Photo by Oded Gebert

(Cross posted from Jewlicious.com)

The Middle is one of the earliest contributors to Jewlicious.com where he continues to post when the mood strikes him. He won’t tell us whether this is an autobiographical piece.

Once upon a time a young man stepped off a plane in Israel and walked on the tarmac towards an outmoded airport terminal. It was afternoon in early summer and the heat had already broken. Around him were tourists and Israelis, his fellow travelers from far away. None had kissed the ground upon disembarking, but many had clapped joyously when the plane had touched down. Off in the distance, the young man could see squat, rocky hills. The sky above was blue; a little bluer than he’d ever seen, as if the sky was closer to the ground than in other places. The young man breathed in the air, squinted up at the sky and, a little surprised at his realization, thought, “This is home.”

On that first day in Israel, he took the bus to Jerusalem. The road to Jerusalem still had the vehicle skeletons from 1948 lying by the side of the road, purposely evoking the war of sacrifice that culminated in the creation of Israel. Watching these metal carcasses, the young man became aware that there was something special about this place. The hills, the trees, the historic climb up through the hills to Jerusalem; it all resonated with him.

He looked around him at the other bus riders. Nothing here was simple, he’d learn, even a bus ride. The people riding alongside him were a diverse mix. There were lined faces of elderly Moroccan women, young faces of wild-haired blonde teens before military service, some Arab students, an Arab laborer, two middle-aged Russian couples that, judging by clothes, had not yet integrated into Israeli life, and a couple of Scandinavian girls in skimpy clothes.

There were also riders who wore IDF uniforms and carried guns. This was the first time he had seen guns in public that weren’t in a policeman’s holster. The Scandinavian girls’ dress distracted him from concentrating on the guns that day. Later on, seeing guns and uniforms became commonplace for him. He would come to accept as normal the soldiers with their guns, young muscular men with sharp faces and tired eyes, and would respect their commitment to serve their country at personal risk.

That first bus ride would always return to him. The hodge-podge of national, ethnic, cultural, economic and religious backgrounds, would re-appear everywhere in the young man’s travels in Israel. The mix of accents and languages on the streets and in the shops exposed the multi-national and multi-cultural flavor of the place. The food he ate also reflected this incredible mix. One could go to a tired old place such as the old central bus station in Tel Aviv and within several blocks find dozens of national cuisines superbly represented in a range of mom and pop restaurants. The mom and pop were always warm and cordial, and the food was usually good. The accents, the homeyness, the sighs of “What can we do, this is the only Jewish state, our only home.” This was the fabric of this place. It was part of what made this place “home.”

Others who had been to Israel told the young man they shared his feelings about it being “home” but their reasons were different. Israel appeared to be many things to many people, even if it often touched them deeply enough to be “home.”

But innocence is always lost with the passage of time. Months after arriving, the young man would discover the funny, perspicacious writings of Yonatan Gefen. This was writing that managed to depict the uniqueness of Israeli society, warts and all, in a homey way, as if everybody were part of one big family, even when criticizing the warts. It was writing that typified how the people of the country viewed themselves. They saw themselves as special, maybe fulfilling a destiny, but they could also recognize how reality managed to violate their magic realism and laugh about it. It opened a window to the cynicism many Israelis felt about their society.

Perhaps if the young man had grown up, like Yonatan Gefen and most Israelis, hearing that 1948 was a tragedy for the Palestinians, instead of just a victorious war of pain and heroic sacrifice – such as that which resulted in the destroyed vehicles by the side of the road – he might have viewed that first day differently. Or subsequent days.

But it wasn’t that way at all, because the way he saw Israel that first day was the way many who love Israel view it: through a prism of romantic or perhaps naive appreciation and passion. Every hill is a wonder, every stone has an historic meaning, the smell of night hearkens back to ancestors walking this land thousands of years ago, the activity of day or a simple walk through a neighborhood in Jerusalem reminds one of centuries of Diaspora Jews going about their lives preserving traditions, working hard and remembering and passionately commemorating Judea and Jerusalem.

The idea of God suffuses many corners in the country. For most, Arab and Jew, nothing in Israel is what it seems because behind every object and every person there are layers of depth. Layers of time, memory and faith. It is a rich patina that penetrates every surface and every person. It is wondrous. It is also the glue that bonds so many to this Land and People.

And then there are the contemporary real-world flaws of society: corrupt or weak politicians, banana-republic style jobs for the well-connected, imbalance between classes and ethnic groups in Israeli society, the challenge of making a living in this developing nation, having to serve in the army or send your children to serve, and wars.

Wars and terrorism. There were bombings. The young man would visit Jerusalem when terror attacks were frequent. One night, close to the apartment where he was staying, the calm afternoon was shattered by a loud explosion. The terrifying boom wasn’t too far away and the young man ran out to the street. Others gathered and the neighbors knowingly guessed where the bomb must have exploded. A short while later initial news reports reported a suicide bombing with victims. Jews had been murdered, or burned up in flames, or filled up with shrapnel.

And there, just like that, was the other feeling that one often carried in this special country. Fear and dread. Was it safe to enter this restaurant or bus? Was it safe to walk through this part of town? Is that man over there looking at me with hate in his eyes, or is he just tired from the journey he must now make to see his family across a Swiss-cheese border?

