Yonatan Gordis is the Executive Director of the Center for Leadership Initiatives, an operating foundation working to support current and emerging leaders in the global Jewish community. www.leadingup.org

My mother’s father, Meyer Cohen, was something of a mythical character in our lives. Born (apparently) in Kiev in 1890, he was already in his 20’s when he immigrated to the United States. Married to Nechama (Nellie) Goldin in his 30’s, he was never much of a career man. He sold shoes. He sold encyclopedias. He sold insurance. Nechama taught Jewish topics and Hebrew to Jewish girls for sixty years.

Rabbi Yonah blogs at Jewlicious.com, and Blogshul.com. He runs Jewlicious Festivals and serves as campus rabbi at Long Beach State and UC Irvine.

May there be a good sign and good fortune for us and all of Israel. Amen.— From the prayers for the New Moon.

I am walking through empty markets stalls, littered streets, stained asphalt. Cats scurry in corners over garbage left behind from the thousands of shoppers who crowded the streets yesterday. Wrappers, crumbs, pigeons cooing, strutting amid cigarette butts and cans that line the drainage ditch that runs the length of the street on my way, this Shabbos morning. This shabbos morning that I walk in my mind from time to time. This shabbos morning walk across the innards of Jerusalem, from Rechov Narkiss 7 where we lived to Tiferes Yisrael, across Nachlaot, stone homes, shuls, across empty streets, finally into Machaneh Yehudah. Wide empty street. Wooden carts, awnings covered in Hebrew script from my siddur. Across the markets, and through Geullah up and down hills, across Yafo. No belching busses today. No lines of old women today holding too many bags, and beggars and shnorrers. White taleisim flying in the morning breeze over the shoulders of larger than life Ger Chasidim, proud spodek wearing tribe, flow across the streets silently on their way. The clouds overhead but a whisper, mostly blue deep blue sky over head. The water trickling through this alley I avoid. A few cars pass by, and I don’t really see them, this morning. Tiferes Yisrael rises above the worn homes and streets of Guela, high on the hill, many stories tall, in smooth stone. She is all of Israel for me.

* * *

The original three story synagogue was completed in 1871 and inaugurated on August 19 1872, 29 years after the land had been purchased. For the next 75 years the Tiferes Yisrael synagogue served as the centre for the Hassidic community in the old city. This domed masterpiece of 19th century Jewish architecture was the reunification of chassidus with eretz yisroel. It was the synthesis of the Ashkenazi with the Yerushalmi. It towered over the ancient Jewish quarter with its proud dome – unlike any Ashkenazi shul ever built in Hungary or Poland, lest it compete with a church. And the domed roof in keeping with the local architectural mores and tastes. It even had two names. Some called it the Tiferet Israel synagogue, after Rabbi Israel of Ruzhin, the founder of the Ruzhin and Sadigura Hasidic dynasties, that aided in its construction. Jerusalemites, however, knew it as the Nissan Bak Synagogue, after the son of Rabbi Israel Bak and one of the community’s leaders. It as through the leadership of Rabbi Bak, owner of the first Hebrew Printing Press in Jerusalem, that the land was purchased for the shul in 1843.

During Israel’s war of Independence, the Jordanian Legion captured the old city and the synagogue, which had served as a position for the defenders of the Jewish Quarter, was blown up one hour after midnight on the night of May 20-21 1948. The story of its destruction is captured her in O Jerusalem (1973):

The first major Haganah stronghold to fall was the Nissan Bek Synagogue, the building whose dome had been donated by the Emperor Franz Joseph. It was essential to Rusnack defence plan and the Haganah fought tenaciously to hold on to it…Fawzi el Kutub finally ordered eight of his men to rush across an open space and place a charge at the base of the synagogue. All of them were killed or wounded. No one would volunteer for a second try. Hoping to force his men’s hands by his example, Kutub sprinted across the space himself. When he got to the base of the synagogue, he saw that no one had followed him. Like a spider he pressed himself up against its wall until finally the Tunisian to whom he had promised a wife rushed out to him carrying a fifty-five pound charge. The explosion barely chipped the wall. Three more unsuccessful attempts were required before Kutub managed to blow a hole in the synagogue wall and a party of Legionnaires rushed through the smoke into Nissan Bek’s interior. Sure that the Haganah would counterattack and that the irregulars swarming into the synagogue would quickly turn to looting, Kutub decided to destroy it with a 220-pound charge. His strongest follower, a one-eyed former porter in the railroad station nicknamed the Whale, staggered up with the explosive. A terrible roar shook the quarter and blew out the heart of the building. As the smoke cleared and the frightful devastation caused by the bomb became apparent, Kutub heard a cry of consternation rising from the Jewish posts around him. It was quickly replaced by a triumphant yell. A small group of Haganah led by Judith Jaharan counterattacked and took the smoking ruins of Nissan Bek from the Arabs. As Kutub had suspected, the irregulars had spent their time looting the synagogue. The Haganah found the bodies of Arab irregulars killed in their counterattack with altar cloths around their waist, pages of the Torah stuffed into their shirts, pieces of chandeliers and lamps in their pockets.

