation which was a terrible threat to Egypt:
… and he said to his people: Behold, the people of the children of Israel are more and mightier than we. Come, let us deal wisely with them; lest they multiply and it come to pass that, when any war should chance, they also join our enemies and fight against us … therefore they set over them task masters to afflict them.
(Exodus 1:8-11)
Does Pharaoh’s proposition sound familiar? That is because it resembles the ideas of so many dictators and despots throughout history and to this very day.
Moses, who led the People of Israel (“the congregation of the Children of Israel”) out of Egypt and took them to the Land of Israel, was a descendant of Levi, another one of Jacob’s sons. In the Book of Deuteronomy, Moses refers to his people collectively as “Israel”. The entire basis for the existence of the people of Israel is recounted in terms of continuity. The concept of nationhood was introduced by Moses only after the Children of Israel had received the Torah and were about to enter the Land of Israel.
Who or what defines Jewish identity? Do we Jews define this for ourselves, or is it our enemies who define it for us?
For most people, the idea of identity is quite simple, at least superficially. If you don’t have to think about it too deeply, you can easily believe that who you are and how you feel is pretty obvious, that it really isn’t an issue.
But is that really so? And is it equally true for Jews?
We know that even our close friends, extended families and children have their own unique feelings and ideas about things, which are influenced by their own unique life experiences, personalities and other factors.
Let’s see: at the outset, we were a family. The first man in history to define us as a nation was Pharaoh, but he did so in a very negative sense. Moses’ positive definition of Jewish nationhood came only much later, towards the end of the forty years in the desert.
During those forty years of wandering in the desert we encountered other tribes, nations and kingdoms, some of whom were our blood relations. But despite that and in spite of our peaceful requests, we were refused safe passage through their territories and we were also ambushed, attacked and plotted against.
This phenomenon of demonising minority groups has recurred throughout history and is very much alive today; it has even become fashionable in our times.
Now Hamas is sending suicide bombers and launching missiles into civilian areas in modern-day Israel – and blames it on the “Zionist occupation”. Whenever Israelis try to defend themselves, they are “the aggressor”. When they send humanitarian aid to Hamas, they are “interfering”. If they employ Palestinian workers, they are “exploiters”. If they do not employ them, they are “racists” and guilty of creating “a humanitarian crisis”.
Confusing, isn’t it? Indeed, with this in the background and in the context of our modern, multicultural environment, it is small wonder that so many among us are indeed becoming confused about the definition of who and what we are.
There is no question that our enemies have played an important role in our Jewish continuity. By trying to define us as who we are not, they keep reminding us of who we are. They challenge us and force us to make “identity decisions”. This is certainly true for Jews at the fringes, but it is also valid for Jews at the core, those with a strong Jewish identity; they too are provoked by this, at least to some extent.
Sometimes it happens that rather than provoking and attacking us, our enemies entice us. When that occurs, many of us are only too happy to run to them. There is nothing like being accepted. Hellenisation in olden times and open, tolerant democracies today, have made assimilation so easy. Paradoxically, oppressive societies that harass, cloister, murder or expel their minorities, often make us want to be more like ourselves.
Assimilation occurs when the “pull” or “push” factors are stronger than the ties to what was. Wanting to “feel good” about ourselves and even more than that – wanting others to “feel good” about us, does not help us with continuity. Because although we should feel good about our identity, our identity is not a “feel good”. We must value our identity, knowing what it is, identifying with it, understanding and living what it really entails: its rights and its responsibilities, its past, future and present.
The way in which we live in the present affects our future. If our past influences our choices in the present, then our future becomes better defined.
This is what Jewish continuity is about.
All those who choose to belong to the family which is the People of Israel and are active participants in the life of this family, stand a good chance that our children, too, will be the Children of Israel.
Are you a link in the chain or a broken link? Was your grandmother Jewish? Will your grandchild also remain Jewish? How important is this to you? Why?
The two of us walked through the Jaffa Gate into the Old City of Jerusalem. It was late morning on a pleasant late February day, just five hours before my flight out of Israel.
Avi, a distant relative, had specially driven up to Jerusalem from Ramat Hasharon, a “yuppie” northern Tel Aviv suburb about an hour’s drive away. It takes one hour to cross Israel by car from west to east across its most densely populated part.
I felt happy and sad at the same time: happy to be in Israel and sad to be leaving. Avi had arranged to spend a few more hours with me during this visit and had kindly offered to drop me at the airport on his way home. I had already checked out of my hotel and my bags were safely stowed in the boot of Avi’s car.
We walked and we talked.
We took the way through the Old City Souk, the traditional Arab market – a narrow, mainly undercover stone alley flanked on both sides by little shops, alive with colour, sounds and smells, and filled with all kinds of people. There were a few shoppers here and there, vastly outnumbered by shopkeepers vainly but persistently trying to attract attention to their wares. Then there were crowds of people trying to hurry through in both directions. It was a colourful experience.
After about fifteen minutes we came to a security checkpoint which we were checked through; and then, there it stood, just down below us across a beautiful stone-paved square: the Kotel. Generations of Jews have both mourned and dreamt of the Kotel, which attracts thousands of visitors every day of the year.
