Teen embarks on spiritual journey
EVAN HILLER
Special to Jewish News
Day fades into cobalt blue night, as the last traces of light vanish behind the golden walls of the Old City. A breeze accompanies me through the ancient streets of Jerusalem, bringing with it the heat and powerful solitude of the desert. It is Tisha b'Av, one of the most solemn nights of the Jewish year. For it is on Tisha b'Av that we mourn the loss of the Temple, heart and soul of the Jewish people.
It is also the end of Shabbat, and the twilight beckons people into the streets. They, too, make their way to pray at the kotel, Western Wall. I am struck, not for the first time, by the differences among us. The Israeli soldier, proud and strong in olive fatigues, an Uzi swung casually over his shoulder. The Hassid, in black coat and hat, side curls framing his face. The American dad in polo shirt and jeans, carrying backpack and camera.
And yet, more striking is the sense of connection. For all our differences, at this moment we are headed to the same place for the same reason.
The end of my time in Israel is approaching. I have toured much of the country with 60 teens from across the United States. We were strangers, united only by our Jewishness and a desire to see and come to know Israel. We are now friends, joined by a renewed commitment to Judaism and to the country we have come to love.
For we have shared the stillness of dawn as the sun rose red over Masada, site of the last Jewish resistance against the Romans. Sheltered by the remnants of an ancient bakery wall, we have argued the decision of the defenders to take their own lives rather than succumb. We have stood at the edge of the cliff and together called to the desert below: "Masada shanite lo tipol." The mountains resound with the echo: "Masada will not fall a second time." We look within ourselves and seek a similar strength to fight for what we believe, no matter the odds - and wonder from where the strength will come.
We have walked the narrow, winding streets of Safat, following the footsteps of Joseph Caro, the Ari, and the great kabbalists. All of us can sense something different, something mysterious in the very air of the home of Jewish mysticism. We feel as though we, too, have the power to fathom the very nature of God, if only we can reach deeply enough within ourselves to find it. It is here that I begin to grapple with an identity I have always taken for granted - to grapple with what it means to be a Jew. My friends are also seeking answers. Quiet discussion flows through our dorm rooms late into the night.
We speak of Judaism in America, in general terms at first. We reflect upon our personal relationships with Judaism, our level of observance, and how we want these to change when we return. We worry about the dangerously high levels of assimilation taking place among American Jews. We speak at length about the nature and existence of God.
We speak of philosophy. Together, we glimpse the first hints of why the world is so far from perfect; of what we can and must do to improve it; of what ethics and values remain strong and important in today's world; and of what Israel's role should be, both as a nation dealing with global secular issues, and as guiding light for world Jewry.
We vow to recommit our lives to tikkun olam (healing the world), to the ethics we now better understand.
We feel forever changed by our pilgrimage, and we know that it is coming to its close as all things must. And so, on our last night in Israel, together we approach the kotel in awe and silence, aware as never before that we are entering a different, holier world. And though we are together, the moment is one we each must spend alone.
As millions before me have done, I press my hand to the ancient limestone, finding it smooth and still warm from the sun's heat. I have been expecting "something special" - a revelation, a chorus of cherubim in D minor, a trumpet fanfare - something powerful. For a moment, I am disappointed. And then, in the manner of all truly great revelations, there is a soft awakening: I am home. For the first time, I truly understand what is meant by "Jewish homeland." Not simply a place of refuge, a safe haven, but a place where each and every Jew is welcome and knows it.
Now far from Israel, in a desert on the other side of the world, a desert that was once my only home, I continue the spiritual journey begun in Jerusalem. I am seeking to understand more profoundly what it means to live an ethical life, ways to contribute to the world around me, means by which I can tip the scale of the world on the side of goodness, of tikkun olam.
Judaism teaches that the world was created incomplete, so that mankind might labor and perfect it, and that when our task is finished, when tikkun olam has been accomplished, the messiah will arrive. Let him not tarry on my part, for I shall strive with all my might to prepare his way.
This essay, originally titled "Israel Experience," was written by Evan Hiller for the Phoenix High School of Jewish Studies Class of 1999. Hiller and his classmates graduated on May 11 from the supplementary high-school program of the Bureau of Jewish Education.
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