* * *

In 1953, Rabbi Mordecai Solomon Friedman, the Boyaner Rebbe, laid foundations for a new Hassidic centre in the new city of Jerusalem, and in the 1960’s a new synagogue was built resembling the original design of the Tiferes Yisrael synagogue of the old city. Called Mesivta Tiferet Israel of Ruzhin, it is home to a large yeshiva, and during Shabbos, services are presided over by the current Boyaner Rebbe, Rabbi Nuchem Dov Brayer, whose grandfather laid the foundation stone for the building.

The Boyaner’s followers make me feel at home when I arrived there for the first time with my spiritual mentor, Rabbi Chaskel Besser. Rav Besser’s father in law was one of the leading Boyaner Chassidim of pre-war Israel, who literally fed thousands of hungry Jews. I look up at the aron hakodesh and the ceiling, rows and rows of pews, and while it is very 1960’s it is still very much an awe inspiring place. Every time that I walk through the doors of the shul I feel the touch of a hand on my shoulder welcoming me, finding me a seat, a siddur, and aliyah, a piece of shiraim from the tisch, a place to stand, a cup with wine, a great warmth of Ahavas Yisroel, of love for a fellow Jew.

* * *

The old Tiferes shul is still in ruins in the heart of the Jewish quarter and was never rebuilt. Only it’s western wall remains. The old home and magnificent court of Boyan lies in ruins in Ukraine. However in New Jerusalem, Boyan and Tiferet Yisrael are packed on Shabbos.

I walk back after Kiddush levanah with my wife Rachel and the city has already restarted, cars rushing everywhere, music, traffic, horns blowing, but we glide through Geula, across Yafo, into Machaneh Yehudah, some stores opening already, across Nachlaot, passing othr shuls emptying out or outside praying at the moon, this new moon, this reborn moon over Jerusalem, and we make our way back and to Narkiss. Our apartment on Narkiss built just before statehood, and also home to Zerah Warhaftig Z”L, at the time one of the last two living signers of Israel’s declaration of independence and a rescuer of Jewish refugees during World War II. Ninety years old, bent over, walking back home held by one of his grandsons.

The Maharsha explains, writes Eluyahu KiTov, “that when Israel is in Exile, we are unable to ascend to Jerusalem to be in the presence of the Shechinah as we were in the time of the pilgrimage Festivals. Nevertheless, we have never stopped yearning to do so, and whenever we see the moon renewed, we are reminded of God’s promise that we will also be renewed, that we will once again attain the merit of ascending and being seen in the presence of the Shichinah.” When we go out to view the moon’s renewal, and bless it, “our inner thoughts are on our own renewal” on our return to service of God.

My first visit to Israel was in 2000, soon after my conversion to Judaism. I went with the intent of learning in yeshiva in Jerusalem, experiencing Torah learning in the Holy City, and having the “year in Israel” experience I had heard so much about. I identified Israel with the land of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and King David — and imagined Jerusalem as a theological time capsule where ancient faiths were dutifully practiced universally, where the G-d of Scripture was as real today for everyone as it was for their Biblical counterparts. There could be no atheists in Jerusalem, I thought, because how could one live in Jerusalem and not feel the Divine Presence?

Well there are atheists in Jerusalem, as well as Buddhists, Hindus, agnostics, and Sikhs — and I would meet many of all sorts of people at the bars that I also had no idea existed. But I can’t say that they aren’t connected. First off, Israelis seemed connected to each other in a way quite different from Americans. There was a pervasive “us” that could be activated in everyone’s mind at any moment — whether by an existential terrorist threat or by a political corruption scandal. Israelis had the ability — as I would see first-hand being in yeshiva during the 2000-2001 intifada — to spring into spontaneous unity as a collective family, to act as one at a moment’s notice.

Prime Minister Olmert spoke of how the feeling of “unity and shared destiny” is stronger on Independence Day than at any other time, but I think that the feeling of unity is what has kept Israel thriving for these past 60 years and what will keep Israel moving towards the future. Israel’s destiny is shared just because of that — Israelis realize that they are “in this together” in a way many other nations could learn from.

As a religious Jew, I would attribute this to the Divine sparks inherent in human beings, or to the Divine Presence which I believe permeates the Land. But no one can deny the reality: united Israel stands and advances, divided — chas v’shalom the opposite, and at 60, Israel should stand united and know that it is precisely their unity that made all their achievements possible.

Israel’s Ministry of Defense houses the “Izkor” Remembrance Project Web Site, which documents every single soldier to have died for Israel. Following is the story of Nissim Gini, wounded in the battle defending the Old city of Jerusalem on May 27th, 1948, and he succumbed on the following day, May 28th, 1948.

This is his story (translated by me)

Nissim Gini, son of Miriam and Yitzchak, born in 1938 in the old city of Jerusalem, where he lived his entire short life from beginning to end. He learned in school till the Israeli War of Independence in 1948 and Siege against the Old City of Jerusalem interrupted his routine life.