I excused myself from Avi for about ten minutes. I walked down, washed my hands in a ritual manner from the water fountain nearby, using a plastic cup, and approached. It was time for Minchah (the afternoon prayer, the second service out of the routine three daily prayers).
Before opening my prayer book, I found myself leaning towards the wall, resting my forehead onto one of its large stones, my eyes closed. An eternity of time passed, although my wristwatch showed the passage of but a few moments. Another kind of relativity of time.
Strong emotions stirred inside me. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. My mind was devoid of thoughts. Somehow I felt my spiritual being separated from the mundane. I prayed and I thanked G-d for all of His goodness and for everything in my life. Minchah followed.
This was a Minchah! I could hear and feel every word. My voice was singing these beautiful sentences and paragraphs. The Hebrew felt so deep and meaningful. There was nothing else but Minchah; no other thoughts, no other people. Just me by myself, but I was not alone. I felt fulfilled, enlightened, happy and sad, all at the same time.
When I was ready, I moved away from the Kotel and returned to the open plaza where Avi joined me. Avi said that he had been watching me. He saw me leaning with my head against the wall. He envies people who have faith, he said, but he himself does not.
As we walked back through the Souk to Avi’s car we talked a lot about this.
I asked him what he thought this experience had meant to me. He said with some conviction and authority in his voice that that was my place. He explained that when I was in Australia, I was far away and missed being here. It was only here that I was somehow close. He continued to tell me that he himself didn’t really feel anything much at all when he was there at the Kotel. In his opinion, a person is better off finding a partner in life with whom he can feel happy rather than a coreligionist who would make him unhappy. He said that all too often, religion causes unnecessary problems and divisions between people. It is much better to have a friend who brings happiness, he said, even if that friend is from another culture – although he conceded that a coreligionist can also bring happiness.
I thought that one thing had nothing to do with the other. Happiness comes and goes. A person can be extremely happy one day and feel most unhappy the next. Happiness is a “now thing”. It also seems to me that a person is more likely to find long-term happiness, contentment and fulfilment with a partner of a similar background and culture than with someone very different, especially when children and family become involved in everyday life, or in the long term, as we age.
The longer term and the short term!
Now I asked Avi if he was interested to know what the Kotel really meant to me, as it was very different from what he had thought. He said yes. I explained that he had never seen me pray my daily Shacharit (morning service). To me, it is always fairly much the same, but special; of course, sometimes it may not be quite as deep and spiritual as at other times; but in any case, I never feel properly dressed in the morning without my Shacharit. My Shacharit is the same at home in Australia as it is in America, Europe, Israel or East Timor – it is the same anywhere and everywhere in the world. The Kotel does have a very deep and sentimental meaning which enhanced my experience; but, it is not its stones that created that enhancement.
I said to Avi that both of us were here as children of Holocaust survivors. We were both part of a continuity of a people that has survived for over two thousand years of exile and dispersion in many parts of the world. Our survival defied logic. Whether we agreed or disagreed with organised religion and whether or not we felt part of it was not the point. The point was that our children and their children, our grandchildren and our future generations, all form part of this continuity.
Avi replied that his identity was anchored in Israel; this was all that mattered to him. He did not need religion, he said, as he simply did not have any feelings for religion nor belief in G-d. When his children were young and asked him, their father, if G-d existed, he had answered that he could not really tell them yes or no.
I told him that there are many people in the world who think the same way as he does and that at least he and his children are lucky to be living in Israel, because there they generally mix with an Israeli Jewish society and thus have some kind of identity. Elsewhere this is more problematic.
For me the Kotel represents Jewish continuity and connects the present with the past as well as with the future. When I prayed at the Kotel I felt a close togetherness with my people; in my prayers, I was praying with them through history and eternity. I was not alone. I was an individual – and at the same time also a part of the Jewish nation. I felt part of Jewish continuity. I acutely experienced myself as being closely intertwined with a congregation of Jewish souls; I felt this on a spiritual level, very far from any physical experiences.
We then walked back to Avi’s car and drove to Abu Ghosh, an Arab village, where one can get the best humus in all Israel, according to Avi. An hour later I sat in the King David lounge at Ben Gurion airport, as my flight was delayed due to demonstrations in Frankfurt, where President Bush was visiting …
I sat in the lounge, sipping on a glass of red wine. I was reminiscing. I closed my eyes and thought about Avi and Abu Ghosh. I dozed. I was back at the Kotel. I felt as if I were at home on Shabbat.
Over the years we have enjoyed the company of many people in our home as well as when we are away, or invited out. You see, Shabbat is Shabbat everywhere we are and everywhere we go.
It is never important to us how people arrive or leave, except that they are safe and as comfortable and as happy as we can make them feel. Shabbat is not exclusively ours. Shabbat is for everyone to enjoy and so many people have remarked about how they had never known what Shabbat feels like; until they came to us, they experienced Shabbat as just another day of the week. But when they came to our home …
Both psychologically and practically, the Sabbath is the focal point; our weeks revolve around it, rather than it getting in the way of the rest of the week.