They blend, the romantic, innocent view and the jaded, troubled view that acknowledges the imperfection of the situation. That’s the success of terrorism when it is fighting a country that teaches the mythology of its founding as a great victory. The terror forces fears to bubble forth, and it forces the acknowledgment that there is another side to the story, a side with their own truth and romantic views.

And therein lies a dichotomy. The rich beauty of Israel is true - its many achievements in culture, democracy, judiciary, music, architecture, economy, technology, warfare, publishing and so forth. It is also true that Israel is a success as a place of refuge for the Jewish nation, a place for the in-gathering of so many Jews, many of whom are refugees who came with nothing from many far-away lands. This truth feeds the innocent and romantic view of the country, even among its most jaded residents.

But the deep pain of Israel is also true - the war is interminable and the other side has had some legitimate claims even if they use illegitimate means to propagate those demands. The terror has the effect of turning the Israeli nation into a nation of mice seeking to avoid the side of the cage with the electric shock. Except that in this laboratory, the mouse has an army and the means and character to punish those who test him. This strange mix of power and fragility, of control and exposure to harm drives another combination that rests uppermost in the minds of many Israelis and their supporters: pride in the strength of its sons and their army; and, concern about their sons’ safety as well as concern that this strong army will overstep its boundaries and violate the country’s guiding principles of Good.

Time passed. Years went by.

The young man ultimately chose to live away from Israel, despite his feeling that it was home. It wasn’t intentional, sometimes life pulls in certain directions and people find themselves living something that differs from their vision. He missed Israel a lot and then at times he didn’t miss it at all. All innocence is betrayed and his was no different. Would he want to serve in the army or do reserve duty when people who may not have any talent beyond political survival made decisions about sending soldiers to war or battle? On the other hand, how could he not serve when the country made so many serve and when he believed in the justice of their fight?

But now he was far away and the distance amplified his feelings. The young man often thought that he was cheating himself by choosing something other than what he had felt only in Israel: a fullness of being, a permanent sense of living in this rich place full of history and warm people, of speaking and reading in a language that evoked the memory of ancestors from thousands of years past, of opening a window in a small apartment only to find the fresh scent of spring and blooming flowers fill his nostrils. Eau de Jerusalem Ancien.

The young man, living far from Israel, would sometimes think back to a trip he made after he had lived in the country for a while. A visitor invited him to drive through Israel over a number of days, making stops in the Galilee, at the Kinneret, in the Jordan Valley, at Hod Ha’Sharon and Ra’anana, in Tel Aviv, in Beersheva, in the Negev, in Eilat and in Ein Gedi. He knew the trip could have been completed in one day, maybe two, because the country is so small. They did it over several days. From this, the young man came to learn how the small size of the Land only enhanced the meaning of its every part. Details take on a greater significance in Israel, a small place that bears so much history and faith that its size is magnified. A similar journey in his home country where distances allowed people to drive for days before reaching a border might have been beautiful, no less than a trip across Israel, but the feeling would have been different. It might not have been as rich or fulfilling. This driving trip took place in winter and the sky was often either cloudy or covered in morning fog. Moisture weighed heavily in the air, hinting at violent storms to come. But to the young man, the scent of rain seemed refreshing and the clouds in the sky awfully close. Closer than any clouds he had ever seen.

Darnell Clayton is a non-Jewish American was surprised to see how modern Israel was after a brief visit of the country when he was a teenager. He currently resides in the US, and highlights some of the innovative (and interesting) technologies pouring out of the Jewish state over at IsraGood.com.

A long, long time ago, in a place not so far away, I was a 16 year old naive punk who pretty much believed that he knew everything he needed to know about life (and then some).

Back then your view of the world came mainly from three sources–family, friends and television.

It was during that time I had the opportunity to visit Israel, which was according to friends and family a place full of angry people, war, and a few holy sites (after all, two major faiths were founded there).

Since none of my friends and family had ever visited Israel, I had to turn towards CNN (and other media outlets) for advice on what Israel was all about.

While they had no war news to broadcast about Israel at the time (as it was during the Clinton “peace talks”), the media outlets did highlight the many “angry faces” there, not to mention a few ancient holy sites.

As there was no current war going on, I decided to at least visit the holy land while it was “still safe.”

After arriving in Israel (with a group of other teenagers and adults), the first thing I noticed was how normal everything looked. Except for the fact that half of the signs were in Hebrew, you probably would not have realized that you were half way around the world in another country.

Whether you were walking the streets of Tel Aviv, or running along the never ending beaches (which were surprisingly clean of litter by the way), Israel pretty much mirrored what one would expect from a country guided by what some would call “western values.”

Heck, Israel even had a McDonalds (which was perplexing as I knew most successful restaurants do not set up shop inside war zones).

Most Israelis that I encountered (if not practically all) were very helpful, friendly, and “slightly geeky” as it seemed that everyone man, woman and child had a cell phone (this was in the era when beepers were all the rage in the US).

Throughout my 30 day stay in the holy land, the only problems that I encountered were when I found out I had to pay a shekel to use the public bathrooms (all I had was paper cash on me) and that my love of Falafels was bigger than my wallet.

Oh, and there was that Dead Sea mud dilemma, as one of the girls who went with our group found out that the mud has a habit of turning blond hair green (I kid you not!!).

While many of my friends and family in the US were disappointed about the lack of adventure from visiting a “dangerous country,” I came away with a broader perspective about Israel, the media (or rather what they filter), and a huge craving for some juicy Falafels (which thanks to Google I can now enjoy in America).