When the battles started, he volunteered, as did his young friends, to defend his city and birthplace — and demanded a position [in the army]. Without telephones or wireless radios to communication between military positions in the winding alleyways, he was given the task of being the communication “runner” between positions — which he did with adult responsibly and faithfully amidst hailstorms of bullets and the thundering of bombs.

He requested a handgun in case he be faced by an Arab solider, but his request was rejected. On the 27 of May, 1948, when one of the Jewish positions fell, he was seriously wounded, and he died a painful day later on the 28th of May, 1948, the 19th of Iyar, 5708. He was buried in the Old city.

He was ten years old.

The youngest to fall in Israel’s battles.

His name is inscribed on the monument at the Har Herzel military cemetery for the victims of the battle for the Old city of Jerusalem, and he was reburied on Har HaZeitim, the Mount of Olives.

Inbal Freund is the Director of Mavoi Satum (Dead End) a Jerusalem-based organization that advocates on behalf of Agunot.

In - memory of Noam Mayerson, my step cousin who fell in the recent Lebanon war, my cousin Chani Dikshtein , her husband Yossi and their child, Shuvael who were shot to death on their way to spending Shabbat with friends. This is also in memory of older loved ones: Shlomo Gabriel Freund, my father’s brother who gave his life while defending Gush Etzion in 1948 and of my grandmothers’ brother, David Metal who fell while commanding his troops in the south on the same year. Further I would like to commemorate my grandfather’s siblings and parents who perished in the holocaust. May their memories be blessed and guide us to meaningful growth and much joy of life in our present and future days.

A. My father.

My father has good eyes, which have seen a lot. He has grey hair that sometimes sneak out in mischievously boyish wisps from under his kippa. He has wrinkled hands with blessed old age stains, which treat every flower in his garden with great gentleness.

On Rosh Hashana, my father’s big hands open the Torah scroll at the synagogue. Full of emotion, his voice trembles above the crowd, reading from Jeremiah, chapter 31-the consolation prophecy describing the return to Zion. Embedded in that glory lays our foremother Rachel’s great agony for her lost sons- the ones who perished during the journey to Israel, and never made it to the Promised Land. When the reading is over, the cantor blesses Yonatan son of Rachel and Moshe. My father’s good eyes are lit with splendor and laughter as he steps quietly down from the Bimah back into the crowd.

In the army, my father’s role was taking care of the dead. His job was to bring them to a dignified Jewish burial. He never tells us anything of his past actions; he is not a man of many words. Until today, whenever somebody passes away in my old home town, my father vanishes for a few hours to help treat the dead. It’s called “Chesed Shel Emet” –the benevolence of righteousness. Unlike his parents’ generation who built the institutions of our country and set up its main structures, his Chesed is quiet and responsive to the events which happen around him.

Sometimes I wonder how my quiet father can carry all that weight on his shoulders.

B. Masoret- tradition.

Moses received the Torah from Sinai and passed it on to Joshua, Joshua to the Elders; the Elders to the Prophets; and the Prophets passed it on to the Men of the Great Assembly…
-Pirkey Avot

The generations which came before us are embedded within us. They escort us as we celebrate our holidays – on Yom Kippur or University graduation, their eyes are watching, examining our actions, giving advice and meaning to mundane life. We are expected to relate to them. The glory of their memories commands us to better the world. To improve what they have given us. To carry their greatness to our inheritance. To create the next part of the chain, day by day.

I study what my forefathers studied. I study what my foremothers did not always have access to. I have the freedom to wonder around beloved texts, I have the freedom to walk in ancient pathways. I live in a world which reinvents itself with every passing day, where technology dictates an ever growing pace of life. I live in the liminal space between old and new as I try to make my own way forward.

C. National Memorial Day 2007

A frantic rush. It is 10:30 am and I’m running up the mountain. It’s hot and I feel heavy. I’m running to be there on time for the ceremony, to stand next to my father when the siren that traditionally marks Memorial Day will begin to pierce our ears with memories.

It’s crowded and hot. The cemetery is flooded with people swarming in from every direction. They are dressed in blue and white; some wear only one color: black.
I run. I smile with gratitude at teenagers who wear their youth movements’ uniform as they hand me flowers to put on a grave. However, I refuse their offer, as well as the water bottles that soldiers provide for the vast crowd. For now, I run forward with the crowds.

It feels just like before a big pilgrimage. I see visions of a white river of people who are rushing towards the Wailing Wall to read the Book of Ruth on the holiday of Shavuot. Before dawn kisses the sky which lays above it, darkness is broken with a new light.

I stop. I got too high. From this standpoint, I can see my family members trying to find their way to each other. They move in the crowd, not aware of how close they really are to each other. The focal point is Noam’s grave. I witness the strong quiet presence of his parents and some of his siblings. They are all standing, ready for the ceremony. I see familiar heads everywhere. The only islands in the crowd are the graves.

I locate my father. He is standing down there, trying to gently push his way forward. I can imagine his debate with himself; whether to further protect his head from the burning sun, as I see him put his funny-looking hat over his kippa. It’s 11:00 am. My father’s big hand freezes in the air as the siren blows.