Our self-imposed restrictions, synchronised with Torah law, dictate that each week, Shabbat starts no later than a fixed time (sunset on late Friday afternoon) and ends at another fixed time (when three medium-sized stars are visible in the sky on Saturday night). This provides about twenty-five hours of serenity, spirituality and family togetherness each and every week, wherever we may be around the globe: no phones, no television, no cars, no switching lights on and off, no cooking, no working, no anything involved with the other six days of the week.
This story has been repeating itself every week of my life since I started keeping the Sabbath. It is not just a case of “Monday is pizza night, Thursday is sushi night and Friday is Shabbat night”; no, at least not for me. Shabbat is special, very special and very different. We sit around the table – all together: family, young and old, friends and visitors. How many people in today’s world make time to sit around a table for a meal together any time during their week?
As Shabbat begins, the world of the rest of the week fades away. We have time for each other – to talk together, sing a few songs, sometimes play a game. It is happy and informal. There is a feeling of warmth, love, friendship and hospitality. The food is always great, too – but the truth is that my wife Dina does wonders in everything that she does. When we are a large group, people sometimes wander off into smaller groups – casually, relaxed, naturally.
Thank G-d for Shabbat.
Over the years we have enjoyed the company of many people in our home and have also been away, or invited out. You see, Shabbat is Shabbat everywhere we are and everywhere we go.
Here are some stories about very special and unique Shabbats I have experienced.
Shabbat in Casablanca, Morocco
It was late morning in January 1994. We were floating weightlessly among the clouds; I was drifting in and out of sleep, having slept only very little the night before. A voice jolted me back into consciousness. “Fasten your seatbelts. Secure your seats upright and prepare for landing.”
Our last night in Rome together with our family had been so much fun. The togetherness, the pasta, the vino (wine), the pesce (fish), the caring and sharing and telling and listening; the closeness of family, where so often language and culture are of little consequence. But although all of that had taken place only a few hours before, it seemed like ages ago.
The five of us – my wife, two of our daughters (14 and 8), a niece (15) and myself – were about to enter Casablanca, Morocco. One man and four young women on a short vacation, before returning from the European winter to our Australian summer; five Aussies landing in Casablanca on a bleak Thursday in January.
We disembarked, feeling happy and excited about our arrival at such an exotic place. “Here’s looking at you, Babe,” we imagined Humphrey Bogart saying to Ingrid Bergman. But as we entered the terminal we were surrounded by armed uniformed paramilitary troops.
“Passports,” we heard.
I handed over our five passports.
On our way to the baggage hall, we were forced to show our passports no fewer than eleven times to various armed bureaucrats. What a wonderful and hospitable place, I thought. What a stupid mistake to choose this as our holiday resort. We should have gone to Sicily or stayed in Rome or gone to Florence and enjoyed the warmth of the people, despite the wintry weather and snow.
We found our baggage and exited the airport building after showing our passports another two times, once “scrutinised” upside down. Maybe these people were multilingual and possessed reading skills unknown to us?
We approached a taxi and asked the driver his fare to the Sheraton Hotel, which was quoted at about ten times the rate we had been briefed it should be. We tried to negotiate, but the driver simply walked away.
I walked over to another taxi. Same story. Had all these taxi drivers seen the same movie?
It was getting cold and there were no other tourists standing outside the main terminal building of the capital city of Morocco. In fact, it didn’t look much like an urban centre at all.
There were no taxis.
And there were five of us cold Aussies.
A few hours later, we somehow managed to get to the Sheraton Hotel in downtown Casablanca.
My brother-in-law, Isaac, had an ex-Moroccan friend in Sydney whose family – the Ifergans – still lived in Casablanca. Isaac had asked us to phone this family to give them his best regards. It was Friday afternoon when we got around to phoning them and we tried our best to pass on the regards and to wish them all the best for Shabbat; but communication was difficult, as they spoke Arabic and French and we spoke English, German and Italian.
Shortly afterwards we received a phone call from the desk advising us that there was someone downstairs to see us.
Her name was Edith and she was the youngest daughter of the Ifergans. She spoke some English. She was on her way home from the dentist, where she had just been operated on for two abscesses under her teeth. She was a bit pale, but insisted that she would wait for us and walk us to the synagogue, about twenty minutes away; she explained that it was not safe for us to try to walk to the Old City by ourselves, especially as it was getting close to dusk and she was on her way home anyway.
Soon we were all walking together.
We were fascinated by the sights, the sounds and the smells of the Old City. It was very close to sunset, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes to go. The red of the low western sky was magnified and distorted by the pollution in the air. We could hear muezzin voices chanting out of loudspeakers in minarets. People were milling around buying and selling their last goods before the end of the day.
It was the end of Friday, the end of Islam’s holy day of the week and the beginning of the Jewish holy day of the week.
Edith stopped at a wooden door in a narrow alleyway. She knocked and the door opened. We followed her inside.
“Shalom Aleichem (welcome!)” we heard. “Shabbat Shalom.” We conversed in English and in Hebrew and a smattering of other languages.
The synagogue was nice. It felt so much like home.
The service and prayer book were very similar to ours. The tunes, however, sounded different. And there was no prayer leader; instead, one of the elders pointed to various congregants, each of whom, in turn, chanted a paragraph; other parts of the prayer were chanted by all in unison.
