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HaKol The Voice of the Pelham Jewish Center January 2023/Tevet-Shevat 5783

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In This Issue Can We Talk About Israel?

Leadership Messages Rabbi Benjamin Resnick Education Director Ana Turkienicz HaKol Editor Barbara Saunders-Adams Congregant News & Donations Challah & Conversation Marjut Herzog Book Notes Barbara Saunders-Adams Food For Thought Share a Simcha Tributes & Donations

Rabbi Benjamin Resnick

Dear Friends, Throughout the spring, leading up to Yom Ha’atzmaut, the PJC will host a series of lectures devoted to contemporary issues in Israeli society and the relationship between Israel and the diaspora. We will hear from a variety of contemporary thinkers and leaders, both Israeli and American, with the goal of deepening our engagement with our shared homeland. While some of the conversations may be challenging, I hope they will also be productive and clarifying. And I hope that they will be animated at their core by an expansive vision of ahavat yisrael – a love of all Jews and of those who strive together with us.  This series is, I think, of great importance at the present moment. As I’ve shared with many of you, I often struggle with how shuls in the diaspora can engage meaningfully and productively with Israel from afar. This struggle seems especially acute in recent months. Often, because we in the diaspora are not involved in a proximal way, there is a lot of talk, and talk, as they say, can be cheap. As someone who more or less talks for a living, I believe that talking can also be powerful and generative, particularly around conversations that have the potential to be hard.  In that spirit, I want to use the rest of this space to share some of the things that I believe about the State of Israel, not all of them, but the ones that strike me as most important. You may not share all of these beliefs, but I hope that they will animate our conversations going forward: Like many (though not all!) of you, I was born into a world in which the State of Israel was already on the map. This is incredible to me on a daily basis. As Jews living in the 21st century have the extraordinary privilege of experiencing the very thing for which our pious ancestors prayed and struggled. This reality is of irreducible significance to me as a Jew. It is nothing less–and perhaps more–than reshit tzmichat geulatenu–the first flowering of our salvation.  Building the State of Israel–for better and for worse but mostly for better–is the most important thing the Jews are doing in this period of our history. Anyone who claims to care about the Jewish future should care urgently about Israel’s future and work to protect that future. Ultimately the challenges that Israel faces will be solved (or not) primarily by those who live there.  Nevertheless, even in the diaspora, Israel belongs in part to me, and this gives me both the right and the responsibility to speak out, cheer on, advocate, and criticize according to my conscience and conviction. Jews in Israel and Jews in the diaspora need one another urgently. This is particularly true in the present moment. Whatever your politics, this is a challenging and worrisome time for that relationship. There are a variety of reasons that this is the case. One of them is the extreme posture of the present government, which includes prominent voices that are overtly hostile to Jews in the diaspora, as well as to the pluralistic vision of Judaism to which we are devoted at the PJC.  The barbarity of our enemies does not afford us any moral holidays. Hamas and their allies do not care about the lives of our children, but as Jews we must still try to care about the lives of theirs. The Torah asks us to be better than other nations. That is what it means to be chosen. Politics and geopolitics are important but they do not exhaust–and must not obliterate–the ways in which we perceive the direction of Israeli society. While the geopolitical outlook–and the chances for a near-term, durable peace–do look grim at present, there are nonetheless some wonderful things going on in Israel on the level of civil society. We shouldn’t forget about them. A lovingly engaged relationship with Israel is-and ought to be-an important part of living a Jewish life for almost all Jews. The last point needs a little commentary because I’ve been saying it for many years now and each word was chosen with extreme care. I’ll go in order. Loving–The varieties of love are as diverse as lovers and loving can mean different things to different people. Engaged–Ditto, engagement offers many ways in. Relationship–Phones go both ways; Israeli Jews and diaspora Jews need to keep talking with one another. That is our responsibility over here but also theirs over there. Is–This is, I believe, basically a statement of fact; it remains true that most Jews are engaged with Israel, on some level. Ought to be–A normative statement. See numbers 1 & 2 above. Engagement with Israel is a positive Jewish value. Important part–The State of Israel is an important star in our constellation of Jewish commitments, but it is not the only one. It shines bright, to be sure, but it does so alongside other lights, which may also assert their significance and pride of place. Almost all–Why not simply say all? Well, who am I to say all? The Jewish world is a big and expansive place. I have met Jews who, for a variety of different reasons, are not (or refuse to be) engaged with Israel whatsoever. It goes without saying but I’ll still say it–they’re still Jews. They are part of my family and I love them too.  I hope to see many of you at the lectures in the coming weeks and months. The full schedule will be out soon. Brachot, R. Benjamin Resnick Ben

