March of the Blind

We began our trek to Jerusalem after an exhausting two days driving throughout Northern Israel.  We stopped for a quick swim in the Jordan River and spent most of the afternoon in our bus.

We entered greater Jerusalem in the late afternoon, at which point  our tour guide instructed us to tie bandanas over our eyes.  After about fifteen minutes, our bus finally stopped.  We had absolutely no idea where we were or why we were blindfolded.

The soldiers guided us, one by one, to our destination.  We felt a handrail and a strong, cool breeze; we huddled together to stay warm, talking and joking and laughing to pass the time.

"Ready?...Ok, take off your bandanas."

And we all fell silent.

We stood on the Mount of Olives at sunset with a full view of the old city of Jerusalem.  After staring for a minute or two I grabbed my nearest friend, Logan, and hugged him as we watched the sun drop beyond the horizon.  It's all we could do: stand there, hold each other, watching the old city dim before our eyes as Muslim prayer calls echoed in the distance.

Some of us cried.  I teared up.  Most of us didn't speak.  Because of - or perhaps despite - its history, Jerusalem has an aura, an energy, a spirit, an enigmatic yet powerful presence. What a meaningful introduction.

*

After a full day of touring Jerusalem and trying to absorb the many history lessons Iftah shared, we spent Friday evening, shabbat, at the Western Wall.  It was another very, very meaningful and at times overwhelming evening.  Since night fell by the time we needed to leave, we walked back to the hotel.

Iftah had his second brilliant moment (note: mistake) taking us back to the hotel.   Dressed in our best shabbat clothing, Iftah decided that we should take a really meaningful walk next to a historically significant building.  It'd be a great sight, he guaranteed us.  And it was: the sight of us walking in heavy brush as we struggled to keep our nicest clothes from getting snagged, ripped, or dirty was hilarious.  We had embarked on an accidental nature hike, which lasted approximately twenty minutes, for no real purpose except to bring us closer to a building which we had already touched and saw earlier that day.

About ten minutes later we emarked on the real trail.  I'm not sure whether too many others figured out Iftah's mistake; he was a free spirit, on the adventurous side, so I think others probably figured he was just being...him.  But no.  Iftah makes mistakes.  Luckily they're the type of mistakes  that make you laugh.

*

Every so often, our birthright counselors held a mandatory 'circle time,' where we'd speak our minds, share our emotions, discuss the days events or things we had seen.  There's one day in particular I was itching to discuss, in which we visited Yad Vashem, Israel's Holocaust Memorial, and Mount Hertzel, where former Israeli leaders and fallen soldiers are laid to rest.  But circle time never came around.  This is my circle time.  (Forgive me.)

I visited Yad Vashem with my family in 1993 and 1997.  Only one vivid memory remains: entering the children's memorial at eight years old, where a hall of mirrored candles commemorate children lost in the holocaust.  As children's names and ages were read, I remember thinking that some of them were my age.  It shaped my memory of Yad Vashem as a memorial. 

The children's memorial remains the same, but the remainder of the museum had a recent facelift which left me disappointed.  The new Yad Vashem felt like a commercial history lesson with an overwhelming number of small personal stories and quotes scattered throughout the museum.  In an effort to remember everyone, it forgets how one story can make all the difference; how less is more, how the simplest symbol can make the greatest impact.

I was also unimpressed with our tour guide.  We were another tour group.  We were his daily routine.  The impact, significance, terror of the holocaust was lost to him.  I finally turned off my headset, realizing that his tour added to the commercial feel of the venue, compounding my feelings of frustration.

I wandered on my own for a little bit and finally arrived at the last gate: Auschwitz.  The shoes of those incinerated were displayed under our feet.  I sat down to view film footage of the concentration camp.

I don't remember much of what I saw, but I remember sitting for several minutes pondering what these images meant.  And then came the most gruesome image of all: a tractor shoveling emaciated carcasses into a mass grave.  At this point I saw two members of my birthright group bolt up and run away.  I stayed and watched.  Stared, actually.  Gia, our Israeli counselor, spotted me, picked me up, and guided me away from the images.

For me, one well-discussed dilemma was at the forefront of my thoughts: How do we remember?  Forgive my cliche, but I felt the question particularly relevant.  Should we protect ourselves from the most gruesome of images, instead relying on history textbooks and written stories and less horrifying  footage to make sure it 'never happens again?'  Or have we become so numb to pain, to terror, to agony, that the necessity of such raw images becomes amplified; that we need to witness such footage  to remember not only the events but the raw emotion, the dehumanization?  Perhaps it is why I stayed put while my colleagues ran away - perhaps it was a sense of obligation to remember the very worst realities; that these events didn't take place in a vacuum.  But still.  To resort to such extremes is worrisome.  Or is it?

As I pondered these thoughts, we headed to Mount Hertzel, where we visited the graves of Meir, Rabin, Hertzel, and other former Israeli leaders.  We were then led to the graveyard of the fallen soldiers from last year's war in Lebanon.

Our security guard, Eti, lost a close friend in the war.  We all gathered to his grave while she commemorated her friend, breaking down more and more with each sentence spoken.  Our hearts broke; one by one, we burst into tears.

Despite our earlier visit to Yad Vashem, I felt it the first time we truly witnessed the human cost of war, conflict, hate.  And it stung to the core.  It didn't require an expensive museum, quotes littered everywhere, history lessons.  It simply required the story of a good friend who had parents, siblings, hobbies, ambitions.  He was not a 'fallen soldier,' the sacrificial lamb for the greater state of Israel.  He was a friend.  A good friend, missed by Eti and all who knew him.

They say you're not Israeli until someone near and dear to your heart dies.  Eti introduced us to that sad reality.  But we were also reminded of a very important point after visiting the grave: lost Israeli lives are not only meant to be mourned, but are meant to be celebrated as well.  You celebrate their lives and their sacrifices.   It's a philosophy that goes for Israeli life as well: you celebrate every day that you live, because you never know when you'll share a similar fate as your lost loved one.  As long as your fate is out of your hands, you live, and you love, and you cherish everything that you have.  That evening, we spent a night out in Jerusalem, hoping to enact this mantra rather than dwell on the heavy day's events.

If only it didn't require such extremes to remember those simple life lessons.