We stand and stare at the ground. New beloved ones have been buried here this year. In my mind I try to remember each of my family members who are commemorated today in the short two minutes period. I’m left overwhelmed.

The ceremony is over. We unite under the big tree we have come to know in the past year on our visits here. Our tribe members gather. My cousin’s wife, Hadassah, is 15 days late in her pregnancy; both her beautiful blond-haired daughters run around. We all hug and kiss and fill each other in on latest news. I take Noa, Noam’s new niece in my arms. She is a beautiful two-month-old baby. She is life. I say shalom to Noam’s fiancé, not really knowing what to say to her lovely enigmatic smile.

A man who rescued Noam’s body from the tank is standing between us all. Wrapped in our family, he is telling of the rescue efforts. The children run around and we are hiding from the sun behind a tree, behind sunglasses, all attuned to his story. We are embraced by the tree’s shade; we are embraced by this man’s story. We embrace him back.

The clock is ticking and we start to depart. People are going to Noam’s parent’s house to be together. With my father and others the ascent up the mountain begins. We make our way to the next ceremony, which should be taking place at 1:00 pm, on top of the mountain. My father sneaks apples to our handbags; the day is hot and long. We are all encouraging each other to drink. The sun beats down on our heads; there is still much to be done.

There is heavy security on the way to the terror victim’s ceremony. The main speaker is the Prime Minister. We wander on and on in a labyrinth of blue plastic cloth, passing through different guard points to get in to the central ceremony. Our agony is our passport on this journey. We mourn for my cousin Chani, her husband Yossi and their child Shuvael, who were shot five years ago. It’s 12:45 pm and we are afraid of being late. We start running again in the roads that lead up, passing by the tombs of Herzl’s children as we go further on our way to be with Chani’s nine living orphans.

The Talmud says, “Everyone who visits takes away one-sixtieth of the illness.” My father runs to support my cousins, to take his part.

We get there; see our family members in the distance, by the stage. We listen to the cantor crying a prayer of mourning, “El Male Rachamim,” once more and then withdraw back down the mountain to make it to the next ceremony; the hour of 1:30 pm is drawing near.

I run. I try to locate the shortest and quickest way to go down this mountain, to the Gush Etzion ceremony. To show my father the way. His brother is buried there, Rachel’s son who never made it to the Promised Land. It has been exactly 59 years of independence and loss for my father. I stand with him at the mass grave, nodding my head to greet more of the elders of our family. I kiss my twin brother, who was named after our fallen uncle. The memorial service begins. El Male Rachamim again. We stand on both sides of our father. We embrace him as his body leans towards the earth.

D. Independence Day

The sad, heavy, choking, patched blanket of ceremonies is lifted. We can never really take some pieces back as we return to our homes to prepare for our Independence Day. The shift is so dramatic. Like a transformation from a long fast to the festive joy of Purim. Like a great light that blinds eyes which dwelled in much darkness. By the evening, the sky is lit with fireworks. My head is still pounding from the sun. From the distance the fireworks sound like shots, and I have to look up to remember that this is an expression of joy which is not taken for granted. It’s an expression of freedom.

My forefathers are looking down at us, seeing good old stained hands caress our heads. My father’s soft eyes are full of light.

a run on sentence for Israel….I remember as a kid I could never count how many times I had actually gone to visit Israel because I had visited it just as many times in my dreams and as I had in reality, running out of the car of (insert close relative here) into my Savtas apartment to grab a popsicle, put it into a glass of petel and cold water, stir it with the wooden tong that finally came loose as I broke the pieces of frozen Israeli Popsicle into my cup, after quickly drinking it up and feeling refreshed after the Israel sun beat down on me in the car and after outside as I stood in Ramat Gan, I ran to the makolet, not even to buy candy, but because it was heaven for me, maybe because I had an account there under my Savatas name (wonder if that still exists) and just soaking it all in, all the fun candy that I couldn’t eat in Israel because of that damn jelatin, I could eat here because it’s Israel and everything is totally amazing and Jewish, next stop in what was reality or a dream would be Shabbat where I would go to a little Yemenite village that had a shull the size of an American garage and an opening the size of a window for the women to peek in, the old Yemenite men looked so intense and sounded so cool as they sang Kabbalat Shabbat in a hypnotic meter and tone, their sons seemed to be dressed for what would happen on Friday nights instead of Shull, I guess they balanced the two worlds, as I grew up, Israel still had that dreamlike quality to me, even though I somehow ended up miraculously two blocks away from bombs going off when I should have been on time on the block, I tend to get places late all the time now, Israel and I know why.

Hannah Ellenson is a blogger at Jewlicious and spends most of her time being a senior at Wellesley College in Massachusetts.  Born in Los Angeles, and raised in LA, Jerusalem, and New York, Hannah has been exposed to some of the more vibrant Jewish communities in the world, and yet still does not keep Shabbat.

A few weeks ago, I was asked how many times I had been to Israel.  I think I’m up to seven.  Given my short twenty-two years of life, I think that’s a pretty good track record so far.  My experiences in Israel have forced me to feel as though I’m not really at home there or in the United States.  I exist somewhere between the two.

