Every now and then, those reminders of how special this place is.
I went to get my hair cut on Monday morning, a few hours before Rosh Hashanah. I love the woman who cuts my hair. She does a great job, but no less important and perhaps even more, she’s truly hilarious and — because she knows I appreciate it — readily shares her spicy insights on the (mostly) religious crowd she serves (she’s completely secular). In a different life, she’d have been a fun sociologist to learn from.
“Where are you for the holiday?” she asked me as she snipped away. She knows our kids, as she’s cut their hair over the years (and now does some of our grandchildren, too), so she wanted to know which family was coming in, how long those from out of town were staying, all that. I filled her in.
Then, I asked her, “What about you? What are you doing?”
“Oh, we’re not celebrating,” she said.
“Oh,” I said very matter of factly. Whatever.
“But,” she continued, when I’d thought that part of the conversation was over, “we’re getting together with a whole group of other people who also don’t celebrate.” In other words, she was going to Petach Tikvah (a bear of a drive before the holiday, so we ended up spending a lot of time talking about what time she should leave Jerusalem—we decided no later than 4:30 for a 7:00 pm dinner) to not mark Rosh Hashanah by having Rosh Hashanah dinner with a bunch of friends who were also not marking Rosh Hashanah, but were having a big holiday dinner.
In these parts, “We’re not celebrating” means, I guess, “We’re not making kiddush.”
Are there people here who actually do nothing? I’m sure that there are. But I’ve yet to meet one.
There is much to say about what that little exchange says about identity in this country. It’s for another time, but this is one of those places where even getting your hair cut can leave you thinking about what Jewishness has come to mean in this world of ours, even for those who don’t realize it. Or do.
Right after Rosh Hashanah, an Instagram link to a video of another Rosh Hashanah dinner—this one at Kibbutz Nir Oz—made its way around Israeli social media.
It’s been two years, so if the details of what happened at Nir Oz are now fuzzy, here’s a review of the horror:
Of the 386 residents present, 47 were killed (including 41 kibbutz residents and 6 festival attendees who sought refuge there after fleeing the Nova), and 76 were taken hostage. Of those taken, 67 were abducted alive and 9 were killed either in the kibbutz, en route, or in Gaza. In total, 69 kibbutz residents were killed, including those who died in captivity in Gaza. The attackers entered all but six homes, causing massive destruction and leaving nearly every family impacted by death, abduction, or homelessness.
In the brief clip at the very top of this post, you see Gadi Mozes speaking to those gathered in the kibbutz dining room (the clip below shows that they were bused back to the kibbutz for the occasion). Here’s the full clip that made its way around social media, with subtitles where necessary:
I have no idea if they made kiddush at Kibbutz Nir Oz. I’m quite sure, though, that none of those people would have said that they weren’t observing or celebrating. It was more than a new year. It was a new chapter. A new lease on life.
We need many more such chapters and many more such leases.
And, as Gadi noted, what we desperately need is a Rosh Hashanah during which no Israelis are still being held captive.
And, speaking of new beginnings …
David Sherez, co-founder of the new political party El Ha-Degel (who has appeared on our podcast—see here to listen to the episode and/or to learn more about the party), asked us to share information about an English-language online (Zoom) parlor meeting the party is hosting on Tuesday evening, Israel time.
It’s geared to Israelis and thus potential voters, I assume, but if you want to sign up, you just join this WhatsApp group. El Ha-Degel will take it from there and get you a Zoom link.
Finally, it’s sort of an Israeli thing to send clips of poetry instead of “Rosh Hashanah cards” (which I assume are a thing of the past? I actually have no idea …).
One dear friend, Yaakov L. (who in turn gave credit to his wife for the selection), sent me this quote from Yehudah Amichai’s 1958 book of collected poems,במרחק שתי תקוות, hard to translate, but probably best rendered as “Two Hopes Away.”
The two Hebrew lines above read something along the lines of:
The ruthless year’s feet crushed me,
yet my hands rest on the waist of the new year.
Is that a suggestion of a time when the years will no longer feel ruthless? When crushing feet will be replaced by hands on a waist? A suggestion, perhaps, of a dance just about to begin?
Let’s hope so. Let’s pray so.
Shana Tova.
