Rav Shmuel is a rabbi who hangs out in Greenwich Village and plays original compositions on his guitar when he’s not busy running his Yeshiva in Newark New Jersey or touring the country with his band. Once in a while, and almost allways at an ungodly hour, he’ll blog on his own site (www.ravshmuel.com) and on jewschool.com. In the late 90’s Rav founded “Gefiltephish”, an organization dedicated to strengthening Jewish Identity on Phish tour and he was so successful that Salon.com said of him “…the good rabbi can’t walk 15 feet without some hippie running up to him and giving him a hug” but this is no longer so.

In March of 1985 I sat down with my Rebbie and asked if he thought studying at a Yeshiva in Israel for a few months would be good for me. He said “don’t go.” It was the only time in our ten year relationship that he told me what to do. It was the only time I didn’t listen. He was right, of course. I wasn’t really mature enough for the type of Yeshiva I wanted. But I thought I knew better.

I saved up for the trip by working in a local Deli every spare moment I had, got a ticket with a stop-over in London for a week of spiritual preparation (i.e. pub-hopping) and finally landed at Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv where my sister was waiting for me, having managed to secure a front row spot behind the twelve foot fencing that separated the masses from us celebrities (i.e. exhausted overtired travellers) in those days. After twice negotiating a fair price with a taxi driver (once at the start of the trip and once at the end) we arrived in Jerusalem and had a wonderful dinner at the friends I was staying with in Bayit Vegan. Afterwards, despite my obvious fatigue, I insisted on walking my sister back to her dorm and, not being able to tell one jerusalem-stone building from the next, spent the night wandering the streets completely lost. Lost, but walking on air. Lost, but lost at home.

I found a Yeshiva to enroll in for the next six months but the special memories I have of that first Israel experience were not from there. The Yeshiva was convinced that I was spending too much time in town with “who knows who” and hanging out at “who knows where.” They were right of course but they couldn’t prove it until a snitch discovered some damning evidence in my drawer. A knitted kipah. And not just any knitted kipah but one that said “LUV DEB” inside. ((kipah-top.jpg then kipah-botm.jpg images go here))

Oh, there was also a note from Lee Anne Cohen saying she’d meet me at Lalo’s or Pini’s Pub. Busted! ((leeannenote.jpg image goes here - must be large enough to be read))

An interrogation followed - they wanted to know exactly where I was hanging out (and who else was there). I refused and instead I tried to explain why it was that I felt stifled by them. They were well-meaning people, yet they taught me quick lessons about the polarization of Jews in Israel.

After I was confronted with the evidence I stayed away for a few days, hanging out in town and talking with friends, considering my options. I couldn’t accept being judged by something so shallow. Yet now what would I do? Stay at the Yeshiva? Stay in Israel and try another Yeshiva? Or return to my Rebbie and the Diaspora?

During those few days I had numerous adventures but my favorite was the last one. I can’t remember exactly how it was that I ended up at a bus-stop somewhere on the outskirts of the city at 3 AM but buses don’t run that late and I was way too tired to walk. For a long time no cars passed by but eventually a tiny car sputtered to a stop in response to my waving hand. An obviously non-observant Israeli teen with long wild curly hair and a girlfriend on his lap leaned out of his window and offered me a ride which I gratefully accepted. “On one condition” he said, “that you allow me to take you right to your door.” A little nervous that this wild looking dude might have some nefarious reason for wanting to know where I lived I asked him why he would insist on such a condition. He said “tomorrow I am going into the army, tonight I want to get all the mitzvot I can.”

So they judged my kipah and I judged his hair.

I decided to go back to my Rebbie.

I didn’t leave empty-handed though. I took with me six months of memories. Walking, ‘tremping‘, wading, floating, swimming, climbing and jumping, six months of running around the country every spare moment I had. I developed a fierce passionate love for Israel and a strong desire to live there one day. That came true for my family and I from 1994-2001 and although we need to be in New York right now our thoughts are always of home.

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PS: I found the kipah and note 3 weeks ago as I was cleaning my basement for Pesach and couldn’t stop smiling at the memory of all this drama. Anyone know where Lee Anne Cohen is and how to get in touch with her? I think she was from South Africa and maybe Indiana?