The 60 Bloggers project is co-production of Jewlicious.com and the Let My People Sing Festival. It is published daily for 60 days to celebrate Israel’s 60 birthday.

Danielle Berrin and Dikla Kadosh write for The Jewish Journal of Los Angeles. They collaborate on The Calendar Girls blog, which focuses on the intersection of Jewish social, cultural and religious life in L.A

“Long Distance Love” by Danielle Berrin

I’ve never lived in Israel.

The sum total of the time I’ve spent standing on the soil of a land I call my “home” doesn’t amount to more than a month.

There are many things about Israel I don’t know: how the Jerusalem air feels in winter, or the way the rain falls over the hills of Haifa, and I’ve only heard about the infamous nightlife in Tel-Aviv - which puts Israel and me in something of a long-distance relationship.

What I know about Israel stems from Jewish education, studying history, student advocacy, Israeli news, literature and film – the things that, in modern times, make that mystical place, that prophesied dream, that Promised Land, real.

I’ve learned you don’t have to live in Israel to love it.

You can love the way the word sounds when it passes between your lips, or the instant affection you feel for the frantic Israeli-expat whose cell phone conversation sounds like poetry because he’s speaking in Hebrew. You can close your eyes and pray that God will envelop the land in that “shelter of peace” when you say, Avinu Shebashamayim every Shabbat.

If love was measured by presence, then I might be lovelorn. But I’ve learned there exists a kind of love that you cannot possess, though it still possesses you.

As an American Jew, I know there is a price to pay for having the land without actually living there, which means my love for Israel cannot rest as mere feeling, but must embody purpose. If it’s as simple as planting a tree, or attending AIPAC Policy Conference, or booking my next flight on El Al – that’s what I’ll do. If it’s talking hard politics, or challenging imperfect policies or searching sideways for solutions – I’ll do that, too.

On it’s 60th birthday, we are blessed with an Israel that is a concrete place – with desert and sea, sand and stone – but it is more than land; it is a place within a Jewish soul.

Israel survives because it is an idea we cannot bear to live without, because Israel means being part of a people, who study Torah and wrestle with God.

So even though most of the time I love it from afar, Israel is always with me. Everyday when I wake up and become aware of my presence in the world, I am aware of my Judaism, of my peoplehood, and my home-away-from-home, glittering somewhere beneath the sky we share.

“Israel’s Aftertaste” by Dikla Kadosh

I am plagued by a certain mental malaise every time I return from a trip to Israel.

I feel run-down, depleted, out of sorts.

It’s not the usual back-from-vacation-I-wish-I-wasn’t-at-work sluggishness. It’s different. It’s deeper and harder to shake off.

Israel leaves an aftertaste that is a combination of fatigue, nostalgia, emptiness and expectation.

The frenzied pace of life - the fast-talking shopkeepers, the reckless drivers, the crush of people everywhere you go, the whisp of danger always swirling in the air - drains you of all reserves of energy so that it takes at least a week to recover; longer if you had a return flight at 4 a.m. with a 7-hour layover in Switzerland.

Almost as soon as I arrive at Ben Gurion airport and make my way through the long security line, I begin recalling all the things I love about Israel: the Mediterranean climate, the sweet and spicy meals, the roughly handsome men, late nights at Aroma - Israel’s improved-upon version of Starbucks, and most of all, the fullness of being surrounded by loved ones.

The intense attention and warm affection of family members who see their relatives from America once every year or two at best was coupled on this trip with the eager observation and enthusiastic embrace of my soon-to-be extended family, who will be making up 400 out of the 500 invited guests at our September wedding. A steady stream of beaming faces paraded through our ten-day trip, filling every minute of every day with banter, questions, drinking, singing, eating and laughing. After that, who wouldn’t feel empty sitting alone in their car for 45 minutes on the 101? Or getting only a handful of phone calls throughout the day? Or waking up on a Saturday morning with no one waiting for you at the kitchen table?

I always return from Israel with a sense of expectation. As if I’m waiting for something. Waiting for the next trip to Israel, that’s for certain. But also, a larger sense of waiting. Waiting to return to Israel for good. Every visit to Israel tightens the strings that connect me to my birthplace, pulling me closer to the day that I become a toshevet choseret - a “returning resident.”

Returning to Los Angeles, I feel like I left home and came home at the same time.

It’s no wonder I feel out of sorts.

Rebecca Honig Friedman is Senior Writer of Jewess, a blog about Jewish women’s issues; a regular contributor to the Lilith blog; and a producer for The Jewish Channel. She loves blue-and-white frosted cupcakes with Israeli flag toothpicks stuck in the top.

When my husband and I decided to go to Prague and Israel after we got married in the summer of 2005, we had a romantic vacation in mind, not a honeymoon-heritage trip. As it turned out we got a little of both.

We’d heard Prague was beautiful, it was relatively affordable for Europe because the Czech Republic’s not on the Euro, and neither of us had been there before, so we could experience it together for the first time. My husband and I do both have Eastern European roots and thought it would be interesting to see that part of the world, but the Charles Bridge and Pilsner Urquell held more attraction than Holocaust remembrance.

Israel was an obvious choice. We’d both been before — David had lived there for two years while I had spent a five-week summer tour as a teenager — but neither of us had been back in years and never together, so we thought it would be nice to re-experience a place that was meaningful to both of us, together for the first time.