Education Director Ana Turkienicz

“For the human is like the tree in a field, like the human, the tree grows too; like the tree, the human is chopped down, and I don’t know where I’ve been and where I’ll be, like the tree in a field.” Natan Zach, Israeli songwriter, 1981 The year 1991 started with a somber warning. On January 17, 1991, the coalition forces attacked Iraq with the goal of forcing Iraq to leave Kuwait. Saddam Hussein, the Iraqi president, responded by firing missiles at Israel, who was not part of the coalition.  At that time, Neco and I lived with our two children, Yoni and Hila, in Kibbutz Bror Chail, located in the southern part of Israel, the Negev, between Ashkleon and Sderot. In order to prepare for an imminent attack, Israel had previously distributed gas masks to all civilians. Neco and I each got our adult gas masks. Hila, our eldest, who was 2 years old, got a special mask with a ventilator, and Yoni, our 8 months old baby, received a special incubator so he could be quickly put safely inside it in case of a missile attack. As all other civilians in Israel, we prepared a safe room in our home. The room was filled with canned drinks, canned foods, a radio, a TV, batteries and a flashlight; the windows were covered with tape to make sure that if there was a chemical attack nothing would penetrate through them. We had a towel by the door to block any gas from coming from the bottom. Our Golden Retriever had water and food in that room as well. We were ready. (Years later we discovered that none of those measures would have protected us from lethal gas should Saddam Hussein have utilized it. But at that time, we didn’t know. We followed the instructions and felt we were actively protecting our family). At that time, I was the kibbutz’s kindergarten teacher. That year, Tu Bishvat, the holiday of the trees, was supposed to be celebrated on Tuesday, January 29, 1991. So as I would normally do, I started planning the holiday celebration with my kindergarten team around the beginning of January. We decided to have a planting event with all the families. We wanted to plant trees from the Seven Species, mentioned in the book of Deuteronomy: wheat, barley, grape, fig, pomegranates, olive (oil), and date (date honey) (Deuteronomy 8:8). Since wheat and barley aren’t trees, we ended up ordering saplings of an olive tree, a grape vine, pomegranate, date and fig. We made sure we had all the tools needed to plant, and waited for Tu Bishvat to come. On January 17, 1991, when the first missiles started falling on Israel, we stayed at home. Nothing fell near our kibbutz, but we were clueless and afraid. I remember I had laundry hanging outside in the backyard and Neco and I debated whether it was safe to go outside and get it indoors. Looking backwards, it seems so foolish - but those were the times and that’s how we felt.  We kept the early childhood system open and running in the kibbutz - since people still needed to go to work. We had our kindergarten open from 7:00 AM-4:00 PM every day. The kids brought their masks with them and so did the team. Moreover, we started hosting relatives of kibbutz members who lived in areas that were under attack - Ramat Gan, Tel Aviv, Rehovot. Those families moved into their relatives’ homes in the kibbutz, and we opened our early childhood spaces to them - to the “refugees” from Saddam Hussein’s missiles. My kindergarten grew from 20 to 30 children, who started sharing stories about destroyed apartment buildings in Tel Aviv. At home, we had friends over - those who were living in Tel Aviv and came back to live in the kibbutz. We had great dinners - which were always interrupted by the sirens - Saddam Hussein apparently knew the exact time the dinner was being served - and that’s when he launched his missiles. Food was left on the dinner table, we all rushed into the safe room, turned on the TV’s - just to learn that luckily our area was spared - and got back downstairs, reheated our dinner and got on with whatever conversations, board and card games we were playing before. The kindergarten team had an emergency meeting - should we keep our original plan and go ahead with planting the trees? There was an express order from the Defense Ministry - not to congregate outdoors. We debated - was it safe to plant the trees outdoors? What if the siren blares exactly when we are planting? After much discussion, we looked at the saplings that were waiting outside the kindergarten and decided - the heck with Saddam Hussein - we will have the planting on Tu Bishvat, in the afternoon. Everyone will come with their masks - in case of a siren - we’ll all rush into the kindergarten building and hope for the best. We needed to plant the trees - since they were already there, what could we do? Saddam Hussein’s goal was to destroy Israel. Our goal was to plant trees for the future generations in our kibbutz. Whose plans should we follow?  Finally, the day of Tu Bishvat came. All the kids’ families showed up outside the kindergarten. We divided the saplings amongst them and designated the sites where the young trees should be planted. People put their masks down on the ground, and started digging holes. The kids helped dig, brought more soil, and put the saplings on the ground. When they finished planting, we sang Tu Bishvat songs. Neco filmed it and I edited it into a one minute video, which can be seen HERE. Saddam Hussein decided not to send any missiles while we were planting (he preferred to do it as usual, during dinner time). The war ended one month after Tu Bishvat - on February 28, 1991 - exactly on the day we celebrated Purim that year (the holiday that celebrates the victory of the Jews who lived in Persia (Iran) against the evil Haman (Saddam). One can’t make this up. This is how it actually happened. According to the final official account, 13 Israelis were killed by the Iraqi attacks: one directly by a missile and another 12 from indirect causes, including heart attacks. May their memories be for a blessing. Many years later, I visited Kibbutz Bror Hayil and walked by my old kindergarten to see what happened to the trees we planted on those hazy days. There they were, beautiful, colorful, serene and radiant, as you can see in the photo below. They covered the kindergarten’s backyard in shade and stood tall and strong. The children who planted them were long gone - they went to the army, married, and already had children of their own, some playing in that same backyard. Saddam Hussein - was a few feet below ground. The buildings in Tel Aviv have no sign of the destruction from his missiles. And our trees will continue to grow in the Land of Israel.  We pray that those trees will see the day when all children, Jews and non-Jews, from the kibbutz and from the neighboring town of Gaza - will come to play together under their branches, singing songs of peace. Imagine all the people - living life in peace…(thanks John Lennon for always keeping our hopes in place) Ana