The sound of the Hebrew was beautiful; the tunes, however, sounded more Arabic to our ears. But the conviction, the respect, the participation and the profound familiarity of the congregants with all the parts of the prayer were truly something to be experienced.
This was the beginning of Shabbat.
Many people were dressed casually, some young people even in jeans and open-necked shirts; others were more formally dressed. Everyone treated everyone else with respect, warmth and caring dignity. We felt a very special feeling of Jewishness, that Friday evening. We also felt part of this community.
After the service, Edith insisted that we join her parents at their home for Shabbat dinner. We felt embarrassed that we were imposing on them; we did not even have anything to bring to them. But she wouldn’t take no for an answer; rather, she insisted that her parents were expecting us.
We walked a short distance through a few more twisted alleyways until we came to a gate in the wall. Edith took some keys out of her pocket, unlocked the gate, opened it and beckoned us through. She closed it after us, locking it securely and told us to proceed up some stone stairs to a wooden door, where she knocked.
We heard the distinct sound of a number of locks being unlocked and sliding bolts being slid open. After what seemed to us to be some time, the door was opened and we were warmly welcomed in by an elderly gentleman with whom we instantly felt comfortable. “Shabbat Shalom – Shabbat Shalom u-mevorach (A Shabbat of peace and blessing)”. His loud, husky voice enveloped us. He then gestured in the direction of his wife, introducing us. Edith was not feeling well after her ordeal at the dentist. She tried her best to be hospitable, but after a short time reluctantly excused herself and went to her room.
We all sat down at the Shabbat table. We sang Shalom Aleichem and Eshet Chayil13 Mr Ifergan – Yaakov – proceeded with the kiddush in a loud and passionate way, full of emotion. We all washed our hands, made the blessing and returned to the table for the blessing over the bread.
13 Two prayers recited or sung before the kiddush, the blessing over the wine; the first is a welcome to the angels that accompany us from the synagogue to the home; the second is the latter part of chapter 31 in Proverbs, a hymn to the “woman of valour”.
Yaakov took the Shabbat cover off the two challahs (special bread for Sabbath), lifted them up high over the table and, in a loud voice full of dedication and faith, raising his eyes, he said (as is the Sephardi custom): “pote’ach et yadechah umasbi’a lechol chai ratzon” (You open Your hand and satisfy the desire of every living thing – Psalms 145:16), then made the blessing over the bread. He broke bread, tearing off small pieces by hand, gently tossing a piece to each of the people sitting around the table, after dipping it in some salt.
This warm and meaningful togetherness was, in many ways, just like being at home.
We ate and we talked. We sang and we enjoyed and then ate and we talked some more in a hodgepodge of languages and gestures, but with a strong bonding and all-encompassing enjoyment. Soon it was after 11:00 p.m. and it was time to call it a night.
Yaakov insisted on walking us the short distance to the nearest gate in the wall of the Old City and pointed out the way back to the Sheraton Hotel along a well-lit main road.
The next morning we walked back to the synagogue and after the service we were introduced to other members of the Ifergan family, as well as to other congregants. Again we were invited to Shabbat lunch; no refusals accepted.
The afternoon flew by and Saturday night was upon us. We experienced a richness of Jewish togetherness, religious belief and expression. We felt like parts of one extended family.
Since that Shabbat in Casablanca, I have adopted reciting the verse Pote’ach et Yadechah as the preamble before making the blessing over bread; and each time I feel a happy tear of sentimentality as I reconnect with Yaakov and with all of my people – past, present and future.
Shabbat in Santiago de Chile
The 1980s were particularly exciting and challenging times in Chile, especially the mid-eighties. Chile had been the only nation in the world to democratically elect a Communist government, back in 1970. Salvador Allende was its President for three years. The people suffered. The economy collapsed. The people suffered even more.
When the situation in the country reached an unbearably low point, a military junta was formed which led to a coup d’état, typical of many other violent changes in South American governments. The Communists and this new right-wing government imposed their control and leadership over Chile. General Augusto Pinochet Ugarte purged the country of its Communists and proceeded to manage a dramatic program of political and economic reform, reconstructing and rebuilding a failed economy, democratising and educating his country, empowering his people and lifting the standards of living with impressive success over a relatively short period – just over a decade.
How I became involved and how I met my Chilean business associates, who later became close and trusted friends, is not important here.
I started visiting Chile during that period and continued travelling there for a few years. During my first visit there was still shooting and bombing outside my hotel, in the heart of Santiago, the capital city, as well as in Concepción, Chile’s second largest city.
Chile is a predominantly Catholic country with a warm, Latin flavour. Its people are kind and good, family-oriented people, diligent and capable workers with a good ethical approach to life and moderately nationalistic worldview. Our trading was risky, but proved successful only due to the commitment and attention to detail of those involved.
One special fringe benefit of my regular trips to South America was that I flew in and out via Argentina, where my aunt, uncle and cousins live. I always spent my weekends with them, plus as many extra days as I could spare, working in Chile during the week. This has created for us all a treasured close personal bond, to this day.