Prague was beautiful.

And hot.
“It’s never been this hot before, EVER,” the manager of the hotel told us, in broken English. (Did I mention neither of us speaks Czech?)

And crowded.
Just our luck, we chose the same week to be in Prague as some sort of international music festival and about a gazillion tour groups.

We arrived on Thursday. On Friday morning we went to the local Chabad to sign up for Shabbat meals.
“Sorry, we’re all full,” the rabbi told us, “there’s three Jewish tour groups in town.”
“All full? But you’re Chabad. You’re supposed to be welcoming to everyone.”
“Sorry, try the Jewish community center.”

So we tried the JCC. “Sorry, all full, there’s a bunch of Jewish tour groups in town.”

Lucky for us, Prague has one kosher restaurant where you can pre-buy meals for Shabbat — the most expensive schnitzel you’ll ever eat, but at least we had wine for kiddush, some challah, and we didn’t starve.

Before dinner we went to the city’s one still-operating synagogue for Kabbalat Shabbat. At least I think it was Kabbalat Shabbat. I couldn’t see or hear anything from the overcrowded side-room that served as a makeshift women’s section, where I sat with all the women from those tour groups, craning our heads to pick up something of the service through the open door.

Did I mention it was hot?

Did I mention the pork knuckles?
Every joint in town claimed to have the crispiest but I can’t vouch for anyone in particular. If you keep anything resembling kosher and don’t want to have every meal at the one vegan restaurant or the extremely expensive kosher restaurant, there’s not a heck of a lot to eat in Prague.

After much deliberating, we did go to Therezienstadt, which is now a small town where people live and work and play, around the buildings dedicated as a museum to the concentration camp that the town once was. The barracks, the train tracks, these were things we were expecting. But nothing was more depressing than the Memorial Cafe in the center of town.

“I dedicate these crispy pork knuckles to the memory of all the Jews who died here.”

We hopped on a bus back to Prague as soon as we could. And then we got off at the wrong stop, conveniently situated off the scope of our tourist map, and spent the rest of the day finding our way back to the map and exploring some of the more unsavory parts of town.

Don’t get me wrong, Prague wasn’t all bad at all: There was the early morning walk over the Charles Bridge (before the stampede of the crowds), an amazing production of Mozart’s opera “Don Giovanni” in the theater where it had originally debuted in the 18th century; the delicious gelato place next to our hotel. And just walking around with each other.
But when our week was up, we were ready to move on.

And arriving in Israel, for the first time in years for us both, to a landscape that had changed more than we expected, felt more like coming home than I ever imagined it could.

Though I grew up going to a Zionist school and spent a very formative five weeks in the Holy Land as a teenager, I’d never considered making aliyah. The idea of Israel had always been important to me, but on an experiential level it felt very far away, a place to visit on a pilgrimage once every ten years or so, hallowed ground rather than home turf.

But now, after having been such a tourist in Prague (and not a very successful one at that), after feeling the extreme foreignness of the place that in fact had been home to my own ancestors for generations, coming to Israel with my husband who had lived there for two years and had considered making aliyah felt right, like a return. Israel fit.

We got off the plane and we actually understood what people were saying. (We do speak Hebrew.)

We stayed with family and friends who were actually happy to see us and made us feel welcome. “Make yourselves at home,” they said and gave us a key to the house so we could come and go as we pleased.

Sure it was hot. But it’s supposed to be. So we went to the beach!

Sure it was crowded, but it was crowded with people we knew!

And the food! We could eat it! Did I mention the kosher McDonald’s?
I don’t think I will ever eat a Big Mac again, kosher or not, but it was worth it as a once-in-a-lifetime celebration of being able to do so.
(Some food for thought, why are Israeli restaurants obsessed with sweet potatoes?)

On Friday night, for Kabbalat Shabbat, we went to Shira Hadasha, where not only was there an actual women’s section–the same size as the men’s section–and not only could I hear everything that was going on, but a woman actually led the service!
Surely the keepers of the old synagogue in Prague were rolling over in their graves, but I was on cloud nine.

For nine days, we wandered across the state of Israel as we pleased — on foot, train and bus — without a map or guidebook, without particular tourist destinations in mind, just wandering Jews experiencing the country without “EXPERIENCING” it, enjoying the freedom of being a bit homeless but not being tourists, just living, in our homeland, as we prepared to make a home together back in New York.

Because despite the threat of terrorism, the turmoil of the disengagement from Gaza that was soon to take place, and the unstable economy, we felt secure in a way we didn’t in Prague and in a way we wouldn’t had we been traveling around America, certain we’d always have somewhere to stay, something to eat, someone to talk to.

That is why I love Israel.

Gary Wexler, Founder and President of Passion Marketing, spent twenty years as a creative director and copywriter for major advertising agencies, ranging from Chiat/Day to McCann-Erickson, producing award-winning work for clients such as Coca Cola and Apple Computer. Ten years ago, bringing with him the knowledge of ad agency practice, he moved into the world of issues and causes, establishing Passion Marketing. He has since worked with over 400 Nonprofit/NGO clients ranging from the Ford Foundation to Steven Spielberg’s Righteous Person’s Foundation, the United Way and multiple Jewish Federations.

What I love about Israel is the embrace of its people.