HaKol Editor Barbara Saunders-Adams

Dear Friends,              My children call me an “Israeli wannabe”. I embarrass them. I gave them Israeli names, Amiel and Shira. I played Israeli rock & hip-hop music, loudly, while driving them to school. And what’s worse, I sang along.  Israel has fascinated me since my youth. I came of age at the time of the Six Day War. It was a time of heroes and miracles. I combed the Queens libraries for books about the birth of Israel. I was captivated with “Exodus” by Leon Uris and “The Source” by James Michener. I found books by Yael Dayan, Yehuda Amichai and Benjamin Tammuz – any author with a Hebrew name. I thought being Israeli was the coolest thing. For me, it gave life meaning beyond my limited personal experience – it connected me to the history of the Jewish people. I had some Israelis in my elementary and middle school classes – Leah, Varda, Michal and Yaron. As a teenager, I couldn’t imagine why they had come to the United States. I had no idea about the pressures and struggles of life in the “Holy Land”. A close friend of mine dated an Israeli at Queens College. He introduced me to the music of Shalom Hanoch, Arik Einstein, Matti Caspi and David Broza. I was hooked. This was rock and roll with soul. It had a message. I even fell for Israeli hip hop by HaDag Nachash (The Fish Snake). I dated Israelis, attempted to learn Hebrew, and flew to Israel on my first vacation from work. I visited Israel nine times, mostly staying with Israeli friends or friends who married Israelis. I studied both conversational and Biblical Hebrew over the course of forty years, yet I can only have a simple conversation. I never lived in Israel. Although I love Israel, I didn’t feel completely comfortable there. With blonde hair and blue eyes, I didn’t fit the Middle Eastern mold. More than that, I am an American Jew, shy and polite. Traits unlikely to help me survive in the tough sabra culture where army service is the great equalizer. As an adult I taught Hebrew school – I learned the prayers, basic Hebrew grammar, history of Israel and Jewish holidays only a step ahead of my students. I didn’t attend Hebrew school. I was probably the only kid who wanted to go to religious school. My parents told me that if I had been a boy, I would have to go, but as a girl they could save the money. I remember a sixth-grade assignment comparing Greek mythology to Bible stories. I had never read the Bible. I felt embarrassed and crushed. I promised myself that I would study the Hebrew Bible – in English and Hebrew. When I turned 48, I became a student at the Jewish Theological Seminary (JTS). Since I learned conversational Hebrew in Ulpan where no English is spoken, there were huge holes in my grammar. Most students at JTS went to Day School and could read, write and converse in Hebrew. In a class to teach prayer, I found that not only was I unfamiliar with the prayers, but I had to teach them to myself before I could begin teaching prayer creatively. I was at a distinct disadvantage. I didn’t give up. I wrote my thesis on how to teach Israel to diaspora students through the arts – novels for young adults, Israeli rock and roll, hip hop and visual arts. At JTS I learned how to read critically and ask open-ended questions to facilitate discussion. After many years of study, I finally learned how to participate in a Shabbat service. I can read Torah and understand what I am reading. I can have basic conversations in Hebrew. I still search for the latest Hebrew novels in translation. I am of the Diaspora. Although I didn't find my place in Israel, I’m still in love with her and committed to making Israel a land of tolerance and equality for all its people. I no longer see Israel as a land of "heroes and miracles", but rather one of contradictions whose decisions and actions are sometimes at odds with the values on which it was founded. My prayer is that this country that I love can find a way to remain both a Jewish and democratic state. Barbara

