Rachel Kinkade's reflection on remembering Jerusalem... posted on April 20, 2011, second day of Passover, first day of the Omer. We end the seder with the words "Next Year in Jerusalem."
Psalm 137:5-6
If I forget you, Jerusalem, let my right hand forget [its dexterity]. Let my tongue cleave to my palate if I will not remember you, if I will not bring to mind Jerusalem during my greatest joy!
I shudder at how easily Jerusalem slides to the back of my mind, forced to the periphery by every day, mundane tasks. Jerusalem becomes a vague, misty memory, often rose-colored, and recalled with a smile touched by sadness. Then, like a sudden jolt, a siren or a gunshot, Jerusalem thrusts herself to the forefront, flashing pictures of violence, hatred, and unrest across our newsreels. But only when there is nothing better, or more gruesome, to report. Forget keeping Jerusalem in my thoughts during my greatest joys; it’s more likely that each of my reminders is like a blow to the stomach, an electric shock reminding me of how torn and tired Israel is, and how easy it has become to all but forget her when I am so far away, so far removed. So it is in the shadow of this past month of horror, the kind that is overshadowed in the news by even more destruction and violence elsewhere, that I remember Jerusalem.
It has been three months since we returned from the SJNM Israel Seminar where we spent two solid, challenging, and beautiful weeks learning about the emergence of Israel’s nonprofit sector, the result of the disappearing welfare state-of-mind. Even now as those memories grow softer at the edges, I struggle with the rawness of the Israeli society we engaged with, one that has been hidden away like clutter shoved in a closet, away from the judgmental eye of a mother-in-law come to visit for Pesach. For me, the Israel Seminar threw open that closet door and there were times when I wanted to frantically push back the clutter and the mess, to keep my Israel neat and rosy. When I realized and finally accepted that the closet could not and should not be shut again, first I felt sadness and isolation. How can I identify either personally or professionally with this land and its people that suddenly seem so foreign? Then an epiphany, I had allowed myself to become complacent in my relationship with Israel. I was a consumer of Israel instead of an engaged, committed, and honest partner.
I had a conversation with a colleague recently, who was interested in the SJNM seminar. He was concerned, like so many, at the growing disconnect younger generations feel towards Israel and was pleased to hear that a group of young professionals were spending time learning “how to use Israel”. At first I wasn’t bothered by the semantics, but as I thought more about my own past relationship with Israel, I realized that it wasn’t a relationship at all, but more about me, how I felt, what I experienced, and how Israel was a part of me. What can Israel do for me this time? On other trips and at community events, I’ve seen educators “use” Israel as a tool for teaching a piece of Jewish identity. I wonder what pretty picture of Israel is most often used: Let’s make Israel out of ice cream! Re-enacting the journey of the ship “Exodus”, laden with European Jews trying to escape extinction, and those damned Brits turning the boat around to Cyprus. Recreating Machane Yehuda, the outdoor market in Jerusalem, so that children and adults can “experience” a day in the shuk and taste Middle Eastern food, safely shielded from the turmoil.
I strongly believe that these activities are important in introducing children to a piece of the land and the culture of Israel. But when all you learn as a child is that you can make the Golan Heights out of mint chocolate chip ice cream and the Negev out of peanut butter, and that you love spending Friday nights at camp dancing to old Israeli folk music, you get children who end up like me. A little confused, ever-more disenchanted, ever-searching for the feel-good story of Israel that I grew up with, the one that I connected to. If not in this way, how should I remember Jerusalem?
On our trip, we spent time talking about the many narratives that weave through Israeli society, and confronted a number of them that were uncomfortable, incomprehensible, and sometimes inconvenient. We heard two very different narratives in the span of three hours, while visiting the City of David, also known as Silwan. The goal, I believe, of the program was for the group to hear two conflicting narratives, perhaps in the attempt to “show the two sides of the same story”.
Both narratives emphasized the historical importance of this small tract of land: one claiming that the land can be traced back to Jewish origins, the other arguing that many civilizations had lived there and to claim that one group has primacy over the land is baseless.
The first narrative came from a religious-Zionist man whose organization buys land from Palestinians and sells it to wealthy Jews around the world (
www.israellandfund.com).
The second from a Jewish-Israeli archeologist who said, “History is the narrative of the people, and archeology is the narrative of the place” and helped to start a nonprofit that utilizes archeology to further understanding of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict (
http://www.shatil.org.il/english).
The first narrative painted a picture of a secure, Jewish Israel that includes the West Bank and a better life for Palestinians if only they would sell their land and move away.
The second narrative was of the hardships endured by the Palestinians in Silwan, the injustice they felt at the hand of the Israeli police and the Israeli government.
Two balanced, objective perspectives? Certainly not.
Two very different and yet, I will admit, equally legitimate narratives?
Absolutely.
I’m not sure there can be pure truth when it comes to Israel.
As a young Jewish professional, on the verge of starting her career, how am I supposed to form and articulate a solid, confident position on Israel when both of these narratives exist simultaneously? How is it possible for Israel to exist in shades of grey instead of black and white?
Howard Weisband, an alum of our program and former Secretary General of the Jewish Agency for Israel (
http://www.jafi.org.il) put it simply: you have to find your own balance because no matter whose side you listen to it is always a narrative, a tale, charged with emotion, love, and pain.
In the end, I had to acknowledge the reality of a multitude of narratives co-existing in the same time and space.
I would venture to say it is impossible to talk about a relationship with Israel from the perspective of the collective “we”: we as American Jews, we as Zionists, we as Jewish professionals. Each of us has our own “Israel narrative,” and when we tell our story, it must be an “I-statement”. If I refuse to see and to hear each of the rich and poor, barren and lush, hateful and loving, passionate and peaceful narratives that make up Israel, I will never be able to have a real, honest relationship with her. It is not being critical, it is trying to understand. Those who do not know me may make assumptions about my political inclinations. Those who do know me understand how difficult this reflection is. The Israel Seminar brought up more questions than answers, and through those questions, I am pushed to seek a more nuanced understanding of the Israel that exists now and not only the one in the rosy stories I heard for so long. Like any enduring relationship, love clouds the senses until we are shaken by something we have willingly overlooked, and then the strength of the relationship is tested, only to become stronger. The time I spent with my classmates, friends, and teachers helped begin re-pouring the foundation of that relationship. Remembering Jerusalem is not enough. It is the search for all the pieces that make up the memory, especially those that are unpleasant, that is so important.