In January, I had the privilege of working with 35 poverty activists in Tel Aviv representing the diversity of its communities and the economic struggles they face. These activists were not hired social workers, but emerging leaders from the grassroots—or should I say more appropriate for Tel Aviv—from the sand particles. These were not the Tel Avivis who hang out at the hip eateries dotting the center of the Rothschild median in the midst of the Bauhaus revival, but the ones who toil every day in the massive shikunim thrown up in the 50s and 60s for a growing population of olim. When I arrived at the community center where the work was to begin, the neighborhood looked like the Israel that was left behind. Against the backdrop of the soaring office buildings and sparking lights on the other side of the highway, sat this section, where ongoing rows of dilapidated apartments and porches were adorned with laundry lines and clothing flapping in the twilight breeze along side worn out Persian carpets airing out as they were draped over railings. This was the look of the Israel of my college days from the early 1970s, which I mistakenly assumed had been gobbled up by the Ayalon and the city’s ultra-chic remake entangled with its sky scraper boom.

In this setting, enter the activists. There was a Yeminite man of 70, whose community lived in its tiny houses since they left the ma’abarot in the early 60s. The houses were now being appropriated by the city for a luxury development and the community was being destroyed. There was a brassy red haired lady–an activist of the Siberian community—whose members were losing their government subsidies. There were representatives of the gay community who needed educational funding, single mothers who could barely eek out an existence. The list went on.

I listened to their issues and was overwhelmed, thinking there was little I could do to teach them how to market their causes to the government. Then, I looked around the room and realized this was another face of the ingathering of the exiles—even almost 60 years later. I told them they had to work together as a coalition or they would never accomplish their goals. As the discussion took flight, they had to understand the commonalities between them. As they articulated their issues of economics and living in Tel Aviv, the Siberian woman stood up and said, “We have another commonality. We’re all Jews. We all came to this country for a reason.” The Yeminite man retorted, “What has Zionism brought me? I’m losing my house” The others shouted back. The Yemenite man then stood again, reversing himself, citing the importance of being in Israel. The conversation took a Jewish turn. I was now not just a facilitator, but a bona-fide member of the interchange.

At 9pm, I stood and told the crowd I had to leave. “Where are you going. We’re just getting started,” one of them said. I answered meekly, “I have a plane at midnight back to Los Angeles.”

“You’re leaving the country after you led us into this discussion?,” someone shouted out. Then there was a murmur in the room.

One of the women got up and went to the sandwich table and began wrapping several sandwiches in napkins. A few others joined her. I assumed they were taking them home. They put them in a bag and gave them to me. “For the plane. It’s a long ride to America,” one of them said as she handed me the bag. Then they all arose and came forward to send me off with hugs and kisses, like a departing member of the family.

Only in Israel.

The 60 Bloggers project is co-production of Jewlicious.com and the Let My People Sing Festival. It is published daily for 60 days to celebrate Israel’s 60 birthday.

Binyomin Ginzberg is a musician and bandleader based in Bergenfield, NJ. The musical director for JewishMusician.com, he has taught at KlezKamp and Yiddish Summer Weimar. He is pleased to inaugurate the JewishMusician.com blog with a post celebrating Israeli music.

Last week, I received a package of sheet music I’d purchased on eBay. The auction listing had been for a Fiddler on the Roof vocal score which I didn’t need, but intriguingly, the seller had also promised to throw in some books of Israeli sheet music at no charge. So I placed a bid, and in what turned out to be a most worthwhile $1 gamble, I received two books of classic Israeli songs that were not already in my collection.

Typically, as Yom Ha’atzmaut nears, I spend some time playing through my collection of Israeli sheet music, while deciding which songs to play for the upcoming Yom Ha’atzmaut celebrations. Since the timing was so perfect, I spent some practice time playing through these books, reacquainting myself with songs I hadn’t played or sung in years.

The term “Israeli music” evokes so many different meanings. It can mean “Shirei Eretz,” songs of the land, like the music of the chalutzim (pioneers), and the music of such “classic” Israeli composers as Dov Seltzer or Naomi Shemer.

It also includes “Rikudei Am,” the music associated with traditional Israeli folk dances like “Mayim,”“Harmonika,” “Hora Mamtera,” etc.

For yet others, it means “Musica Mizrahit,” Hebrew music with a Middle Eastern or Oriental beat, which comes in traditional and contemporary flavors.

There are so many varieties. That’s without even considering the wide range of contemporary Israeli musical expression, from the songwriting of David Broza, to the jazz of Avishai Cohen, to the soul of Noa,and from the world music of Idan Raichel, to the recently controversial Teapacks, to Chassidic rocker Adi Ran.

Of course, for many, including myself, “Israeli music” includes all of the above — and then some.

In my professional role as a Simcha bandleader, I get to experience and play virtually all of these varieties of Israeli music, as the individual event requires. Israeli music is much more than just Hava Nagila.

One aspect that particularly speaks to me is the incredible ability Israeli songwriters have to create evocative song titles that beautifully express the essence of the song, a powerful sentiment about Israel, in just three or four words. Last year, I made T-shirts for my band’s performance at the Salute to Israel parade in New York City that simply read “Eretz Yisrael Yafa,” “Yerushalayim Shel Zahav,” and “Ein Li Eretz Acheret.” Such short song titles — yet they say so, so much.