Challah & Conversation

Our first Speaker in the Challah and Conversation series: PJC member and journalist, Steven Handelman. After First Friday dinner on February 3, Steven Handelman kicked off our Challah and Conversation series. He spoke for about 20 minutes. Steve and his wife Sue were news correspondents in the USSR during the days of former President of the Soviet Union, Mikhail Gorbachev. It was a time of perestroika (opening up to the West). Steve shared a few anecdotes from that fascinating and heady time including his search for family members. One highlight of his tour was being summoned to visit the dacha (second residence) of a much younger Vladimir Putin. There was a Q & A period. Thank you Steve for a wonderful conversation.  Everyone has a story to tell. Let’s have some challah and conversation and get to know a bit more about each other.  Marjut

Book Notes

Out of Egypt by Andre Aciman Andre Aciman's memoir, Out of Egypt transports the reader to a world that no longer exists. His eclectic family is a mixture of Sephardim (Spanish Jews) and Mizrachim (Jews from Arab lands) that hailed from Spain and Turkey. In Egypt they speak in refined French but argue in the more familiar Ladino and Arabic. During World War II the clan camps out in Aciman's great-grandmother's large apartment where they both irritate and console one another. There is a wonderful cast of characters. Uncle Vili, is described as a soldier, salesman, swindler and spy. His favorite phrase is, "So are we man enough or aren't we? Aunt Flora, a pianist, is desired by all, but married by none. Andre's Grandmothers, "The Princess" and "The Saint" converse in Ladino and argue over who Andre loves more. Grandpa Jacques, a Syrian Jew, is shunned for speaking Arabic. He compares the sound of Ladino to a cackling henhouse. Grandpa Albert refers to Grandpa Jacques as a juif arabe a dirty scoundrel Jew. Andre's mother is known as the tarsha, a Syrian beauty who is deaf and howls like a screeching bus when she is angered. Andre's father, a wealthy factory owner, is well-respected and well-connected in Alexandria. The family is exiled from Constantinople to the cosmopolitan city of Alexandria, during WWI. After the state of Israel is created, three generations of the Aciman family are dispossessed from Egypt and uprooted once more. This memoir is an ode to the life Andre lost. Through Andre's eyes, we see how the Aciman family copes with its European, Arabic and Jewish influences while trying to create a stable life amidst creeping antisemitism. Barbara

Food for Thought

Outing at Some Beautiful Place Yehuda Amichai With a Jewish girl who has American hope in her eyes and whose nostrils are still very sensitive to anti-Semitism. "Where did you get those eyes?" Eyes like those one does not receive at birth - so much color, so much sadness. She wore the coat of a soldier, discharged or dead - in victory or defeat - in some worn-out war. "On a bonfire of burned letters it is impossible to cook even one cup of coffee." After that to continue walking to some beautiful, hidden place at which a wise and experienced field commander would have put his mortars. "In summer, after you, this hill gets covered by a soft thought."

Share a Simcha

"Share a Simcha" allows congregants to share their news with our PJC community. Please submit news about family members -- engagements, births, job updates, kid achievements, community acknowledgements and any other milestones -- to the HaKol Editor, Barbara Saunders-Adams. Yom Huledet Sameach! . Mazal Tov to Gary Trachten . Mazal Tov to Andrea Rothberg . Mazal Tov to Spencer Barback . Mazal Tov to Barbara Saunders-Adams Simcha is a regular HaKol feature, so keep your news and updates coming!

Tributes & Donations

Did you know you can make tributes and donations online? Click here to learn more.

Donations to the PJC from...  Martin Dvorkin Ira and Jo Anne Weinberg Donations to the Rabbi's Discretionary Fund from...  Ariel Spira - Cohen and Victor Birutti At any time, if you wish to pay by check, please make it payable to "The Pelham Jewish Center" and mail it to our bookkeeping firm at: The Pelham Jewish Center, P.O. Box 418, Montvale, NJ 07645. All donations to the Rabbi's Discretionary Fund, at any time throughout the year, should be made payable to "The Pelham Jewish Center -- Rabbi's Discretionary Fund" and mailed directly to Melainie Williams at the PJC office. Thank you! 

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