On one particular trip I had to be in Chile when there were no possible flights to Argentina in time for Shabbat, nor were there any flights after Shabbat that would bring me back to Chile on time. I was constrained to stay over in Santiago for the weekend for the first time ever. Normally, I would have either made inquiries beforehand regarding the Jewish community and synagogues, or simply made my own arrangements for a Shabbat by myself. On this occasion, however, something unexpected – and very nice – occurred.
My friend Akos, a Catholic Argentinean of Hungarian descent living in Chile, had already taken matters into his own hands without even consulting with me. Akos had phoned and informed me that he had taken it upon himself to check out information for my Shabbat. There had been quite a strong Jewish community in Santiago before all the trouble began, he said, but most of the people had left for other countries. He had located a “temple” but thought that this was not for me. He had also found a newer organisation called “Jabad” (the South American spelling for Chabad, a Chassidic movement) which was located in a nice residential area in a suburb called La Gloria, and there was a motel I could stay in only a few hundred metres away. This was the place where I was to spend my Shabbat in Santiago de Chile.
Note that Santiago is on the opposite side of the Pacific Ocean from Melbourne, Australia. The same sun sinking into the ocean in the port city of Vina del Mar, heralding the end of one day and the beginning of another, is rising to illuminate the east Pacific coast of Australia.
Before leaving Melbourne, I had looked up the telephone number of Chabad in Santiago and late one night I phoned. A young voice answered in Spanish. After checking out a few possible languages, we agreed to speak in Hebrew. Young Rabbi Moishe immediately told me that they were very much looking forward to my visit and that I was invited to his house for Shabbat dinner on Friday night and by Rabbi Menashe for Shabbat lunch. I asked Rabbi Moishe if we could possibly check out the home situations first, to see if there was room and if my visit would not be inconvenient. His reply was instantaneous and warm: “Of course we’re expecting you!”
My flight landed in Santiago and standing there, waiting for me, was the smiling Akos. It was late Friday morning. Santiago was fresh and the air crisp with the white, glistening, snow-capped Andes mountains majestically looking down at us. It felt so beautiful. It was winter time and Shabbat was due to come in early.
We chatted as Akos drove me to La Gloria, to the hotel he had arranged for me. On the way, Akos circled the green-treed suburban side streets and pointed out “Jabad” only a few blocks from the hotel. I checked in, quickly set up my room and just as quickly returned downstairs to Akos. We drove off for lunch and then visited his office, before he dropped me back to my hotel in the mid-afternoon to prepare for Shabbat. We made arrangements for going to a big soccer match on Sunday afternoon.
No wonder I enjoyed doing business in Chile and loved each of my visits. Such a beautiful country with such wonderful people!
I ran up to my room, showered, shaved and dressed for Shabbat. Everything was organised. I was feeling relaxed and happy and free. I walked to Chabad, carrying a few presents, my tallith, siddur (daily prayer book) and Tanach to the shule. As I entered Chabad I was warmly greeted by a young Chabadnik who turned out to be the Rabbi Moishe I had originally phoned. We sat around and chatted. It was still early. I helped him set up for the Shabbat services. A few people started to arrive. I was introduced to Rabbi Menashe, who reminded me about the invitation to his house the following day.
A few minutes before the afternoon prayers, Rabbi Menashe addressed the few congregants. It soon became evident that most of them were visitors and only a few families were locals. Rabbi Menashe asked who spoke what language and it was decided that our lingua franca for this occasion would be Hebrew – the only common language of this group of Jewish people from all over the world, who made up this congregation in which we were to celebrate this Shabbat together as one warm extended family.
The prayers were uplifting. There was much singing.
After the evening prayer, I walked home with Rabbi Moishe together with the other invited guests. He lived in a tiny apartment with his young wife and little baby. What they superficially lacked in material possessions was much more than adequately compensated for in warmth, hospitality and spirituality. We all shared the food and drink. We all were interested in each other. We chatted and we sang niggunim (Shabbat songs) and talked about Jewish things and current Israeli news. Rabbi Moishe ended his share of hospitality by walking us back to the main road and pointing each of us in the direction of our hotels.
On Shabbat morning we all met up again in the synagogue. Again, the Shabbat services were most enjoyable. One of the local congregants had prepared a kiddush. We ate and drank and Rabbi Menashe gave a short talk derived from the scriptures. We all then went back inside the Synagogue for Minchah (afternoon service).
A few of us accompanied Rabbi Menashe for Shabbat lunch at his home. It was a very pleasant twenty-minute walk in the sun through a green, gardened residential area. We arrived happy and in good spirits.
Rabbi Menashe was a Shaliach (emissary) of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, whose task was to build a Jewish community. He had come to Santiago after a few years in Uruguay. He had seven children, two of them studying in distant yeshivas. His household, too, was frugal, but filled with warmth and hospitality.
We all enjoyed the long lunch at Rabbi Menashe’s: interesting discussions, songs, tasty food, more discussions and songs.
Soon it was getting dark and it was time to go, to move back from this real world with its demands and deadlines into another real world with its demands and deadlines.
