The Song Remains the Same

The Hour

By Leonard Fein

Published June 17, 2008, issue of June 27, 2008.
  • Print
  • Share Share

Among my friends, there are several who travel back and forth to Israel four or five times a year, sometimes even more. Perhaps the magic wears off, the trip becomes entirely routine. I manage one or two trips a year, and though there have by now been many trips, stretching back more than half a century, some lasting nearly a year and some for just 48 hours, I freely confess to a sophistication deficit; I recall none that was less than an event.

I await just now the flight announcement for this, my first trip in a year. Inevitably, I think back to the first of the 70 that came before, the one that was by ocean liner rather than by jet plane, jet travel then still a long way off.

In truth, “ocean liner” fits only the first part of the journey, from New York to Naples, Italy. There, we boarded a vessel somewhere between an ocean liner and a scow, a ship used mainly to bring immigrants from Europe and North Africa to Israel.

As best I recall, the sleeping quarters were essentially steerage, three tiers of foreshortened bunk beds with aisles designed for children or malnourished refugees. My memory of the four or five nights on the decisively unprepossessing S.S. Artza has less to do with its official sleeping arrangements than with the entrepreneurial alternative my companions and I preferred: We discovered that on deck, there was a partitioned area rather grandly described as a “synagogue,” and that to enhance the dignity thereof, a piece of ragged carpeting had been laid down before it.

It was there we approximately slept. I say “approximately” because morning prayers began with sunup, and since there was no way to enter the synagogue without stepping on the carpet, we learned very quickly to perform the mitzvah of getting out of others’ way. We cleared the carpet with alacrity. (No, it did not occur to us to join the minyan.)

Until our last night aboard. There was no sleep at all that night, as we awaited the first lights of Haifa.

Please understand: The year was 1953. Live television from Israel was unheard of. What we knew of the look of the place we’d learned from picture books, poetry, the occasional grainy newsreel, now and rarely then from an early traveler. There wasn’t all that much in the newspapers, either; as late as 1960, there was only one foreign correspondent stationed full-time in Israel.

The mass immigration that was the major fact of Israel’s first years had just tapered off, the country was still importing most of its foodstuffs, and above all else, there was the awesome awareness that we were among the first in 2,000 years to be approaching a Jewish sovereign state.

So we did not hesitate to forego sleep.

And now, safely landed, at a desk not far from the place in Jerusalem where I spent much of that year-long first visit, I no longer question the allure of the place, its topography part of my consciousness since long before I ever laid eyes on it. For all the new construction, very little of which adds to the beauty of the city and too much of which detracts from its personality, the venerable landmarks remain: In the distance, the mountains of Moab; closer in, Mount Scopus and the Mount of Olives, YMCA and the King David, each an occasion for memories both historical and personal.

I wonder: Do I feel more connected to the place than to the people? I have my friends here, of course, and family, too. But the vast rest have become ever more a mystery to me over the years. The notion that we are all connected has become so very slippery, hard to grab hold of and harder still to hold on to.

Connected to the Haredim? How? Because their holidays and mine fall on the same dates, even have the same names? But those holidays mean entirely different things to us.

Connected to the Russians? Yes, my parents were Russian, but they came to America in 1923, not after 60 years or more of living under communism, with all the consequent distortions that afflict so many of Israel’s Russians.

Israel’s Arabs? Empathy, for sure, but connection? Hardly.

The settlers, those who would be lords of the land? The ultra-nationalists, some of them heading government ministries? What have I that connects me to them, them to me? What, save an occasional dollop of sentiment, makes of us an entity?

The myth that we all stood together at Sinai is no longer sufficient, is too airy; the fact that our enemies do not distinguish between us renders us objects, strips away our autonomy. So what is this people, this people the Jews, this People of Israel or its subset, these people the Israelis?

But when I went to shul this morning and listened as one of those who chanted the Torah portion did so in the Yemenite mode — well, that was more than merely music; it was mine, elementally, wildly unfamiliar though it was. Centuries of divergent paths brought us both to this modest place.

Or stumbling, on YouTube, upon a musical evening at the New Synagogue in Berlin — yes Berlin — with the Klezmatics and Peter Yarrow and the incomparable Chava Alberstein singing “Mi Ha’ish,” two verses from Psalm 34, my psalm, our psalm. Why feel a need to apologize for sentiment, even sentimentality, so long as it does no harm to those outside the group, the people?

That’s far from a comprehensive answer to the question of connection, but it is closer to the truth than shared values, shared destiny and such. And there is, still, one thing we do share, most of us: this place and our determination to see it safe.

The Jewish Daily Forward welcomes reader comments in order to promote thoughtful discussion on issues of importance to the Jewish community. In the interest of maintaining a civil forum, The Jewish Daily Forwardrequires that all commenters be appropriately respectful toward our writers, other commenters and the subjects of the articles. Vigorous debate and reasoned critique are welcome; name-calling and personal invective are not. While we generally do not seek to edit or actively moderate comments, our spam filter prevents most links and certain key words from being posted and The Jewish Daily Forward reserves the right to remove comments for any reason.

Find us on Facebook!
  • Planning on catching "Fading Gigolo" this weekend? Read our review.
  • A new initiative will spend $300 million a year towards strengthening Israel's relationship with the Diaspora. Is this money spent wisely?
  • Lusia Horowitz left pre-state Israel to fight fascism in Spain — and wound up being captured by the Nazis and sent to die at Auschwitz. Share her remarkable story — told in her letters.
  • Vered Guttman doesn't usually get nervous about cooking for 20 people, even for Passover. But last night was a bit different. She was cooking for the Obamas at the White House Seder.
  • A grumpy Jewish grandfather is wary of his granddaughter's celebrating Easter with the in-laws. But the Seesaw says it might just make her appreciate Judaism more. What do you think?
  • “Twist and Shout.” “Under the Boardwalk.” “Brown-Eyed Girl.” What do these great songs have in common? A forgotten Jewish songwriter. We tracked him down.
  • What can we learn from tragedies like the rampage in suburban Kansas City? For one thing, we must keep our eyes on the real threats that we as Jews face.
  • When is a legume not necessarily a legume? Philologos has the answer.
  • "Sometime in my childhood, I realized that the Exodus wasn’t as remote or as faceless as I thought it was, because I knew a former slave. His name was Hersh Nemes, and he was my grandfather." Share this moving Passover essay!
  • Getting ready for Seder? Chag Sameach!
  • "We are not so far removed from the tragedies of the past, and as Jews sit down to the Seder meal, this event is a teachable moment of how the hatred of Jews-as-Other is still alive and well. It is not realistic to be complacent."
  • Aperitif Cocktail, Tequila Shot, Tom Collins or Vodka Soda — Which son do you relate to?
  • Elvis craved bacon on tour. Michael Jackson craved matzo ball soup. We've got the recipe.
  • This is the face of hatred.
  • What could be wrong with a bunch of guys kicking back with a steak and a couple of beers and talking about the Seder? Try everything. #ManSeder
  • from-cache

Would you like to receive updates about new stories?

We will not share your e-mail address or other personal information.

Already subscribed? Manage your subscription.