There’s also something about the awareness and celebration of our religious traditions found in much of the so-called “secular” Israeli music that resonates, whether it’s Naomi Shemer’s beautiful expression of Breslov teachings in “Shirat Ha’asavim” or Kaveret’s allusions to Mishlei (Proverbs) in “Yo Ya.” (You can hear my cover of the tune here.) Of course, the hope of a better future for the Jewish people in Israel, as celebrated in so many songs like “Lach Yerushalayim,” hearkens back to the promise our nation received so many years ago.

Finally, there’s a spirit of optimism and faith that permeates this music with songs like “Hamilchama Ha’acharona.” Sure, there will be challenges ahead, but to quote David Broza, “Yihyeh Tov.” Perhaps the most famous of these optimistic pieces is the well-known song “Bashana Haba’a” with its powerful chorus: “Od tireh, od tireh, kama tov yihye bashana haba’a - You will yet see how much good there will be in the coming year.” The history of this song is interesting. Lyricist Ehud Manor originally penned these lyrics imagining them for a more pensive song. When composer Nurit Hirsh saw the lyrics, she wrote an upbeat melody that beautifully captured the underlying optimism of Manor’s lyrics.

What better way to salute Israel’s 60th, than with the prayer and hope that we too will see “kama tov yihye bashana haba’a”?

The 60 Bloggers project is co-production of Jewlicious.com and the Let My People Sing Festival. It is published daily for 60 days to celebrate Israel’s 60 birthday.

Dan Brown is the founder of eJewish Philanthropy. Moving to Jerusalem three years ago, these are (mostly) excerpts from early emails to colleagues, family and friends.

June, 2005 (ten months after the last visit)

Jerusalem is alive with color, not only because of tonight’s gay pride parade and the opposing demonstrations. It is abundant with the colors of summer so beautifully interspersed among the sounds of overbooked hotels and overflowing restaurants. Yoel Salomon and Nachlalat Shiva are crowded into the wee hours as recently empty storefronts are filled with merchandise and newly smiling merchants. Table space without waiting is an absolute rarity, even on weekday nights. “Cream and Dream”, a newly opened ice cream emporium off Ben Yehuda, is a non-stop hit with the Anglo crowd. What a wonderful change from not so long ago.

To mention the colors of Jerusalem today, you must not neglect “orange”. I refer to neither the cell phone company, nor the GAP’s unmistakable fashion trend this spring. It appears everywhere. People are so cognizant of the implication, except for the party-happy Birthright crowd, that a Federation executive from New Jersey needed to explain his orange file folder was not a political statement, but rather a closeout from Staples.

December, 2005

I cannot believe it is already here; and how wonderful, not a Christmas tree to be seen, nor carol to be heard! The fringe benefits of living in Jerusalem.

Today, the ‘caretaker’ government officially begins; I wonder what surprises Sharon has for us over the near term.

(this refers to a student led Shabbat morning Te’filah) Back to the service, I also found the D’var Torah moving in a very personal way as it spoke to finding ‘ones place’ here in Israel, the mixing of various cultures, peoples and backgrounds as we all come to live with “the hope” as expressed in Hatikva while leaving friends, family and that which was familiar in a distant place. As I listened to both the words, and the images of our next generation during worship, at different times, I found my mind traveling west to distant locales.

Traditions: Ha-sivivon, so small and seemingly insignificant and yet conveys such an important message.

January, 2006

We never know what we are able to achieve until we try.

March, 2006

Election Day: 11 am and the city is unusually quiet. Almost like most of the country decided today was a holiday to sleep in before off to the “program de jour”.

10 minutes. Total time elapsed from the time I left my apartment, walked 5 blocks, voted and returned home.

Kadima’s large Hebrew letters at the top of the ballot for the envelope, marked with the Hebrew word “yes”.

Voting was a bit like the CNN reports on voting in the 3rd world; or in the US south when I was a kid. An empty room with a little cardboard partition on a school desk.

(later that evening): Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think not. Jerusalem has been relatively quiet all day. It’s a bit after 10, I just got home and the city is silent. Despite the record low turnout, maybe everyone realizes some history was being made today as future borders may be set.

Not sure if the bigger surprise was (and take your pick) Kadima’s apparent weakness, Labor’s strength or Likud’s utter destruction. At this point of the evening there appears little doubt that Kadima and Labor need to work together to form the next government. Guess the interesting two things will be, who gets what and second if they can actually govern. Though today’s papers gave the center / center-left block over 90 Kenesset seats. In theory, they can do whatever they choose. Reality will likely be much different.

April, 2006

Jerusalem: Most of what I expected and then some. Without any doubt the right decision at the right time in my life. It was before I came, and still is in hindsight. There is a certain emotional and spiritual high to this City I have never experienced elsewhere in the world; and remember I am a 3rd generation (somewhat classical) Reform Jew, here a minority of minorities. It is very difficult to explain, but it follows every move one makes. Every moment of the day. There is a certain calm and serenity to life, and Shabbat (as the only real day of no work) is really that. A day of rest, relaxation, reflection and friends.

March, 2008

Murder in Jerusalem: The City is unusually still this morning; especially for a Friday. Despite the glorious early summer weather, the normal hustle and bustle of pre-Shabbat is missing. Almost like Jerusalem woke-up today wrapped in a cocoon.

The loss of life, and injuries, was not even close to the worst of the past. But we are in a war of terror. Whether we agree, or disagree, with government policy, last night’s escalation into the heart of Jerusalem, on top of the ever increasing upswing in rocket attacks on Sderot, will dramatically reduce the choices, margin of error and survival likelihood of the status-quo.