Rabbi Menashe, too, walked us back to the main road and pointed each of us towards our destinations. We parted with warm wishes for a happy new week. I walked back to my hotel, washed, shaved and changed from my suit and tie into my smart casual clothes, grabbed my leather jacket and some gifts I had brought with me for my Chilean friends, Jaime and Jesse, and their three children and hurried downstairs.
Jaime came to pick me up. We hugged and slapped each other on the back. It was so good to see each other again. Soon we drove into Jaime’s estate in the mountains overlooking Santiago. The stone and wooden house had a crackling wood fire in the lounge. I greeted Jesse and then the ninjas (children). We toasted each other and each other’s families over a pisco sour (a Chilean national drink made of lemon juice, a strong spirit base similar to vodka and some ice). There is nothing that feels nicer on a cold night than a pisco sour between friends next to a wood fire.
Jaime and I had met a few years before and had immediately built up a very strong brotherly bond based on integrity, mutual trust and commitment. We had established, then nurtured and shepherded forest-based trade between Chile and Australia and I had helped Jaime build up an exciting industry. Jaime and Jesse were the “new generation Chileans” – educated and cultured young, modern Catholics, passionate about rebuilding their country and improving living standards for their people. We felt as if we were related in a familial way.
Jesse had prepared a vegetarian dinner which she served on new dishes. We ate, drank and chatted. This was another memorable time.
Jaime drove me back to my hotel and arranged to pick me up again late on Sunday morning. We returned to his house. Jaime and Jesse had prepared a brunch barbecue with a few close friends. They even “went the extra mile” to have fish with scales and fins, with mine wrapped up in aluminium foil and cooked on the clean side of the fire using brand new tongs.
Later that afternoon we drove to the big soccer match, which was due to start at 4 p.m. This was a big event in Santiago. We had four great seats: for Jaime, Akos, me and one for a very close university friend of Jaime’s (who worked in Chile’s central bank, overseeing every investment-funded project in Chile which had been made under a special economic law designed to help eliminate Chile’s substantial international debt, as its economy became reconstructed and modernised).
We had a fantastic afternoon together. The soccer was really exciting. We cheered and we yelled out against unfair moves. We drank some Chilean beer and reminisced. We talked a lot about Chile, its economy and people, important projects, laws, human rights. We shared experiences. We analysed scenarios and ventured to make predictions.
Close comradeship; intelligent intellectual conversation; an exciting sporting event to add; very interesting discussions – the few hours we enjoyed together flew by as if only a few seconds of time.
Soon it was time for me to return to my motel.
Another week packed with business meetings and another flight followed by more movements and move activities.
Life is full of friendships and good memories and even more things to do.
But Shabbat is Shabbat, the focal point of each week, where time moves in its own time frame as an integral part of living life.
Shabbat in East Timor
In February 2000 I was invited to visit East Timor by the East Timorese freedom fighter, its official leader and now President, Xanana Gusmao. I spent ten days there together with a few leaders of the CNRT (Council of National Resistance) – commanders who had survived nearly 25 years of armed resistance against the brutal Indonesian invasion. At that time, East Timor was nearly broken. UN forces, led by Australia, helped save this little nation from genocide and assisted in rebuilding the country, enabling East Timor to become the first independent new nation of the new millennium.
This was probably one of the crazier projects of my life. It has left me with a deeply enriching experience – but that is a different story. What I’d like to share with you now is about the Shabbat that occurred within those ten days.
It was very hot and humid along the entire coastal region. There were mosquitoes infected with malaria and dengue fever. The water was not drinkable. In stark contrast, in the mountainous inland region – with some peaks as high as 2,500-3,000 metres – the air was fresh and cool; there were no mosquitoes; there was lots of pure, chilly water from natural springs, tasty tropical rainforest fruits and plenty of fish, brought freshly caught from the pristine waters of the sea.
East Timor is a small island between Australia, New Guinea and Indonesia, only about 700 by 100 kilometres: a beautiful place inhabited by friendly, warm-hearted, decent people. Only about 700,000 of them have survived.
I felt myself highly sensitised to the plight of this people and motivated to assist. On the plane flights back home (there were four consecutive flights) I wrote a heartfelt poem before falling into a deep sleep. Although it is very personal I include it, to share my feelings and thoughts.
Lafaek is Timor 14
14 Lafaek (in Tetun, the common dialect of East Timor) is how they call their country, likened to a crocodile which became transformed into the island of Timor.
24 February 2000
To Xanana and his people
With love and respect
From your new and loyal friend
Ron G. in Melbourne
The Philosopher and Poet cries With the salty tears of the sea For the thick red blood of his people Which flooded his land as the Heavy downpouring of the monsoonal rains
The enemy from without sought to Obliterate his homeland of her life To plunder and pillage and rape and destroy To remove and replace for the greed of the few
And to pervert from within with poisoning the minds of the hungry, the poor, the oppressed and confused.
In a thoughtless attempt of genocide Which was hidden from view in our world.