Perhaps because of this, I have incredibly distinct memories of every time I leave Israel.  Besides the fabulous duty-free shopping that is in Ben Gurion airport, there are always intense tears.  The first time I left Israel, I was twelve.  My parents decided it would be a brilliant idea to take us to Israel for a year and subject us to the wonders of the Israeli Education System.  I was miserable for the majority of the year.  My day-school education had not adequately prepared me for full-time Hebrew, and let’s just say that the discipline system in the classroom was a little more lax than what I was used to.  Of course, my parents knew that this would be an amazing experience for our family and, I will admit, they were completely and totally right in the end.  My last view of Mavo Dakar 3 (our address in Jerusalem) was through the rear windshield of the taxi taking us to the airport.  I was sitting next to my Abba, and both of us were crying profusely.  Up until that last moment when we drove away, I was sure we were going to stay.  My living in Israel and that feeling of never wanting to leave has stayed with me over the past ten years.

I can say quite confidently that I love Israel.  And contrary to popular belief, love does mean having to say you’re sorry.  I can also say quite confidently that I strongly disagree with many of the Israeli government’s decisions and the army’s actions.  I have had experiences that perhaps most American Jews have not: over the past five years I have been lucky enough to become friends with people who are Palestinian.  Lama, Rawan, and Mohammed, among others, inform my views of Israel just as much as Sarah, David, and Nomi do.  Once again, I am in limbo between two worlds – only instead of being caught between Israel and the US, I am caught in a conflict that is made of history, religion, and directly opposing beliefs.  I am constantly tested by these relationships.  Most of my Palestinian friends have travel documents, not passports; their fathers and uncles have been in jail. I feel guilty for feeling guilty about not serving in the IDF.  I am caught between two worlds.

At this point, I have been exposed to many views on Israel and Palestine– sometimes I agree, sometimes I don’t.  I grew up in a traditional Jewish community, I have been to Ramallah, I have spent a lot of time in East Jerusalem, I have attended peace rallies in Rabin Square, and I still don’t have a solution.  What I do know is that the only way to peace is through inter-personal communication.  During my time in Israel, I have volunteered at Rabbis for Human Rights and the Interfaith Coordinating Council of Israel and in the US, I have worked for many years at Seeking Common Ground.  Not everyone is willing to engage in this kind of dialogue, but those that are willing to do so, should.  I have been fulfilled in immeasurable ways through my friendships with people that both support and challenge me.

I think my Palestinian friends would fight with me for saying this, and yet I must – I wish I had Israeli citizenship.  I always feel like I lack a certain amount of legitimacy in any conversation about Israel because I don’t have a teudat zehut.  Maybe one day I will make aliyah.  I haven’t decided yet; I’m going to give myself a few more years.  For now though, I live in a liminal state.  I go out of my way to stand next to the Hebrew-speakers on the subway, I’m constantly searching for authentic hummus in the Diaspora, and I take every chance I get to return.  I love Israel, I’m disappointed in Israel, I believe in Israel, I’m confused by Israel.  At the end of the day, perhaps both in spite of and because of all of these feelings, Israel is home.  The words of Israeli poet Leah Goldberg, and most recently sung by Israeli singer Achinoam Nini, describe the feeling best:

Oh my darling, I have grown with you
But my roots… on both sides of the sea.

Perhaps only the migrating birds can know,
When they’re suspended between earth and heaven,
This pain of the two homelands.

With you I have been planted twice
With you I have grown, pines
And my roots are in two different landscapes.

Jessica Leigh Lebos blogs at Yo, Yenta! in between mothering, teaching kindergardeners Aleph-Bet yoga and enjoying her day job as editor of Skirt!, a women’s magazine combining feminism and fashion. She lives in Savannah, GA, home to the third oldest Jewish congregation in the United States.

My first (and only, so far) trip to Israel was when I was 21, somewhere in the early 90s. At the time I was terrifically busy maintaining a state of self-loathing and fear of my future. I felt disconnected with Judaism and its relevance to me (me, me, me!) and  I was depressed and unimpressed by the Holy Land’s hubbub and history.

I had come with a volunteer group that placed college students on Army bases to perform menial tasks in exchange for a plane ticket. I thought wearing the IDF uniform and combat boots made me look tough, but since we weren’t issued guns, I smoked a lot of shitty TIME cigarettes to keep up the image. My first “tour” was near Chaifa and I enjoyed the company of the other fun-loving Americans, mostly East Coasters, in my group. But when I transferred after three weeks to another base in the hotter, drier Negev with a bunch of catty girls who wore lipstick to KP duty, I dropped out.

After tooling around on dusty buses for a few days, I found myself one evening in a Tel Aviv youth hostel, feeling sorry for myself. Bono was on MTV - the video was “One,” and he was sitting in a dark bar that looked a lot like the bar I was parked in. There was a Heineken next to him on the table, the same beer I was drinking. Keeping with my belief that the world revolved around me, it seemed that he speaking directly to me - Rock Star in Television As Angel In Burning Bush. Is it getting better, or do you feel the same? he asked me.