Chol HaMoed Pesach, 2008

I haven’t read the above posts since they were originally written; I find them all particularly interesting in hindsight.

May we learn to see life as it truly is. May we find a way to envision all the many blessings that are and can be ours. Most important, may we find this insight earlier so as to enjoy all the many blessings that surround us each and every day.

Chag Pesach Se-meach from Jerusalem.

The 60 Bloggers project is co-production of Jewlicious.com and the Let My People Sing Festival. It is published daily for 60 days to celebrate Israel’s 60 birthday.

Paul Jesser is the National Director of Major Gifts and the West Coast Regional Director of the American Committee for Shaare Zedek Medical Center in Jerusalem, which provides support, services and equipment for the Shaare Zedek Hospital in Jerusalem.

As we begin to celebrate the 60th birthday of our homeland I think about the people, places, things, that make this miraculous country so special. What they have lived through! What they have accomplished!

The role model for all nations – all peoples. These two lists, 60 each, are of the people, the places, the institutions, that have made this tiny nation a true ‘light among the nations.’

Can you imagine what would be accomplished if the bastards that surround Israel would just let it live in peace!

Chazak Chazak V’nitchazaik! Chazak Amenu!

1. Shmuel Yosef Agnon
2. David Applebaum
3. Robert Aumann
4. Colette Avital
5. Ehud Barak
6. Menachem Begin
7. David Ben-Gurion
8. Eliezer Ben-Yehuda
9. Yitzhak Ben-Zvi
10. Chaim Nachman Bialik
11. Mike Burstyn
12. Aaron Ciechanover
13. Eli Cohen
14. Shoshana Damari
15. Moshe Dayan
16. Dry Bones
17. Abba Eban
18. Levi Eshkol
19. Dudu Fisher
20. Mike Ginsberg
21. Danny Gordis
22. David Hartman
23. Avram Hershko
24. Theodore Herzl
25. Chaim Herzog
26. Hillel & Aviva
27. Dalia Itzik
28. Ze’ev Jabotinsky
29. Daniel Kahneman
30. Epharim Katzir
31. Teddy Kollek
32. Rav Kook
33. Golda Meir
34. Michael Melchior
35. Dan Meridor
36. Yitzhak Navon
37. Benjamin Netanyahu
38. Ehud Olmert
39. Dan Pattir
40. Shimon Peres
41. Itzhak Perlman
42. Yitzhak Rabin
43. Ilan Ramon
44. Shlomo Riskin
45. Moshe Rivlin
46. Ron & Nama
47. Yitzhak Shamir
48. Moshe Sharett
49. Ariel Sharon
50. Zalman Shazar
51. Naomi Shemer
52. Zalman Shoval
53. Ezer Weizman
54. Chaim Weizmann
55. Yigal Yadin
56. Members of the IDF
57. Citizens of Sderot
58. All Olim
59. Family: Leila, Lili + Motti, Ami + Rachel, Norman + Hagit (+ all their offspring)
60. Friends: Beth + Norman, Avrum + Claudia, Zevi + Esti, Benny, AviHai, Eliyahu

PLACES PLUS….
1. AKKO
2. ATLIT
3. BAR ILAN UNIVERSITY
4. BEDOUIN CULTURE CENTER
5. BEGIN MUSEUM
6. BEIT SHEAN
7. BEN GURION UNIVERSITY
8. BEN GURION’S HUT
9. BOTANICAL GARDENS
10. CAESERIA
11. DEAD SEA
12. DOLPHIN REEF
13. EIN GEDDI
14. EIN GEV
15. GOLAN HIGHTS
16. GREAT SYNAGOGUE
17. HADASSAH
18. HAIBAR ANIMAL RESERVE
19. HEBREW UNION COLLEGE
20. HEBREW UNIVERSITY
21. INDEPENDENCE HALL
22. INTERDISCIPLINARY CENTER
23. ISRAEL CHAMBER ORCHESTRA
24. ISRAEL MUSEUM
25. ISRAEL PHILHARMONIC
26. JAFFA
27. JORDAN RIVER (STREAM)
28. KEREN KAYEMETH LISRAEL
29. LAKE KINNERET
30. LATRUN ARMOUR MUSEUM
31. MACHANE Y’HUDA
32. MASSADA
33. METULA FENCE OF THE GOOD NEIGHBOR
34. MISGAV AM
35. MITZPE RAMON
36. MT. HERMON
37. MT. HERZL
38. MUSEUM OF THE DIASPORA
39. MUSEUM OF THE GHETTO FIGHTERS
40. ROSH HANIKRA GROTTOS
41. SACHANUT
42. SAFED
43. SCHNEIDER CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL
44. SHAARE ZEDEK MEDICAL CENTER IN JERUSALEM
45. TECHNION
46. TEDDY STADIUM
47. TEL AVIV PROMENADE + BEACH
48. TEL AVIV PORT
49. TEL AVIV UNIVERSITY
50. TIMNA PARK
51. TISCH ZOO
52. TOWER OF DAVID
53. UNDERGROUND
54. UNIVERSITY OF HAIFA
55. VALLEY OF THE DESTROYED COMMUNITIES
56. WEIZMANN INSTITUTE OF SCIENCE
57. WESTERN GALILEE HOSPITAL - NAHARIYA
58. WESTERN WALL + TUNNELS
59. YAD VASHEM
60. ZEEV HOSPITAL - SAFED

The 60 Bloggers project is co-production of Jewlicious.com and the Let My People Sing Festival. It is published daily for 60 days to celebrate Israel’s 60 birthday.