The people alone defended themselves To try to survive and live on In a very pure way without help from outside They moved up through their steep mountainsides
Little by little, from day to day Together they stood side by side The thin subtle thread of the spirit of life Was as thick and as strong as steel chain
One people as one from within they strove, united by their own common cause They struggled in death for their life to Preserve, the soul of the people so pure
For twenty-five years at great sacrifice And deprived and in personal pain But enriched in a way so strange in our Day, so simple, advanced all the same
Yet lost in our world which has blinded Itself as it moves far away from true life Our everyday thoughts are so filled with the Fog … trivially caused by ourselves
The Aussies arrived and everyone breathed a Full breath of the cool mountain air Which is filled with a rare and sweet fragrance of life At a time we together all share
An explosion of life sprouted out of the earth As the womb of the people produced The coffee, the fruits and the corn and the rice All smiled and the children, these children broke forth
A profusion of life reproduction abounds; Baby buffalos, chickens and piglets and goats Farm animals as well as home hounds
The trauma, the pain and the loss all so fresh But their hearts and their minds find new peace
Their friends from outside were so kind to Them all; these uniforms gentle and good
The children so pure with their smiles so sweet “Hullo Misterr!” they call day and night With a trust and a hope for a future naive As they strive and they work in bare feet
These children, these faces, these thousands of faces – The little sweet faces – the future of Timor Its beautiful, beautiful faces.
A people united so morally As they share and they plant and they eat Such a strength which is bound with an ethical View as clear and as clean as a pure mountain spring
Survival assured by our world round about To the faces, these faces These sweet pretty faces of children All looking out
At their friends from outside who have Come to help and to build and To teach and to share
An innocent people who forgive and don’t hate No revenge only justice they seek A trusting people with nothing but hope But with everything meaningful dear
We from without must take control of ourselves And look hard and think harder within from without With respect and with care and a focused approach As all givers, receivers must share
Our common bond which links all humankind, Which maintains our humanity – A sensitive balance of self-esteem Within a culture so pure and unique
We must carefully view our well Intentioned attempts, Our motivation and the satisfaction it brings For in the end, our dear friends from within Have their own lives and dreams of fine futures ahead
The clear danger now Again hidden from view Exploitation from without of within, This danger’s most difficult to detect As it’s void of an enemy form But subtle as clouds form to darken the skies Blocking sunlight and every thing
We from without in our haste to give help Need to help our dear friends from within In their need in their time in their way In their land as their culture should Always stand
Lafaek is their land as the legend is told Lafaek chose to turn to Timor Lafaek is so strong in its culture so pure Which within gives without as its lure
To rebuild we all start but to what we
Must care from grass roots and then up From its strength we all share
Not imposed from the top from outside But from where The soul of the people is there.
I became closely associated with these kind, gentle and very poor people because I empathised with their silent suffering, identifying their traumatic experiences as being similar to those of my own people during the Holocaust.
Most East Timorese survivors did not openly talk about their past. However, I heard some terrifying stories and eyewitness accounts of how at least half of their population was murdered.
We lived very basically in East Timor. I had no problems maintaining my kosher diet. One night I even slept in an orphanage in Laga (a remote eastern village), run by Salesian Sisters; four “angels” mothered over one hundred children there, with meagre resources. During dinner, the Mother Superior said to me, “So you come from the land of the Father,” – confusing Israel with Judaism and Australia.
There were only a few hours of electrical power each day and not even every day. Water was electrically pumped. They grew their own food and had a small truckload of rancid maize which had been delivered by the UN food aid program. They seemed to be happy with their lot in life.
I burst into tears when we drove into the orphanage in our four-wheel drive late on Thursday evening and saw the children. They were illuminated only by our headlights, sitting in their orphanage courtyard. We heard their sweet little voices singing some songs of welcome to us in beautiful harmony – pure, harmonious, melodious music from angels in the dark.
That night I slept on a broken old steel bunk bed with a mosquito net hanging all around me. There were my three CNRT15 travelling companions sharing this little room, with frog and insect noises audible from a nearby bog.
15 National Congress for the Reconstruction of East Timor.
But I slept like a baby that night. It was pitch dark until the early morning dawn arrived to beckon us into a new day.
I went for a few hours to Ailieu, a remote village hidden in the mountains which had served as the CNRT headquarters during the Indonesian military occupation and continued to function as such. I met General Cosgrove at a very moving ceremony in which roles were formally handed over and the East Timorese tribal leaders officially wore their tribal attire again and publicly followed their inherited customs for such formal occasions. After that amazing military ceremony I briefed the East Timorese leadership, as requested, regarding a socio-economic model to rebuild their country and then had lunch with their military commander, Matan Ruak, in his house.
So much activity in such a short time.
We drove through much of East Timor. We saw a lot. We did a lot. We worked hard. There was so much to do. And Shabbat was approaching fast.
I had asked my hosts to make sure that I would arrive at the place where we would be sleeping Friday night – wherever it might be – no less than two hours before sunset, so as to have enough time to prepare for Shabbat. I explained to them that from sunset on Friday evening until after dark on Saturday night, I could not drive, but had to rest in one place – my “home” for the Shabbat.
We drove to Baucau (East Timor’s second largest city after its capital, Dili), a coastal town on the eastern side of the island, arriving mid-afternoon. There was an open fruit and vegetable market on both sides of the street in the centre of town. We came to a broken white house which had seen better days under the colonial Portuguese administration some decades ago.