Have you come here for forgiveness?
Have you come to raise the dead?
Have you come here to play Jesus
To the lepers in your head?

HELL no, I’m not playin’ Jesus, but damn straight I got a lot of lepers in my head, I thought. It began to dawn on me that I might find redemption in here in the land of my ancestors, that being Jewish might lead me towards something, that I might not be wandering around my life all alone.

As if on cue, the owner of the hostel, a swarthy sabra with lovely eyes, brought me another Heineken, on the house. “Don’t look so sad! You’re alive, aren’t you?”

That night I ended up in bed with the owner of the hostel. Cynical as I was, I still expressed shock when he tossed the dirty condom out the window. He shrugged. “That’s Israel.”

Redemption would have to wait.

I spent two more months in Israel, mostly in Jerusalem where some dear cousins put me up in exchange for watching their 8-month old daughter (that baby is now getting ready to into the IDF!) Even though there was opportunity, I didn’t want to join the other Americans at Hebrew University - they seemed too earnest and too religious, and I felt dirty and unworthy. Mostly I just pushed the baby carriage up and down the uneven streets, read and exchanged piles of paperback novels (I discovered both Amoz Oz and Salman Rushdie during this time), watched my ass get huge on kibbutz milk chocolate, and waited to go home.

One evening I walked to the top of some stairs and discovered a vista that literally took my breath from my body: The entire Old City was laid out before me, the Temple Mount, the Dome of the Rock, the rooftops and hidden alleyways and layers of history, all bathed in a peach-colored sunset, twinkling. I was tempted into my usual despair that I was not really part of such beauty, that I would never be a good enough Jew, that I wouldn’t feel at home here even I stayed forever. After all, I had only learned ten words of Hebrew in three months, attended synagogue a handful of times (in spite of living with a cantor) and wasn’t sure I believed in a God that never seemed to show up when anyone really needed help.

But then a little thought popped up in my head, banishing the lepers to the shadows: I am a part of it. Then a couple of others that caused my heart to unclench and tears to flow: I am good enough. I am loved. These were new thoughts, not heard before in the negative cacophony of my mind. I listened to them again, watching the orange light fade to pink and finally, dark blue. I hadn’t looked at a Torah since my bat mitzvah, but I felt comforted and only a little bit crazy that I had just heard a few choice words from God. While walking back in the twilight I understood that real love is unconditional, and even if I couldn’t give it to myself, it was there, just like it was for the patriarchs and matriarchs, for the brave people who fought for and sowed this land, for my relatives who exterminated by Hitler, for my Israeli cousins, for the Jews scattered like dandelion spores all across the world. No matter what. I didn’t have to do anything to be a part of Israel, I didn’t need to understand it or even like it. It just is.

That was 15 years ago, and I’d love to tell you I’ve made aliyah, or have at least returned to Israel. But life has lead me other places: finally out of college, to the redwoods, under the chuppah, to the Deep South. I’m still narcissistic and can’t speak Hebrew, but I’m comfortable as a good-enough Jew, lighting candles (most) Fridays, teaching Sunday School, observing the Top Ten Mitzvot but leaving most of the other 603 to the more learned and less lazy. But I hold fast to the belief that God loves us deeply, even if we behave badly, even if we fall into the depths of depravity - and our experience of that unconditional adoration is best felt when we reflect it back out to the people around us.

There is a State called Israel turning 60 - !hallelujah! - A powerful, vibrant, complicated place for the Jews of the world to come and be free. There is also a state of mind I call Israel, a place accessible without a plane ticket or even a sefer, where we are free from our own petty evils and feel at One with our Creator - no matter what.

Joel Magalnick is the Senior Editor of jew-ish.com, a Seattle-based local Web site that brings community, news and events to young Jewish adults. Joel is also the Editor of the JTNews, the Jewish community newspaper for Washington State.

Snow in Jerusalem, 1993

My relationship with Israel is based on something I consider to be tough love. I live in Seattle, an hour up the interstate from Olympia, home of Rachel Corrie, the woman killed in Gaza by a bulldozer five years ago and whose life and death have made for a rallying cry of the Palestinian cause. I can remember the first thing I thought when I heard about Rachel’s death (paraphrased): Oh crap. These days, in some circles in my town it’s bad form to admit you’ve ever had a positive thought about Israel, let alone admit you’ve spent time there, or, worse yet, found it to be a wonderful place. I can find members of that circle in my own synagogue, believe it or not. But here’s the thing: the negativity kind of rubs off on you, and it takes a visit to remind you that the people who claim they want peace (whether on the left or the right, I guess I should make clear) don’t always know what they’re talking about — and could probably use a visit themselves to get a clear sense of the situation in that part of the world.

But having been raised on a diet of Rah! Rah! Rah! Israel is the best! has painted me with a default point of view that makes it that much more difficult to empathize with what so many Palestinians are going through. But if we are to truly love Israel, we have to understand their points of view or we’ll just continue to spin our wheels and end up digging ourselves deeper in the ugliness of this unwinnable war.