Rabbi Phyllis Sommer blogs regularly at Ima on (and off) the Bima and less regularly at Thoughts from Rabbi Phyllis. She is always looking for an excuse to travel to Israel and she loves to tell stories.

What I love so much about Israel are the remarkable stories. “Only in Israel” is a phrase that I love to hear. On my most recent visit to Israel, I heard a remarkable tale…

It was the War of Independence. Ilana was a teenager, a volunteer in Moshav Shafir. She, along with other teenaged volunteers, had been recruited as a saboteur. The tanks were coming, a long line of them, up through Gaza from Egypt. She and her fellow saboteurs were ordered to find all the explosives they could and place them under the bridge in Shafir, to blow up the bridge as soon as the first tank was on the bridge.

All the women and children had been evacuated from the area in anticipation of the arrival of the tanks, so the girls had been told. Ilana and her team stationed themselves directly under the bridge, awaiting their task.

The sound of a vehicle came, and they prepared to set the charges. Suddenly, Ilana said “Stop!” She heard something, something that indicated to her that this was not the tank they thought it was. She insisted to her compatriots that she heard the cry of a baby. As the vehicle came closer, they discovered that it was indeed true, the car held a woman with a new baby as well as another pregnant woman, being evacuated from a nearby town. Had they exploded the bridge…

Ilana, a young woman who became a heroine. Today Ilana is an older lady (she refused to reveal her age…a lady never tells), telling her story to groups of visitors to Shafir, standing on the bridge that she did not blow up. (The tanks never got that far.)

On the day we heard her story, another woman came over as Ilana finished telling her story. She was introduced to our group as “the pregnant woman’s baby” – Ilana had never met her before. But these two were forever linked by their story, their part in the formation of the young State. (The baby who cried, so they said, grew up to be a member of Knesset…) I felt goose bumps on my skin as these two women met and embraced. They were like long-lost sisters, joined by history.

The heroes of Eretz Yisrael are not politicians and soldiers (although they are so often heroes as well), but they are the ordinary citizens who have stories of their own to tell. These stories are what fill me up in the Land of Israel, and make the Land come alive.

Sixty years of stories…may the future bring so many more.

The 60 Bloggers project is co-production of Jewlicious.com and the Let My People Sing Festival. It is published daily for 60 days to celebrate Israel’s 60 birthday.

Jack is the author of Teruah, a blog dedicated to Jewish music in all its different manifestations

I’m listening to the Avishai Cohen Trio’s ‘Gently Disturbed’ right now, letting the muffled tocking of the drum kit give texture to the pulsing, rising bass. I’m also catching up on Julie’s myspace blog. Her picture on the page shows her hunched over a guitar, but the most recent blog post says

“-why i said that i’m never doing this again.
-why i say vidui and shma at the end of the labour (yes, i am thoroughly convinced that i will die if i have to go through another contraction.)
-why i said i’m never giving birth in a hospital again. (thank G-d!)
-how all the pain stops when i look at that little face….”

Before sitting down, I put my little ones to bed and now I’m thinking about Julie’s new little one. A welcome addition to her brood. A blessing. I hope someday to meet her and her gang face to face, in her home in Israel. That would be another blessing.

When I sat down at this keyboard 15 months ago to start writing Teruah Jewish Music, my plan was to learn and write about every aspect of Jewish music I could find. But, I noted, it would take more than being Israeli music to qualify. Why? Because being an Israeli musician didn’t make your music Jewish (whatever that means) and I wasn’t going to get caught up in the big ontological game of Israel the Jewish State (whatever that means). But I listened.

And wrote, a bit at a time about about Free Hugs in Tel Aviv, the rockers Boom Pam and Yood, Matti Caspi and Balkan Beat Box. I found Israeli albums and songbooks on eBay. And I corresponded with Julie and Liz, read Israeli blogs and Haaretz articles and listened to Ben Bresky’s Israel Beat. All research, mind you.

And somewhere along the way I shed the blue and white propaganda image I’ve had of Israel since Hebrew school and have had reinforced every time Israel is in the news. Israel of the partition and the Six Day War, a place to send trees (on Tu B’Shvat) and prayers (the Wailing Wall). Israel of the heavenly ideals and very mundane politics.

What I found instead were people who also loved music. And art. And their children. And Judaism (some of them, Islam for others, and nothing for lots). And people who celebrated (and feared) and loved (and hated) and all of the rest of it. For me, learning the stories of the pop bands Poogy and the Diaspora Yeshiva Band resonated in a way learning the Hatikvah anthem never did. I still don’t know if Avishai Cohen’s Trio counts as Jewish music but I don’t much care anymore. I’ve fallen in love with the people of Israel in all of their messy complexity and contradictions (so similar to ours, so familiar).

So tonight, on Erev Pesach, when I say “Next year in Jerusalem” I mean it. Not just in the time of the moshiach, but maybe soon, so my kids and Julie’s can get to know each other. I’ll bring my guitar and a pile of CD’s.

Happy Birthday, Israel.

The 60 Bloggers project is co-production of Jewlicious.com and the Let My People Sing Festival. It is published daily for 60 days to celebrate Israel’s 60 birthday.