This was to serve as my home for Shabbat. I was shown my room and unpacked my few things. The communal bathroom had a leaking faucet which dripped into an old bathtub which overflowed onto the stone tiled floor, running over the stone floor and out of a hole in the wall into the garden.
The water was very cold. I felt as if I was immersing myself in a traditional mikveh (ritual bath) and imagined myself in Jerusalem on a wintry afternoon two or three thousand years ago. My bathing was extremely brief. I dried myself, feeling frozen but refreshed. I dressed for Shabbat. A few minutes before sunset I lit the two Shabbat candles on a brick in my room and, with my kippah (skullcap) on my head, closed my eyes and made the Shabbat blessing over their flickering light, just as my wife does every Friday evening, as our mothers had done over the years. My blessing felt very deep and meaningful.
I prayed the Kabbalat Shabbat service; then I prayed the evening Shabbat service. I made kiddush over some kosher wine I had brought with me in a small flask. I sang a few zemiroth (songs) in the candlelight and then walked down to a small dining room in the house where my hosts were waiting. There was no electricity. A wood fire burned in the stone fireplace, illuminating the room. Outside, in the courtyard, a young East Timorese girl had cooked a whole fish for me over a small wood fire, by skewering it through with a wooden branch of a tree and turning it slowly over the glowing charcoal. She had also baked a few vegetables on the fire and made me some hot tea to drink. There were also fresh tropical fruits – very sweet and tasty.
This was my Shabbat meal. It was delicious.
During my singing of the grace after meals and again after my recitation of the Shema16 before going to sleep, I thanked the Almighty for everything that He does and for protecting me. I thanked Him for giving us the Shabbat.
16 A liturgical prayer consisting of three Scriptural passages recited twice daily by adult Jewish males to affirm their faith.
The next morning I washed my hands and face before putting on my tallith and reciting the Shabbat morning service. It felt so good and so rich. I sang every word and then took time to read the weekly portion of the Torah reading in English, just to enjoy it and to search for deeper meanings.
After this I made kiddush and indulged myself on a very tasty sweet bar I had brought with me. I sang a few songs, ate some fruit and drank some water.
Shabbat is such a special day. And that Shabbat was particularly special. I sat on a flat rock out in the courtyard under a beautiful tree in the warm tropical sun and read a book I had packed in my knapsack.
Later that morning my hosts took me for a walk around Baucau and we visited the United Nations command post where armed Thai troops were on guard.
Life is so strange at times. A handsome young man in his mid-twenties, casually dressed in a sporty civilian outfit, strolled out of the UN office onto its front verandah. His thick, but unmistakably English-educated Arabic accent pricked the air. We chatted. After a few minutes I asked him where he was from. “From Palestine,” he comfortably responded. Even as a well-travelled young Australian aged fifty, this caught me by surprise.
“Yes, but where in Palestine?” I heard myself ask.
“From Gaza,”, he said.
“I’ve been in Gaza,” I said. “You’re a long way from home. Don’t your people need educated young people like you to build your own country?”
The free scholarship to England and a high, tax-free UN salary appeared to offer a more attractive future to this young Palestinian.
This is the world we live in. “What is in it for me now” is the modus operandi and the culture of choice for so many westernised and privileged individuals. Makes it a bit hard for all the other people.
Thank G-d for Shabbat! It helps make the world an “us” place rather than a “me” place. The values, the ethics, the morality, the community, the continuity – all flow out of Shabbat. Thank G-d for Shabbat.
My flight was being called. I woke up, rubbed my eyes and moved from the lounge to the plane.
As I fastened my seatbelt and my flight departed from Israel, I thought to myself: was a good humus in Abu Ghosh comparable to the Kotel? And was the Kotel comparable to my family in Melbourne?
Life is full of so many experiences.
Abu Ghosh is a friendly Arab Israeli village near Jerusalem, a nice place to visit. The Kotel represents the important historical foundations of Jewish existence and is a focal point of Jewish belief. It is also one of my favourite places: a very spiritual place.
My children and now also my grandchildren are the continuity of my people. We are alive and we are living a Jewish existence. To me, this is the ultimate which life has to offer.
Towards the end of the Pentateuch (Deuteronomy 29:9-14, 21; 30:19-20) we are told in no uncertain terms:
You are thus being brought into the covenant … He is establishing you as His nation, so that He will be a G-d to you … but, it is not with you alone hat I am making this covenant … I am making it both with those who are standing here with us today before G-d our Lord and with those who are not (yet) here with us today … A future generation, consisting of your descendants, who rise up after you, along with the foreigner from a distant land … (you must thus make the choice) to love G-d your Lord, to obey Him and to attach yourself to Him. This is your sole means of survival and long life when you dwell in the land that G-d swore to your fathers, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, (promising) that He would give it to them.
G-d has guaranteed us that the Jewish people will survive to the end of time.
Who defines our Jewish identity: is it we ourselves, or others? How does our individuality fit in with the group? How does our group relate to us? Which group? Who defines the identity of the group?
Continuity – of what?
What for?
What do you want to be a part of?
What do you think? What works for you?