This biography of my Israel experience is, in a lot of ways, the narrative of the innocence lost over the 60 years of the life of the Jewish State — only with delayed reaction. I’m a bit slow on the uptake sometimes. Please don’t hold it against me.

My first trip to Israel was the obligatory six weeks between my junior and senior years of high school. I saw everything but I saw nothing. We bussed all over that country. We spent time on a kibbutz (worked in a factory, plastered the walls with quotes from classic rock songs - everything a group of rowdy teenaged boys would do), inner tubed down the Jordan (it still had water then), visited the important sites, swam in the Dead Sea, suntanned in Eilat, saw Eric Clapton perform in the shadow of the Old City. It was glorious. I became a Zionist and knew I’d have to be back.

Having grown up in the Conservative movement with six years spent at Camp Ramah, I was taught that Israel was our spiritual homeland, that it was a place of beauty that we were obligated to love, that it was the result of the power and might of a Jewish people that could not be held down, that the Arabs (they were still the Arabs to us in the ’80s) were the bad guys. I didn’t question any of it. Nobody ever taught us it was a country of real people with poor driving skills and overpriced supermarkets. Even as I saw poor people in the streets near Zion Square, or the street cleared of a chefetz hashud (suspicious object), or the guy wearing a kippah and tzittzit ripping us off in the unofficial money exchange at the back of the jewelry store, I couldn’t let that get in the way of the dream, the vision. I can’t even remember seeing any Palestinians during that trip. And the occupation? Wasn’t even in my vocabulary. It certainly wasn’t taught at Hebrew High.

We both made it!

Fast forward three years. My best friend, at school a thousand miles away, convinced me I should go with him to Jerusalem for our junior year abroad. I decided, less than a week before the deadline (and two weeks before I found out that I actually was let into my university’s journalism program) to go for it. My Jewish life on campus to that point had consisted trying to find new ways to convince the guys I’d been in BBYO with that I didn’t want to extend my high school years by joining the AEPi Jewish fraternity. It was a state school, and way too close to home.

Hillel was a joke and the campus Israel organization was made up of a half-dozen people I’d spent half my Hebrew school career with. Trying to escape that meant not having a Jewish life, and that really was fine with me. By then, the whole idea of the Jewish homeland didn’t mean quite as much. For me, it was a year-long way to get the hell out of Boulder and meet some people, and maybe hang out with Jews that I might actually want to hang out with. I wasn’t disappointed.

My ticket into the big time.

This time, it was Israel on my terms. I learned Hebrew (one of my proudest moments was a car ride with my cousin, during which our entire conversation contained not a single word of English). I argued with Israelis. I spent weekends traveling all over the place, usually in packs of five or more. I saw the beautiful places the tours won’t take you to. I saw the ugly places that the tour companies have never heard of. I hitchhiked. I camped. I hiked on litter-strewn trails (not) maintained by the Israeli arm of the JNF.

Much of the touring we did was learning about the ancient past, though it didn’t always translate to the context of today.

I also learned about the conflict. I stayed with a Palestinian friend in Nazareth, a few blocks from where that Jesus guy lived. I learned about the occupation, about the Western world’s perceived value of an Arab life. That value has gone up greatly in the past 15 years, I should tell you. I rode buses through the Arab neighborhoods in Jerusalem, one time having a rock hit the window at the seat right next to me. Talk about disconcerting. I ate falafel and hummus with Arabs and at the ubiquitous storefronts in Jerusalem in Tel Aviv. For the record, the best damn falafel I ever had was in the Arab quarter of Jerusalem’s old city. For a dollar. Try finding that in Seattle.

When I returned, I had an experience that has shaped my life. I had a girlfriend who’s now my wife. I made friends who I actually do keep in touch with, whose babies I’ve played with, whose phone calls mean the world to me. And I had a picture of an Israel that was more of the real Israel, with thoughts of maybe coming back there permanently.

Three months after I returned, Rabin and Arafat signed the Oslo Agreement. Two years after that, Rabin was killed. Five more years was the start of the second intifada, an uprising that lasted far too long and has resulted in bitterness everywhere, not to mention the hardening of views outside of the Jewish State. And in all that time, I never went back. Which is why it is so hard now, 15 years after my return, to look at Israel and see what it has become. From a distance, it’s hard to see the beauty of the country, the contradictions, the scientific, technological and medical breakthroughs, the vitality of the political process so absent in this country, the problems that plague any developed nation, the way the absorption of Russians, Ethiopians, French and so many more has changed the face of the country from the strong, dignified Sabra. All I see is a religious authority gone amok, an occupation gone overboard, an economy gone haywire, an aliyah gone missing. The positives a massive effort from PR firms trumpeting the latest breakthrough, clumsy attempts at subterfuge of the real issues at hand. Meanwhile, the mainstream American Jewish community continues to hold its hands over its ears and pretend nothing is wrong; in some parts of my community you can’t show your face in public if you say something negative about the Jewish state. And, as I said before, in other parts you can’t show your face in public if you say something positive.

Some of the Bedouin villages have no waste disposal services, leaving this. Those buildings in the background are the city of Beer Sheva.

So finally, a year ago, I went back. For four days. I spent more time in the air than on the ground. On this trip, I saw nothing but I saw everything. Invited to the Negev as a guest of the Ben Gurion University, I went to learn about the Bedouin population (read my stories here, here and here), but I finally got to see Israel from the bottom up. Israel is a country that has always struggled, always had economic woes, always had to deal with an enemy that can be held no farther than an arm’s length. What I saw, though, was a country that’s having a difficult time keeping its own citizens from appreciating what it is.

Making do with what they’ve got. Reduce, reuse, recycle!

The Bedouins are a beautiful people, and much more than the “dance and feed us in their nomadic tent” we’d been taught on that six-week high school tour. But they are neglected, to Israel’s peril — as are the Ethiopians, the Thais, the Chinese, the other native Arab populations, and still, to some extent, the Russians. That neglect could have serious ramifications for Israel’s security, but it also has a much more devastating effect on Israel’s moral standing.

The Idan Raichel Project live.

When I was there, I also saw the Israel I’d never had the chance to see even as a student: the center for studying migratory birds at Ben Gurion’s Sde Boker campus, way out in the middle of nowhere; the awe-inspiring canyon overlooked by David Ben Gurion’s grave; the Idan Raichel Project, the hip-hop/Arabic/Hebrew rock band that’s as good an example as any of the power of the Israeli people to turn what could be a life living in fear into powerful art. The same could be said of its film industry, and even its modern artists that have gone beyond painting overpriced trinkets depicting the Holy Land and sold in stores in the Old City that closely resemble your synagogue’s gift shop.

At the same time, on the last night at our hotel in Beer Sheva we had guests: a Russian billionaire intent on seeking office (I’m a journalist - of course I’m cynical) bussed in a ton of residents from Sderot due to the sheer mass of Kassam rockets being fired at them from Gaza. It was a reminder that Israelis know who their enemies are; at the same time, it was hard to remember that not everyone who has the same color skin or the same last name agrees with the terrorists shooting those rockets, even if they do feel frustrated or disgusted by the consequences of Israel’s hard-line defenses.

I also roamed the avenues of Tel Aviv one night. On the beaches of the Mediterranean, I felt the finest, most luxurious sand I’d ever walked on sift between my toes; I stopped in a bar and had a beer, just like at a pub around the corner from my house; and I saw a woman, probably in her 20s, holding a grocery bag while fumbling with the keys to get into her apartment building. It could have been Rachel Corrie. It could have been my wife. Mostly, though, it reminded me of how much over there is so similar to life over here. And that, I think is what I love the most about Israel. As much as we hear about the hate and the war and the poverty and the fervency and the polarization of opinion and religion, in so many ways it’s not so different from here. Except the milk comes in plastic bags. I wonder if Rachel Corrie found that to be as strange as I did.

Adam Berger is an East Coast Conservodox Jew living in Hamburg, Germany for 6 months. He owns a tech blog network (Dabbledoo), blogs on his own site(TheBergerProject), and has a day job doing marketing for a matchmaker.

As an American Jew I honestly do not find myself thinking about Israel on a daily basis; some may, but I don’t. But living in Hamburg, Germany the past 3 months and the recent conclusion of Passover has made me think a little bit about the significance of Israel and the even greater importance of freedom.

Freedom has many different meanings and values to various people. Thankfully, living in the western world, in the 21st century “freedom” and “life” are words that hold the same connotation for our citizens. We have freedom of speech, equal rights, and protection from the government, legal systems, widespread access to education, food, shelter, and the other necessities of life. ( I recognize that not everyone has these various freedoms and luxuries but many/most people in the western world have at least some level of these.) Given all of this what does freedom really mean? Is it not the mark of the western world to take everything we have for granted and classify it under “living”, not “freedom”?

I believe that when you step back and look at the Jewish people there is no such thing as freedom or “living” without Israel. Freedom is the ability to be who you are no matter what. When you go to Israel for the first time, you realize Israel is the only place in the world where a Jew can have complete freedom and understanding. Even in religious or prominently Jewish communities in and outside of America, Jews are and will always be outsiders. Until you have the chance to take a trip or make aliyah, you may find it hard to understand what I am saying, but ask around, it is true. Religious or not, there is a way of Jewish life that differs from the secular world, and only in Israel can you live this life to the fullest. I would attempt to explain this concept more fully, however it is really something you need to experience from both sides — living or visiting Israel for an extended time as well as living outside of Israel in various communities around the world.

Living outside of Israel it is so easy to be jealous of the amazing country that so many of our family members live in and the true freedom they have achieved. We should all be thankful that Israel is around, a tiny little place that offers true freedom to all Jews for the past 60 years. I just hope that over the next 60 years Jews around the world (and all people) can experience this same freedom no matter where they are. With the happiness that comes from celebrating the 60th anniversary of Israel, it should not be forgotten that those living in Israel have been in a constant battle from the very beginning to keep this place, our place, a homeland for the Jewish people.